Inventing and Reinventing the Goddess: Contemporary Iterations of Hindu Deities on the Move 9780739190012, 9780739190029, 0739190016

Table of contents :
Contents......Page 9
List of Figures......Page 11
List of Tables......Page 13
Acknowledgments......Page 15
Introduction......Page 17
1 Goddesses Who Dwell on Earth......Page 29
2 Constructing Goddess Worship......Page 79
3 From Local Goddess to Locale Goddess......Page 105
4 An Indentured Tamil Goddess......Page 119
5 Creating Realities, Communicating Dreams, Constructing Temple Lore......Page 137
6 Daughter of the House......Page 159
7 The Leap of the Limping Goddess......Page 193
8 Tantric Visions, Local Manifestations......Page 215
9 The Goddess on the Hill......Page 233
10 Communicating the Local Discursively......Page 261
References......Page 281
Index......Page 293
About the Contributors......Page 297

Citation preview

Inventing and Reinventing the Goddess

Inventing and Reinventing the Goddess Contemporary Iterations of Hindu Deities on the Move Edited by Sree Padma

LEXINGTON BOOKS Lanham • Boulder • New York • Toronto • Plymouth, UK

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com 16 Carlisle Street, London W1D 3BT, United Kingdom Copyright © 2014 by Lexington Books All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Inventing and reinventing the goddess : contemporary iterations of Hindu deities on the move / Edited by Sree Padma. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-7391-9001-2 (cloth : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-0-7391-9002-9 (electronic) 1. Hindu goddesses. 2. Hindusim--Social aspects. I. Sree Padma, 1956- editor of compilation. BL1216.I68 2014 294.5'2114--dc23 2014008425 TM The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

Printed in the United States of America

For my husband, John Clifford Holt

Contents

List of Figures

ix

List of Tables

xi

Acknowledgments

xiii

Introduction Sree Padma

1

1 Goddesses Who Dwell on Earth: A Folk Paradigm of Divine Female Multiplicity Brenda Beck 2 Constructing Goddess Worship: Colonial Ethnographic and Public Health Discourses in South India Perundevi Srinivasan 3 From Local Goddess to Locale Goddess: Karumariamman as Divine Mother at a North American Hindu Temple Tracy Pintchman 4 An Indentured Tamil Goddess: Mariyamman’s Migration to Ceylon’s Plantations as a Worker Sasikumar Balasundaram 5 Creating Realities, Communicating Dreams, Constructing Temple Lore: Anklets for the Goddess’s Feet at Thirumeeyachur Vasudha Narayanan 6 Daughter of the House: Uppalamma’s Journey from Traditional Home to New Lands Sree Padma vii

13

63

89

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121

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Contents

7 The Leap of the Limping Goddess: Ai Khodiyar of Gujarat Neelima Shukla-Bhatt 8 Tantric Visions, Local Manifestations: The Cult Center of Chinnamasta at Rajrappa, Jharkhand R. Mahalakshmi 9 The Goddess on the Hill: The (Re)Invention of a Local Hill Goddess as Chamundeshvari Caleb Simmons 10 Communicating the Local Discursively: Devi, the Divine Feminine as a Contemporary Symbol for Grassroots Feminist Politics Priya Kapoor

177

References

265

Index

277

About the Contributors

281

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List of Figures

Fig. 0.1

India with state boundaries and relevant temple towns

12

The three earth-dwelling goddesses as illustrated in “The Legend of Ponnivala” animated series

13

Fig. 1.2

The four goddesses (the basic paradigm)

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Fig. 1.3

Location of three goddess temples

34

Fig. 1.4

Traditional sub-divisions of Kangayam Natu

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Fig. 1.5

Parvati’s main image in the Kannapuram Shiva temple

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Fig. 1.1

Fig. 1.6

Mariyamman in her separate Kannapuram temple 39

Fig. 1.7

Batirakaliamman in her Kannapram shrine, without festival clothing.

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The goddess Angalamman in the village of Vervedampalayam near Dharapuram

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Fig. 1.8 Fig. 5.1

Sri Lalithambika sameta Sri Meghanatha Thirukovil

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Fig. 6.1

Andhra Pradesh state with district boundaries

145

Fig. 6.2

Boddurai representing the gramadevata

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Fig. 6.3

Uppalamma shrine with gundam

152

Fig. 6.4

Gurigis and Trisul with offerings

153

Fig. 6.5

Ellamma and Uppalamma in the shrine

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List of Figures

Fig. 7.1

Poster of goddess Khodiyar

179

Fig. 8.1

Location of Rajrappa temple settlement

200

Fig. 8.2

Goddess Chinnamasta

204

Fig. 8.3

Chinnamasta temple complex

208

Fig. 8.4

Layout of deities in Chinnamasta temple complex 209

Fig. 8.5

Adivasi pilgrims

210

Fig. 8.6

Offering of goat to the goddess

211

Fig. 8.7

Pandas (priests) with devotees

212

Fig. 8.8

Pandas running shops for pilgrims

213

Fig. 9.1

Bronze image of Camundeshvari used during Dasara on display in the Mysore Palace

220

Block print of Raja Wodeyar’s Dasara in Shrirangapattana from Mahishura Shrimanmaharaja Chamarajendra Odeyaravara Vamsha Ratnakara, 1887

234

Krishnaraja Wadiyar III with his family deities on display in the Jayachamarajendra Art Gallery, Jagamohan Palace, Mysore

237

Fig. 9.2

Fig. 9.3

List of Tables

Table 1.1 Table 1.2

The Four Goddesses—in the Order of Their Appearance in the Story

20

Parvati/Sakti in “Heaven” versus Her Three Earthly Forms Encountered by Humans

21

Table 1.3

Form of the Heroes’ Family Goddess Celatta versus Forms Allocated to Her Two “Competitors” 22

Table 1.4

The Heroes’ Own Deity versus the Heroes’ Inlaws’ Goddess Kali (Goddess of Outsiders)

22

The Heroes’ Own Deity versus the Heroes’ Hunter- Enemy Goddess

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A Four-Point Folk Paradigm for Goddess Shrines (Based on Evidence from the Kongu Area of Tamilnadu)

36

The Kannapuram Temple Complex—Related Timings of a Three-Wedding Festival Calendar (Held in the Month of Cittirai = April/May)

42

Key Contrasts Embodied by the Godesses of the Ponnivala Story

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Table 1.5 Table 1.6

Table 1.7

Table 1.8

xi

Acknowledgments

This volume owes its origins to the panels I organized on goddess traditions at conferences such as the annual South Asia conference at the University of Wisconsin and the Association for Asian Studies annual meetings held during the years between 2011 and 2013. I extend my sincere thanks to the organizers of both. I am grateful to my co-scholars and friends who not only presented their papers in the panels I organized but also agreed to work on them later to turn them into chapters for this volume. While the rest of the papers I presented in these panels became part of the book I published with Oxford University Press with the title Vicissitudes of the Goddess, my last and most recent presentation forms part of this volume. I express my debt to my family members and friends in India who accompanied me in interviewing devotees and in documenting the rituals held to the goddess Uppalamma. As far as technical aspects of this volume are concerned, I owe my gratitude to the IT department at Bowdoin College. I am especially grateful to Ms. Jennifer Snow, who worked with me in producing two of the maps that appear in this volume and one on the affiliated website (see chapter 1). Thanks to Ms. Emily Frazzette at Lexington Books for overseeing the publication of this book quickly and efficiently.

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Introduction Sree Padma

Popular religion in India is dominated overwhelmingly by the worship of innumerable goddesses whose shrines are often located in wide-open public spaces or, in other instances, in inconspicuous venues hardly noticed by anyone who is not a devotee. While periodic rituals held in honor of these goddesses do garner considerable public attention, for the most part, worship of local goddesses is often regarded as a rather inconsequential dimension of India’s religious culture. Scholarly focus has aimed predominantly on the study of priestly brahmanical textual traditions, the practice of yoga, and the mythologies associated with the divine exploits of Shiva and Vishnu, along with attendant or subordinated deities, including goddess figures. Yet, a thorough examination of local goddesses, such as my own studies of Andhra village goddesses contained in a recently published book, Vicissitudes of the Goddess, reveals the widespread prevalence of local goddess cults, their recent and remarkable spread to new geographical locations, their persistent survival throughout extended historical periods, and consequently, their sustained relevance from the ancient past into the present. Veneration of local goddesses is a dimension of Indian cultural history and society that can no longer be relegated to the backwaters of academic consideration. I take it as a healthy sign that scholarly interest in the last three decades exploring the multifaceted understanding of many contemporary goddess traditions is definitely on the rise. Considering the central role that local goddesses play in many people’s lives as elaborated below, there is a fundamental need for further extending more scholarly understanding of factors contributing to the fluctuating careers of many of these goddesses and the kinds of sociological, psychological, and religious meanings that their representations convey. Indeed, it may not be too inaccurate to assert that the most common form of religious worship in India is celebrated within the context of local goddess 1

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veneration. While this claim may surprise western observers, it should not be forgotten that India’s population remains about 75 percent village-based, and local goddesses are regarded as protectors of these villages. Not very long ago, goddess rituals received unsolicited attention by British colonial government officials and by western Christian missionaries, who criticized them as irrational and uncivilized. Consequently, strategies were devised in these quarters to reform people’s religiosity. Despite many efforts made by the colonial government, which were later followed by the government of independent India, the contemporary scene in India, and in the rest of South Asia, reflects the fact that the worship of these goddesses not only still persists but also remains wondrously widespread. A prodigious number of goddesses from ancient times to the present have not remained static in nature. While some goddesses have disappeared with the passage of time, others have been revived and still others have been recast and transformed. This is a book about those processes. It is clear that some well-known goddesses have accumulated a rich history in which they have made many transitions and amalgamations over centuries to remain relevant to the changing needs of generations of devotees. Some lesser-known goddesses have taken on different incarnations and have traveled to new geographical areas to meet changing needs of their devotees—from one cultural region of India to another, or from rural contexts to urban milieu. The circumstances that lead to these changes over time and in different spaces are, of course, quite varied. These matters and others are broached in this volume, in the process showing how local goddesses have adapted in various contexts and conditions. More specifically, the aim of the volume is to explore the identities and transformations of goddesses in their nontraditional locations. That is, we have made an effort to understand how the conceptuality of goddesses of a seemingly local nature have been adjusted to new situations brought about by processes of colonization, urbanization, migration, scientific discoveries, technological developments, and the concomitant evolution of people’s needs of a material and spiritual nature. As the understandings of these goddesses have transcended different economies, cultures, time, and space, their changing identities demand new analytical discussions beyond traditional normative categories. Some of the issues broached in this volume are framed by a consideration of how processes of modernization and globalization play a role in changing the kind of venues in which these goddesses are worshiped. The investigation thus includes questioning whether this trajectory of understanding, in which local goddesses are often viewed pejoratively, is still (or ever was) warranted, how locality associated with these goddesses has been transformed in recent decades, and how goddesses have come to represent the contemporary concerns of many different groups, including feminists and environmental-

Introduction

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ists. The chapters in this volume consider several other dimensions of the worship of goddesses in Hindu society as well. These include the interrogation of invention and reinvention of goddess cults, especially the role of mythology, social hierarchy, gender differences, and coping mechanisms of the subaltern in order to resist the power of the government and big businesses. Regardless of these different investigations, a consistent focus that runs through these chapters is aimed at ascertaining the particular quality or qualities of these goddesses that tie them to their original and newly found localities. The motley panoply of local goddesses within India’s religious landscape are but a part of a countless number of deities who comprise an ever-changing pantheon of supernatural figures in Hindu religious culture. These countless deities reflect different versions of manifold mythologies narrated in many Indic languages articulated in either oral or written forms. While different interpreters of Hinduism have come up with various techniques for representing this enormous amount of religious and cultural expression in a concise and manageable manner, Brenda Beck chooses an oral folk epic from the Kongu region of Tamilnadu to achieve this aim. What determines her focus on this narrative is not only the epic’s reliable consistency, but also the way that bards narrate this tale to their village audiences by using images of various characters and constructing dialogues to portray a rich depiction of the ancient past and its unfolding culture. Beck explains how this rich oral epic is deeply embedded with very enduring cultural and religious ideas. Each idea has a potential to be developed on its own into a detailed story without compromising the core values articulated in the epic. As an example, she cites the legend of Ponnivala, which engages the two popular but rival gods Vishnu and Shiva. The legend also engages a goddess in four different forms showing her intense involvement in three realms: ecology, fertility, and the moral management of good and evil. Using the story in which the lives of one particular family are entangled with the will of the goddess, Beck shows how many of the goddess’s ways are activated in response to different but core human concerns. These concerns include ecological well-being for the land, human barrenness, drought, disease, war, and acting ethically under trying conditions. Beck explains how the goddess represents the values of different ages or yugas in different forms and under different names: as Parvati (Krta Yuga), Celatta (Treta Yuga), Kali (Dvapara Yuga), and Karu Kali (Kali Yuga). As such, the goddess is seen as remaining pertinent to the lived experiences of women of all cultures at all times in the universe. As the purity and peace for each age decreases, so do the character and function of each of these goddesses change in nature. Using the popular mythology of goddess Parvati, in which all earthly goddesses are believed to be the consequence of her body parts that fell to the earth from the heaven, Beck demonstrates how the

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subsequent appearances of three goddesses serve as archetypal representations of Parvati. Although Parvati’s abode is heaven, although the rest of the goddesses are treated as her forms, although she plays the role of creator and nurturer, Beck points out that she is the only goddess who is mild mannered, married, and represented in a natural human form. With regard to the three independent and unmarried forms of Parvati, it is only Celatta, the fourarmed goddess, who shares affinities with Parvati in her physical appearance as well in her quality as an embodiment of fertility that nourishes the earth and its human populations. While the ten armed aggressive-looking Kali establishes order by punishing and cursing those who violate rules, the four armed ascetic Karu Kali, the last goddess in the order who belongs to the most chaotic of ages, promotes death and dissolution in order to facilitate new birth and growth. Thus the four goddesses exhibit contrasting qualities that represent a wide gamut of Hindu theological thought patterns. Discussing the roles of each of the earthly forms of Parvati in the epic story, Beck argues effectively that Celatta stands for ecological management, Kali cares for the weak and vulnerable, and Karu Kali oversees the end of the Kali yuga involving sacrifices either of enemies or oneself. These goddesses do not just play roles in the epic story but remain relevant at the popular level when the epic is narrated and enacted every year. Ironically, the popularity of goddess veneration does not necessarily mean that goddess worship has been duly acclaimed in the public arena. For example, in colonial South Asia, these types of goddesses were understood by many as being worshiped by ignorant devotees who were illiterate and irrational in their religious outlooks. As part of their civilizing mission, the British colonial government claimed to have mitigated what appeared to them as abnormally violent expressions of devotion by introducing inoculations against diseases and enforcing laws forbidding certain rituals and practices. Convinced that the increase in literacy would act as a bulwark against the worship of these goddesses, the government of independent India later took measures to increase the literacy rate and to ban animal sacrifices to these goddesses. In fact, there have been some anthropological reports in post-independent India asserting that radio, television, and other communications with the outside world have helped to reduce the worship of these local goddesses. These same reports have expressed the hope that as India progresses into the twenty-first century, worship of these goddesses will decline. Perundevi Srinivasan’s “Constructing Goddess Worship: Colonial Ethnographic and Public Health Discourses in South India,” the second chapter in the volume, looks at the ways in which the British colonial government promoted health care and how their strategies were aimed at discrediting the worship of a popular South Indian goddess. She examines the discourses of public health administration and ethnographical accounts in colonial South India to understand the genealogy of worshiping Mariyamman, the goddess

Introduction

5

of poxes and certain other infections. The premise of the chapter is based on the argument that the popularity of Mariyamman not only posed a threat to the colonial administration, but also made them susceptible. Reviewing various colonial scholarly studies and Christian missionary accounts preceding the scientific invention of smallpox vaccination, Srinivasan points out those goddesses such as Mariyamman were identified as “a demon or devil or petty spirit.” Showing how public health discourse following the introduction of small pox vaccination in the early nineteenth century was coordinated with colonial ethnographic accounts of local religious practices involving Mariyamman’s worship, Srinivasan contends that the colonial government and Christian missionaries, in the guise of spreading discursive rationalization and dispelling superstitious beliefs, created doubts about the efficacy of worshiping Mariyamman. However, as Srinivasan observes, the discourse of the colonial government about Mariyamman eventually changed with the onset of the early twentieth century as the goddess came to be viewed in a more positive light, in order to facilitate greater success in the vaccination project. Popular goddesses like Parvati and Lakshmi are well known from Sanskrit literature and liturgy and yet command veneration at the household level by literate and illiterate alike throughout and beyond the Indian subcontinent. Be that as it may, there are other goddesses, such as Mariyamman and Ellamma, who have gained enormous popularity without any brahmanical Sanskrit associations not only within large geographical areas of the subcontinent, but also, at times, by traveling to other continents to make new careers. Their transformations are analogous to the transformations that have occurred to goddesses such as Lakshmi and Parvati, who have become the goddesses of brahmanic tradition, as I have explained at length in Vicissitudes of the Goddess. Tracy Pintchman in her chapter titled “From Local Goddess to Locale Goddess: Karumariamman as Divine Mother at a North American Hindu Temple,” brings our attention to one such instance where a goddess by name of Karumariamman makes an intercontinental journey from India to America. Within the Indian context, this goddess was appropriated by brahmin priests from her native village milieu and made into a deity of regional significance. Subsequently, her cult was transported to North America to meet the needs of a very different strand of devotees who share very little in common with the goddess’s devotees in her indigenous context. Pintchman explores the transnational dynamics of a North American Hindu goddess temple, the Parashakthi temple in Pontiac, Michigan. Specifically, this temple, built in 1999, dedicated to the worship of the goddess in the form of Karumariamman, is associated with a well-known Karumariamman temple in the village of Thiruverkadu in the state of Tamil Nadu. Those involved in the Parashakthi temple in Pontiac maintain that Karumariamman has also come deliberately to manifest herself in the Pontiac temple, particularly for the protection of all living beings. While Karumariamman may be classified

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as a popular regional goddess in her South Indian context, Pintchman maintains that the goddess has been reconstituted in the American context as a universal goddess who has come to Pontiac for the benefit of all those who live under her gaze. In doing so, the identity of goddess has remained part of the sacred lore of indigenous people on the one hand, and yet has been appropriated as the focus of a very different sort of spirituality by other groups of very different religious backgrounds. Thus, the Parashakthi temple constructs a type of religiosity that is rooted in Indian Hindu popular goddess traditions, but recreates or reinvents traditions as the result of a dynamic conversation with the spiritual orientations of the temple’s devotees in a specifically American context. Following in a somewhat similar vein is Sasikumar Balasundaram’s chapter “An Indentured Tamil Goddess: Mariyamman’s Migration to Ceylon’s Plantations, as a Worker.” The difference in this chapter, however, is that the goddess does not go to serve a different set of devotees, but follows and protects the same devotees and their descendants as they emigrate from South India to Sri Lanka. Nevertheless, the goddess changes to fit into local conditions. Similar to what Perundevi contends about how the goddess Mariamman is understood to experience what her devotees experience, Balasundaram provides an account of how Mariamman takes on the form of an indentured female laborer inspired by Tamil women devotees who came as indentured laborers from South India to work in the tea plantations run by the Scottish and English under British colonial rule. According to this mythical account, the goddess experiences the same trials and tribulations as her people, thus cultivating an empathy so that she can bring them relief. Drawing from his long-term research project on Sri Lanka’s Up-country Tamil religiosity, Balasundaram discusses a myth about the migration of Mariyamman in which the migration of Up-country Tamil tea plantation workers from India to Sri Lanka during the colonial times, the ancestors of today’s laborers, is clearly reflected. To understand the conditions of these indentured laborers, Balasundaram provides an introductory background of the plantation economy and how the arrival of Tamil laborers altered the demographic, economic, political, and cultural landscapes of nineteenth-century Ceylon. Balasundaram also explains how the distinct Tamil dialect, traditions, caste system, kinship, arts, occupation, politics, and rituals of the Indian Tamils contributed to the development of the Up-country Tamil ethnicity in postcolonial Sri Lanka. Thus, his chapter discusses how a village deity of Tamilnadu eventually became a dominant goddess in the agrarian plantation context and how modernity and globalization have reshaped the site, size, and structure of Mariyamman’s temple and worship in the Up-country of Sri Lanka. In contrast to the great goddesses of Sanskrit literary and liturgical traditions and those goddesses whose popularity has now extended to far away

Introduction

7

locales within different cultural milieu, there are many other goddesses whose renowns are limited to specific geographical areas and who are worshiped only in these circumscribed limited contexts. These types of local goddesses tend to disappear within the historical vicissitudes of time because the contexts in which they are worshiped are unstable. However, in rare circumstances, it is possible that some of these seemingly obscure goddesses gain recognition not just in their limited territories but also beyond. Factors that contribute to catapulting the reputation of such goddesses are examined in the following two chapters. The first of these two chapters is “Creating Realities, Communicating Dreams, Constructing Temple Lore: Anklets for the Goddess’s Feet at Thirumeeyachur,” by Vasudha Narayanan. In narrating the events that led to the revival of worship and popularity of a goddess Lalithambika in Thirumeeyachur, Tamilnadu, Narayanan displays how “mythic time and historic time merge seamlessly” through the mix of classical-vernacular and Sanskrit traditions to reify goddess traditions and to serve the ever-changing needs of pilgrims. As is the case with the goddess shrines that acquire “pan-Hindu” status, the case with Lalithambika is that the spouse (usually Shiva) is given an “official” or authorizing status while the goddess remains central to the worshipers. Leaving aside the issue of how the goddess remains dominant at the popular level, in this particular case, the goddess Lalithambika actually has experienced a long period of neglect such that her temple is not listed among the innumerable shrines that are part of popular pilgrimage circuits that even include a few Muslim and Christian places of worship. Each of these shrines has carved out their own niches to connect to their devotees for a particular reason or need. Lalithamabika of Thirumeeyachur obviously did not have one, at least not until a lone incident that occurred at the end of the last century. Narayanan maps out first the details of this incident and then its embellishments that are subsequently narrated in various sthalapuranas (legends accounting for the sacrality of shrines or places of pilgrimage). The incident in these accounts takes on a life of its own as it is narrated and renarrated by local pundits and devotees who tend to add more wrinkles to the sthalapurana. The catalytic incident itself, as is explained by Narayanan, has been inspired through a campaign by priests and devotees in an effort to find a niche market for the goddess. Narayanan not only enumerates the various textual and oral traditions involving the goddess and her shrine, but also demonstrates, with examples of how and under what circumstances historical events are interwoven with layers of legend, to create “a sense of kaleidoscopic reality, [so that] each is believable in its own context.” Narayanan argues that while observers tend to make a separation of myth from reality, the devotees who are responsible for bringing goddesses like Lalithambika into the limelight do not make such a separation.

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In the second example of such phenomena, the goddess does not possess any textual traditions at all. Nor does she acquire much oral tradition either. The goddess in this instance was originally known only in very specific geographical areas of western Andhra Pradesh, in specific temporal contexts, and was worshiped only by specific castes. Even so, the goddess, known by the name Uppalamma, suddenly appeared in new geographical areas to become very popular. My own chapter, “Daughter of the House: Uppalamma’s Journey from Traditional Home to New Lands,” discusses the spread of the cult of goddess Uppalamma to new areas of Andhra Pradesh, the Teluguspeaking state in India. To understand the causes for this spread, the chapter is organized into three different parts in which I consider the origins of the goddess, her worship patterns in the traditional setting verses how she is worshiped in the new areas, and the various meanings of her mythology as she migrates. The first part of the chapter focuses on the “new ground” and the initial encounter of householders with the goddess, that is, how she is embraced as the “daughter” of their households. By noting the new economic growth occurring in the regions where the goddess is finding a new substantial cultic following, I demonstrate that new devotees have established a connection with the goddess through linking their economic well-being to her sudden appearance in their homes. The second part of the chapter notes how understanding of the goddess varies among the poor in comparison to the wealthy landlords and professional castes. The third part of the chapter contains a reprise of the traditional mythology of the goddess and information about the traditional singers of these mythologies and their ancient links to the goddess. In considering the narration of mythology, I address salient issues such as the origins of the goddess and the changes in the goddess’s profiles as she connects to different caste and class groups. In this way, my analyses of mythologies that are current among traditional singers and the worship patterns by specific castes and classes who have adopted the goddess as their household deity reflect how the new fluidity of this goddess cult not only provides for changes of the perception of her nature, but also pushes the boundaries of not just caste and class, but religious identity as well. The focus of the next chapter is also upon a local goddess of nontextual traditions whose fame has arisen not only in a trans-regional way, but also internationally as well. This goddess was originally a tutelary deity of a few agricultural villages in the peninsular part of Gujarat. Written by Neelima Shukla-Bhatt, the title of this chapter is “The Leap of the Limping Goddess: Ai Khodiyar of Gujarat.” The goddess is originally the family goddess of many warrior, agrarian, cattle-herding, and Dalit clans of Gujarat. Her fame was celebrated in January 2012, in a small village in Gujarat in a groundbreaking ceremony of a temple complex constructed in dedication to the goddess. While 21,000 couples of one particular caste performed the ceremony, the number of attendees surpassed over 100,000, breaking a Guinness

Introduction

9

Book of World Records statistic. To understand how the goddess Ai Khodiyar gained this kind of popularity and what cultic changes have occurred, Shukla-Bhatt assesses first the character of the goddess as known through oral mythological traditions, traditional rituals held in her honor, and the kind of devotees who worship the goddess. Second, she studies the portrayals of the goddess by modern media and the rites of urban devotees who have taken to worshiping the goddess. By taking into consideration the cultural processes such as “Sanskritization” among lower castes (in emulation of upper castes) and other factors such as economic development and modernization, and by assessing the consequent changes in goddess mythology and attendant worship patterns, Shukla-Bhatt makes clear the various reasons for Ai Khodiyar’s growing popularity among certain types of devotees. There are well-known goddesses such as Durga and Kali who are richly endowed in many brahmanic temples and have accumulated a plethora of textual references. Yet, these goddesses still carry with them explicit tribal associations. Over many centuries Durga and Kali were transformed dramatically as they were successively associated with devotees of tribal, agricultural, warrior, priestly, and modern urban orientations. Now these goddesses have been given the capability of subsuming their early specific identities into that of one great transcendent goddess, or in other instances, incorporating the identities of innumerable lesser goddesses of tribal and other origins under the umbrella of their own. One such example is Chinnamasta. Chinnamasta’s tribal associations are still very much alive even after the goddess has been drawn into Buddhist Mahayana Tantric traditions and later the brahmanic Hindu religious mythology and practices. The study of Mahalakshmi Rakesh focuses on the tribal Chinnamasta whose cultic center is Rajrappa in the tribal heartland of the Chotanagpur Plateau in the recently carved state of Jharkhand. In her chapter, “Tantric Visions, Local Manifestations: The Cult Center of Chinnamasta in Rajrappa, Jharkhand,” Mahalakshmi makes an ethno-historical inquiry into how the local, regional, and sub-continental religious and cultural traditions have been interwoven in the worship and understandings of this goddess. While disparate groups like the tribal Munda and Santal and the farming Mahatos follow tribal rituals and local practices in worshiping the goddess, the Bengali pandas who are believed to be the cultic priests since the sixteenth century treat the goddess as a Tantric and brahmanic deity and worship her as such. Over time, the goddess accumulated Buddhist, Tantric, and brahmanic mythology, philosophy, liturgy, and iconography. At present, devotees from faraway places in eastern India identify her as part of the Hindu pantheon of deities whose shrines, including those for Shiva and Kali, are also set up in close proximity. Taking these various sources into account, Mahalakshmi explains the many different ways that Chinnamasta is understood: in the Tantric tradition, she is the goddess Mahavidya (“Great Knowledge”), one among ten such streams of

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knowledge; in the Buddhist tradition, the goddess is an emanation of Vajrayogini, connected conceptually to the Mahasiddha tradition; in the brahmanical tradition, she is Durga, who is neither saguna nor nirguna (the embodied or unembodied, conditioned reality or unconditional reality). She is the headless goddess who severs her own head (mastaka) as an act of sacrifice and offers her life-blood to her worshipers. The author points out that in spite of various philosophical interpretations and understandings of the goddess, what dominates in the day-to-day worship is not so much the substance and form of brahmanic rituals and vegetarian offerings, but the animal sacrifices and meat offerings made by the tribal devotees, so much so that the mahaprasada in the temple is “goat meat.” While there are goddesses such as Chinnamasta retaining their own identities at the local level, but also known in the form of the pan-Indian goddess at the intra-local levels, there are other goddesses who share their identities and mythologies with the pan-Indian goddess in a manner that enriches the latter. Caleb Simmons’s chapter, titled “The Goddess on the Hill: The (Re)Invention of a Local Hill Goddess as Chamundeshvari,” discusses the intricate relationship between the goddess Chamundi of Mysore and that of the great goddess, Maha Devi. Through an examination of the second episode of the Devi Mahatmyam that forms part of Markandeya Purana, a narrative that tells us about the battle leading to the annihilation of the buffalo demon king Mahishasura by Durga, Simmons studies the relationship between Chamundi and Maha Devi. This episode that is so embedded in popular consciousness, as well as in literature for centuries, has elements with local references in various versions, including one current in the Mysore region situating the epic battle on the Chamundi Hills of Mysore. Studying this local mythic variant that situates the battle between the goddess and Mahisha upon the Chamunḍi Hills outside of Mysore, Simmons shows how this sacred space has been reoriented to (re)invent Chamundi, a local goddess, to become great goddess, Maha Devi, as described in the second episode of the Sanskrit text. Simmons also looks into the way that the myth was integrated into the Sanskrit Markandeya Purana as a discourse to bring the regional rulers or chieftains under a central hegemony. This process is abetted through interpreting the place name Mysore (Mysuru) as a derivation of Mahisha, which is both Sanskrit for “buffalo” and the name of the demon from the puranic tale, who is in turn identified as the region’s ruler prior to his undoing by the goddess. He argues, following other scholarship on the tribal identity of asuras and rakshasas that Mahisha was a local king or chieftain, whose kingdom and identity was subsumed into the burgeoning puranic social discourse. The mechanism for this appropriation was the tale of the slaying of the buffalo by the goddess. He further argues that a locally important goddess that is associated with the hills was reinterpreted as a manifestation of the great goddess. In order to substantiate this claim, he

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discusses the “folk” etymology of the name Chamundi given in the Devi Mahatmyam and elsewhere that explains the epithet’s derivation from the name Chanda and Munda, two other asuras killed by the goddess in the third episode of the Devi Mahatmyam. This problematic (because of the false etymological derivation and the mistaken attribution of the slaying of Mahisha to Chamundi) explanation signals an imprecise correlation of entities. Simmons shows that the great goddess tradition that was crystallizing during this early puranic period became the rhetorical device through which a hegemonic shift in social and ritual practice was exhibited, but this was only possible through the reinvention of the goddess on the hill as a manifestation of the Vaidika Sanskritic Devi. The Sanskrit word “Devi” is used to refer to a goddess that has been Sanskritized. Devi is also commonly used to name females in Hindu tradition. Females in general are addressed affectionately as “mother” (amma or ma), a quality that the goddess Devi shares in common with them. In fact, the notion of the mother goddess is as ancient as Indian civilization itself. This particular aspect of motherhood is what ties together the goddess and women. This understanding is pervasive throughout India. For example, women, by behaving in a certain way, remind devotees of the actions of a particular goddess. For example, a wife who is dedicated to her husband is often referred to as Sita, or a woman who exhibits a fighting spirit to make things right is referred to as Kali or Durga. Feminist movements have started to use this traditional understanding to empower women. Feminist organizations are also increasingly aware of the popularity of goddess worship and are devising ways to organize groups to keep vigils for the goddess and at the same time to achieve some common good. Priya Kapoor’s chapter, “Communicating the Local Discursively: Devi, the Divine Feminine as a Contemporary Symbol for Grassroots Feminist Politics,” explores how the image of Devi, as amma, or the mother goddess, has survived in contemporary Indian tradition and how this idea is being harnessed for use as a political tool by activists such as Vandana Shiva and other eco-feminists to mobilize people for resistance efforts. One such mobilization in Tehri, Uttarakhand (a Himalayan state in India) has taken the form of Ma Bhagawati Jagran (a vigil for the mother goddess Bhagawati). Kapoor video-recorded this vigil when it was performed in the local Gharwali theatrical style and aired by the youthled Community Radio Center. Kapoor used this public performance as an ethnographic observation to argue how establishing community media institutions provides critical resistance to globalizing forces and state-led efforts to institute single-language Hindi dominant media. Using this as a backdrop, Kapoor then provides an analysis of the contemporary feminist movement in India to show how feminist political struggles have appropriated the extent and lived aspects of the goddess tradition.

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In sum, each of the chapters in this volume underscores the manner in which various religious cultures of local goddesses are reflexes of larger social processes occurring historically in local and intra-local contexts. The resiliency, adaptability, and flexibility exhibited by these goddess cults as reflected in these findings signal their possible relevancy in any global context for Hindus. In every case, they indicate explicitly that the cults of local goddesses remain indices to the nature and identities of their constituent communities, wherever located.

Figure 0.1. India with state boundaries and relevant temple towns

Chapter One

Goddesses Who Dwell on Earth A Folk Paradigm of Divine Female Multiplicity Brenda Beck

Figure 1.1. The three earth-dwelling goddesses as illustrated in “The Legend of Ponnivala” animated series

Note: It was not possible to include the majority of my selected illustrations in the printed version of this chapter. Only a limited few have been reproduced here, and all are in black and white. To view each and every figure referenced in the pages below, please consult the affiliated website at http://sophiahilton.ca/foundation/brenda-beck-goddesses-that-dwell-on-earth-figures-and-tables/. For location information refer to maps 0.1 and 0.2 on the same website.

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INTRODUCTION Students of Hinduism, at whatever level of scholarship, predictably encounter a bewildering and vast array of source materials. They also quickly realize that these source materials are available in many languages and that they cover many millennia and a vast stretch of geography not limited by the boundaries of South Asia alone. Even in modern North America, not to speak of Europe, Africa, and Southeast Asia, the curious student can find compelling materials to study. How can newcomers approach all of this variety and find help in compressing the material to create a meaningful basis for understanding? Furthermore, how can a teacher of an introductory course on the subject manage to condense so many colorful types of information, each of which gives importance to the goddesses in its own way (wonderful texts, commentaries, poetry, art, song, dance, epic stories, and more)? Is there some order, some pattern to be found in this rich profusion? Of course every teacher has their own techniques of compression and organization, strategies they believe will help to make the vast ocean of Hindu thinking and feeling more comprehensible to newcomers. Nonetheless, I believe I have found a fresh and exciting approach to this challenge: an obscure medieval oral folk epic from South India. Why, the reader will ask, should one turn to such an improbable and remote oral source for authority in this matter? There is already so much recognized and time-honored textual material available! Even more poignant, this profusion of source material is easily accessible in a variety of languages and source books. Here is my answer. It comes in three parts: 1. Cohesion: Oral epics, by the very nature of their transmission, tend to shake down and organize ideas, simplifying the core concepts and then retransmitting them in story form. Oral stories, especially good ones, use various techniques of logical cohesion in order to enhance the memorability of their subject matter for audience consumption. The same cohesion also helps a bard remember the required sequence of story events and convey it to others accurately. This kind of internal integration is not always present in an oral epic, especially after it has been transformed by the creation of a written version of the story’s content. But internal cohesion is a characteristic of oral culture. In my opinion, we have not paid enough attention to its informative power. In the case of The Legend of Ponnivala, the story I am going to use in this chapter, the worldview presented is very well integrated. The forty-four-hour tape-recorded performance I reference unfolds in a unified and well-knit way. 1 2. Teachability: Oral bards were essentially village history teachers. They performed in front of peasants (and other workers), whose daily

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lives were physically challenging. At night such people wanted to sit back and enjoy some form of entertainment, much as we sit in front of the television most evenings today. Traditional storytelling bards helped their audiences to draw their own mental images of the world around them, images they could use to imagine and codify their own cultural history and to locate themselves within it. 3. Appeal to All Ages and to Varied Social Communities: Bards sang to mixed audiences, particularly in village India. There would always be masters and laborers, men and women, children, adults, and even grandparents present. The singer had to shape his story (the bards were mostly male performers) in ways that would make the content engaging, noncontroversial, and emotionally rich. For this reason I believe all successful bards made extensive use of visual images. They would skilfully “cast” pictures of events onto the listener’s mind-eye. Then they would excite the emotional core of the listener with drum rhythms and songs that used many epithets and repeated lines. These songs would heighten the listener’s feelings, creating excitement and character color. The oral, epic-reciting style of storytelling practiced around the Coimbatore area of South India that I studied included both songs and narrative segments. In the spoken passages the bard would voice the thoughts and the conversations of the story’s various characters. These narrative segments moved the action of the story forward. From time to time the bards I listened to would also provide short overview descriptions. These passages were used to indicate that time was passing, while something was simultaneously occurring way off in the background. In sum, I will use an oral epic now known as The Legend of Ponnivala (in Tamil traditionally called the Annanmar Kathai) as my base reference in this chapter. This story is: A) logically laid out; B) rich in visual cameos and in songs that convey strong feelings; and C) attention grabbing because of its skilled telling and use of a continual change-up in presentation styles. 2 I now return to my core argument: bards use certain fundamental techniques that enable their stories to be unpacked in a way that reveals a wide range of underlying folk paradigms. In this chapter I hope to show how this fundamental nature of the oral story can serve students of cultural history well. In this chapter I will extract from The Legend of Ponnivala what I believe to be a descriptively rich overview of a South Indian peasant’s worldview . . . as it concerns the Hindu goddesses. Many deeply cultural ideas (both religious and social) can also be found in the Ponnivala story. I will leave much of that exploration to other essays that I plan to write. A curious student can do much of this unpacking work himself or herself. For example, instead of considering the goddesses, they could single out the two key gods

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in the story—Lord Vishnu and Lord Shiva—and ask: Which of these two divinities is supreme? Does the story present a Vaisnavite or a Shaivite perspective on the world? Because the Ponnivala legend is well balanced and intended to attract listeners of all persuasions, two reasonable people could argue this matter with neither winning the contest. Indeed, if these competitors were allowed to draw only from this one story in their presentations, this would make a good topic for an Oxford Union debate! I argue that this epic tale story presents Shiva and Vishnu as divinities of equal stature, and (as is standard in the south of India) it describes them as brothers-in-law (view figures Aa and Ab at the affiliated website). These two great gods exchange taunts from time to time, but their powers remain well balanced throughout the legend. There is even a cameo event that expresses this balance in a nutshell. At one point Lord Shiva asks Lord Vishnu to hand over the conch shell he holds in his left hand. Vishnu does this and Shiva quickly puts his rival’s powerful war tool away in a box. He will store it there for the next sixteen years, the exact period during which the three child embryos Shiva sends to earth in the heroine’s womb will live out their lives there. Lord Vishnu will be in charge of leading and aiding those three youngsters, two boys and a girl, each of whom is imbued with significant supernatural powers. These three characters-to-be (essentially triplets) grow up learning to follow Vishnu’s advice. Their presence on earth lends their mentor and guardian extra options and extra influence over human matters for the period of their lifetimes. Shiva demands that Vishnu hand over his conch as a way of redressing this shift of power. The triplets will add to Vishnu’s opportunity to influence actions and events on earth and to steer them as he sees fit. Giving up his conch (an implement used to announce war and various other momentous events) helps to remove a special power tool from his side of the scales, compensating for a new responsibility, just added (view figures Ac and Ad at the affiliated website). This is only one little scene, but it captures a very basic principle: the need to maintain a cosmic balance of power between these two key divinities. Here we have a simple paradigm of balance: the more human responsibilities and mentoring options a god acquires, the less access he should be given to other kinds of power. I will proceed to talk about the goddesses in a moment. However, the paradigm they present is more complex. So let me first finish illustrating the procedure I will use by drawing out this simpler and easier-to-understand example presented by Vishnu and Shiva a little further. In The Legend of Ponnivala Vishnu is most often a helper. Over and over again he can be seen flying to earth to assist a hero or heroine in some way (view figure Ae at the affiliated website). Vishnu’s compassion comes to the rescue of an orphan, a suicidal woman, an exiled family, and much more. He is always there if called on by a

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character for help. But at times Vishnu is also a bit of a flirt . . . especially when it comes to his relationship with one of the key heroines of this Ponnivala tale, Tamarai. Vishnu is also seen to tease various characters. At times he will set up an illusion or other type of challenge for a protégée to surmount. He also presents himself here and there in the story using various disguises. At times we see him become a soothsayer or a magician. And there are occasions when he takes an altogether non-human form such as a fly and even (perhaps) the form of a wild boar. Vishnu also plays dice with the heroes . . . suggesting that he likes to gamble and “play games.” Finally there is a very interesting Bhavagad Gita–like scene in this legend. There Vishnu echos but also “bends” (speaking visually) events well known from this sacred text. Here the great god serves as a kind of mirror, reminding us of Krishna’s role in that story while also changing it in strange ways. Now he is a teacher, albeit in the folk style. In this final role I find that Vishnu provides fresh insight into one of India’s most widely known and very sacred texts. Lord Shiva, by contrast, is presented as a relatively simple character in The Legend of Ponnivala. He appears in just three basic roles. For one, he is seen meditating in the forest, where he is difficult to disturb but is occasionally stirred into action by the fiery heat of a yogi or yogini. Two, Shiva is often seen sitting in his council chambers, where he decides who will be rewarded for good deeds and who will be punished for moral transgressions. In addition, Lord Shiva is capable of generating magical blessings and terrible curses (view figure Af at the affiliated website). These announcements almost seem to depend on his variable moods. Third, Lord Shiva is portrayed as an ultimate creating and destroying force that lies deep within the cosmos. Shiva does much (but not all) of the creation work in this epic story. His wife, Parvati, also shares in some of it. But only Shiva metes out death and makes sure that important times in the lives of individual humans get written down in a great book kept by his faithful accountant. Clearly Shiva is the more fearsome god, while Vishnu operates as a (generally) kind, sympathetic, and helpful counterpart. What better way to learn about these key differences between two great Hindu divinities? This “simple” folk story sears those contrasts into a student’s memory by weaving these many important concepts into a single great story. With this fairly straightforward example of what I mean by a paradigm behind us, it is now time to tackle the somewhat-more-difficult set of concepts I set out to discuss at the beginning of this chapter. What does the Ponnivala epic have to say about the Hindu goddesses? Basically I will now outline a set of relationships depicted in this epic between four well-known Hindu female deities: Parvati, Celatta (goddess of the locale, known locally as Mariyamman and by many other names elsewhere), Durga, and Kali. Through these four aspects of the great female force called Sakti, I will try to distill what this one particular epic has to say about the female side of divine

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power. The paradigm I will unpack is universal in its relevance and can be applied to women’s lives and experiences anywhere on the planet. It is no wonder, therefore, that all these variants of the goddess’s character are still popular and important to millions of devotees around the world. In the Ponnivala epic there are just four goddesses mentioned, and they appear in a logical order. In a very general sense they also reflect the four yugas of time, that is, four successive stages of cosmic decay that are well described in wider and more erudite circles of Hindu thought. Table 1.1 gives the name of each goddess I have just mentioned and some details about her. The grandson of an actual singer of this story developed these iconographic features. They are also the same illustrations that I have used in the Ponnivala animated video series and in the graphic novels accompanying this large work. Let me be clear at the start: I had no role (advisory or otherwise) in these artistic decisions. All contrasts and oppositions observed below sprung fully formed from the imagination of the artist who drew them. None were of my choosing. First I will point out the cosmogonic structure represented by these four females. Then I will develop a descriptive account of their personalities, their mythological adventures, and their festival rituals. These four goddesses stand in relationship to one another as depicted in figure 1.2. Highest up in the diagram (representing a position in the sky or the heavens) sits the lead goddess, Parvati. She resides in Shiva’s Himalayan abode, as his bride but can act alone (view figures Ag and Ah at the affiliated website). From Parvati, according to a very common myth not mentioned in this particular epic, pieces of her body fell to earth after a confrontation occurred between her husband and her father (the last part of the Daksha story, sometimes treated as an independent myth). 3 Subsequently these pieces materialized into many different representations the goddess on earth, each one found in a different place. The Ponnivala story represents her as having three basic

Figure 1.2. The four goddesses (the basic paradigm)

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earth-bound forms, roles, and personalities. The first form to appear in the story is Celatta, the goddess of the story’s featured family. Celatta watches over the local space where the heroes live and is deeply concerned with its prosperity in all ways: the abundance of its plants, its animals, and its people. The second goddess, whom the story calls (green) Kali, stands for her form as she is worshiped by the heroes’ in-laws. And the third goddess, here called “karu” (or the black) Kali, represents her form as worshiped by the forestdwelling hunters. All three of these forms are understood to be manifestations of one great goddess. However, noting the variation in the spatial locations chosen for these various forms provide a key to understanding variations in her personality. On earth these divine females act alone. There may be a pro-forma husband somewhere in the background, but in each case their three separate temples and their separate stories belong to them as independent beings (view figures Ba, Bb, and Bc at the affiliated website). The first form of the earth-dwelling goddess, called Celatta (figure Ba at the affiliated website) in the Ponnivala story, but more widely known as Mariyamman, is responsible for the well-being of local environs and the health of local human families and communities. The second form of the earth-dwelling goddess, here called the “green” Kali (figure Bb at the affiliated website), for her complexion in the artist’s mind, is generally known elsewhere as Durga. Later in this chapter, when I describe her temple festival, she will have the name Batirakali. This important variation in the story’s representation of the earth-bound goddess presents her as an enforcer of correct moral behavior. For this reason, she sometimes becomes very angry and fearful to behold. In our artist’s mind this “green” Kali has dark-green skin, red eyes, and ten arms, each of which holds a weapon. I will continue to refer to her as the “green Kali,” not because she is particularly vegetal-like or because she is cooling, but to distinguish her from the more ominous “black” Kali. Perhaps her “green” skin color refers to her moderate self-control. She only aims her ten weapons at those who have disobeyed or trespassed social norms. One can think of her ten weapons as her complete “toolkit.” Each weapon (presumably) once carried with it a specific myth-story and she stands ready to use any or all of these, under varied circumstances, to achieve specific ends. The final goddess in this folk paradigm is Karukali (the black Kali). This “true” Kali (in the wider mythology) is ashen-skinned and associated with stealth, death, and dissolution. Sometimes this form of the goddess is depicted as ugly and repulsive, is garlanded with skulls, and/or has a lolling bloodied tongue. At times she even dances on her own husband’s body. But in the Ponnivala story (as more typical in the south of India generally) the dark-skinned Kali is more like an ascetic in her demeanor. She is more of a recluse. She is more secretive than fearful or violent. Furthermore, the black Kali of our legend is strongly associated with the forest and is linked to wild,

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natural environs in general. She is a huntress who accepts animal sacrifices. Kali likes to be offered black animals, but she is not here seen garlanded with skulls. Looking at these relationships we easily notice a clear progression: from stage one (Parvati) through stage four (Kali). In each successive period or segment of time the goddess’s attention shifts her focus further toward strife and dissolution. Matters start with Parvati, who has a cleansed and pleasant focus on primal creation. But when Celatta enters the story concerns shift (stage two) to focus on threats to local ecology and health. When the green Kali (stage three), takes center stage the moral order itself starts to disintegrate, and finally with black Kali (stage four) chaos and death begin to dominate (view figures Bc and Bd at the affiliated website). This progression of goddess roles in the Ponnivala story is identical with the formalized Hindu cycle of the four yugas. Below is a summary chart showing all four aspects of the goddess as the lead Ponnivala artist conceived of them. Table 1.1. The Four Goddesses—in the Order of Their Appearance in the Story Story Name

Parvati

Celatta

(Green) Kali

(Black) Kali

Added Popular Name

Uma

Gowri

Durga

Kali

Role #1

Life Giver

Fertility

Punishments

Life Taker

Role #2

Go-Between

Blessing

Curses

Huntress

Status

Married

Single

Single

Single

# Arms

2 (no weapons)

4 (2 hold Shiva’s symbols)

10 (all hold weapons)

4 (2 hold Shiva’s symbols)

Skin

Pale Brown

Pale Brown

Dark Green

Ashen

Yuga

Krta

Treta

Dvapara

Kali

Sari Blouse

Pale Green

Red

Yellow

Dark Blue

Sari

Pink

Dark Blue

Red

Red

Territory

Heaven

Heroes’ Village

In-Law’s Village

Hunters’ Forest

Parvati often sits next to her husband, Shiva, in his council chambers. She is also active in and near these chambers (located in Kailasa near the Himalaya’s highest peaks) or in “heaven,” as some might say. Although there are a number of images of Parvati in the story, none show her looking directly at the viewer. Instead we always encounter this supreme form of the goddess by viewing her from the side. That is to say, she is not pictured as an idol in a temple. There is no direct “gaze” or meeting of eyes between Parvati (as located up in the sky) and the viewer. Furthermore, Parvati (as understood to reside “up there”) has just two arms. It is as if she were human. And her

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“look” or attitude is always beneficent and mild. Meanwhile, each of the other three goddesses has an angry or at least a scary side. But that is not Parvati. This supreme goddess is most often pictured by the artist as she travels across a sea of shimmering clouds or else as drifting through Lord Shiva’s meditation forest on a mission to talk to him. Her gestures are always soft and nonassertive. She is “dreamy” and unsubstantial. By contrast, all three earthly forms of the goddess we encounter in the Ponnivala story are static and fixed to a base. In sum, they are pictured as “temple statues.” Here on earth (excepting the rare moments when a goddess moves out of her shrine on a mission) all forms of the earth-bound goddess are conceptualized as icons of worship. In each of these “temple views,” furthermore, each earthly goddess stares directly at the viewer. Only where she becomes an active player in the story do we see her form in profile. The key points of contrast are included in table 1.2. Table 1.2. Parvati/Sakti in “Heaven” versus Her Three Earthly Forms Encountered by Humans Single Form of the Cosmic Goddess in “Heaven”

All Three Forms of the Goddess on Earth

Pinkish, pastel colors

Saturated, strong colors

Two arms/no emblems or weapons

Ten arms, all but two hold weapons

Hair tied/braided, no crown

Hair loose, wears a crown

Now let us progress to the considerable differences between the three earthly forms of Sakti depicted in this story. Celatta, the goddess of the heroes’ own village area, is most often seen while being worshiped. Hence the common items needed for her worship are present nearby. Celatta’s sari is dark blue, a cool and reserved color. There is a hint of hot, however, provided by her red blouse. In her upper two hands she holds two emblems that (by iconographic convention) belong to her husband, Shiva. These are her trident and her double-headed drum, mounted on a stick. These “tools” serve to identify Celatta instantly as an earthly form of Parvati, the goddess married to Lord Shiva. Her skin color, furthermore, matches that of the heavenly Parvati. But note one interesting difference. Here on earth Celatta’s hair is loose (but not disheveled). Celatta contrasts with Parvati’s two other earthly forms in the story, as seen in table 1.3. Next we will consider the green-skinned goddess, Kali (Durga). She stands out as the most contrastive and eye-catching character of all in our earth-bound triad. Holding eight different weapons in each of her eight hands, the green Kali is clearly the most aggressive of the three forms we encounter. Also note Kali-Durga’s active posture. She is standing, her arms

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Table 1.3. Form of the Heroes’ Family Goddess Celatta versus Forms Allocated to Her Two “Competitors” Heroes’ Goddess

“Other” (Rival) Goddesses

Golden throne

Ashen throne

Dark-blue sari

Red sari

Standard offerings/active worship

No visible offerings/no human presence in the temple

seem to be moving, and her eyes are very, very red. Her sari is bright red and her blouse is a bright yellow-orange. Her trident is black. In addition, there is fire emanating from her crown. This is the goddess affiliated with the heroes’ in-laws’ family, a group that is repeatedly in conflict with the heroes. This confrontation begins very early on in the story. Their dispute concerns violations of family-unity-enforcing behavior. The issues are not matters of jealousy, but rather a reaction to “splitting” actions, that is, actions taken to cast off, exile, or devalue a recognized group member. At these points the story focuses on rejection rather than inclusion. Table 1.4 includes the key set of visual contrasts. Table 1.4. The Heroes’ Own Deity versus the Heroes’ In-laws’ Goddess Kali (Goddess of Outsiders) Heroes’ Goddess

In-Laws’ Goddess

Lesser/milder skin color

Wildly different/scary skin color

Sitting on a throne

Standing on a dais

Normal eye color

Red eyes

Four arms/one drum and one weapon

Ten arms/all hold weapons

Non-fiery crown

Fiery crown

Only the blouse is red

Both sari and blouse are red-yellow (hot)

Has garland of flowers, plus flowered pillars

Has no flowered garlands or other greenery

Finally we must consider the goddess worshiped by the heroes’ forest rivals. This is Karukali, a dark or “black” form of Kali. Interestingly, Karukali is not the most violent of the three earthly forms presented by this story. Instead she embodies what we might call “a mirror image” of Celatta. Note that these two divine females have certain key elements in common. For one, both Celatta and Karukali hold exactly the same pair of symbols in their extra hands, a double drum (bound to a stick) on the right and a trident on the left. Furthermore, their seated postures are exactly the same. However, we can also observe three striking inversions: 1) Karukali’s skin is ashen-colored; 2)

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Karukali’s blouse is blue/cool but her sari is red/hot (exactly reversing the colors given to Celatta’s equivalent garments); and 3) Karukali’s throne is ashen-colored and matches her skin tone, while Celatta’s throne is golden, just as her skin is depicted to be a lovely yellow-brown tan. Adding to this is the fact that Karukali’s temple is located in the middle of a dark forest. Her worshipers are hunters who carry spears. Celatta’s temple, by contrast, is located next to lush fields of sugarcane, varied grains, and sunflowers. Her worshipers are farmers. Table 1.5 depicts the key contrasts in chart form. Table 1.5. The Enemy Goddess

Heroes’

Own

Deity

versus

the

Heroes’

Hunter-

Heroes’ Goddess

Hunter-Enemy’s Goddess

Bright/light/tan skin

Ashen/colorless/dark skin

Dark blue sari—red blouse

Red sari—dark blue blouse

Golden-colored throne

Ashen-colored throne

Located inside a village near fields and homes

Located in a dark forest, away from any fields or dwellings

Now consider the bigger picture. To my mind this progression in the “look” of the four Ponnivala goddesses, one in “heaven” and the other three “on earth,” fits well with the larger concept of a progression along a continuum that contains the four yugas. There is a clear movement from creative and joyful beginnings (Parvati), through issues related to the presence (or lack of) prosperity, social order, and health (Celatta), through strife and moral decay (green Kali has the power to “fix” these problems), and finally to social lawlessness, chaos, death, and dissolution (black Kali’s domain). In sum, these four forms of the goddess cover the full spectrum of Hindu cosmological thinking. They also cover, as we shall see below, the full spectrum of human issues, be they related to prosperity and sexual attraction, to aggression and suffering, or to death and decay. All these and more play a role in human experience. THE GODDESS PARVATI IN MORE DEPTH Now that the barebones of the four goddess forms have been outlined, it is time to describe each of these deities in a little more depth, using only information gleaned from the Ponnivala story. I will start with Parvati as she is the divine figure who gets this entire epic legend started. This great Sakti, wife of Lord Shiva, is present right at the beginning. She and her spouse are first seen drifting across the cloud-filled sky together. Then Parvati looks down and notices a beautiful forested area and remarks in dismay, “I see no

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signs of agriculture and no plowed fields down there.” As a polite (and deferential) gesture she first tests her new idea, asking her husband if she may be permitted to create some human beings that would be able to till the soil in this wild area. Shiva supports the idea and tells Parvati to do “as she wishes.” Parvati then instantly creates nine men and a plow. Next she tells these nine “brothers” to start tilling the fine earth around them. Just a short time later she also creates some women—so that each man can marry and start a family. In sum, Parvati is “the Creatrix” who acts independently (more or less) and at her own initiative, right at the start of the story. Through these opening events it is quickly established that the goddess Parvati watches over the earth, and she wants to take care of it. She also wants to ensure human succession on earth through family bonding and procreation. Parvati is thus depicted as a creator, a nourisher, and a supporter of life in general. Of course Parvati is the faithful wife of Lord Shiva. In the Ponnivala story she is seen sitting by his side at many (but not all) discussions that take place in his council chambers. But she is more than this. Parvati also acts as a significant go-between when it comes to disagreements between her brother Vishnu and her marital partner, Shiva. The best evidence of this go-between role comes from the period when the Queen of Ponnivala (known as Tamarai, heroine of the second generation of the story) spends twenty-one years in penance at the gates of Shiva’s council chambers. During this time, as she tries to attract his attention, Lord Shiva is very cruel to her. He cuts off her head and physically punishes her in various other ways for her sincere efforts. All she wants is to win a boon of fertility after softening his hardened heart. Lord Vishnu, always trying to help her out, even sends several fires up to Shiva’s forest meditation place. Shiva is angered by Vishnu’s “heat” but he is still not moved to act. Finally this pesky brother-in-law goes in search of his sister Parvati. Vishnu soon finds her in this couple’s sky-palace, a lovely abode where this gentle goddess lives with Shiva when he is not meditating. Once in the palace, Vishnu begs Parvati to go and ask Shiva to help Tamarai with her barrenness. Parvati agrees to undertake this mission. Parvati quickly finds Lord Shiva at his place of yogic tapas. She greets him and then politely asks him to “do something” for the poor suffering woman Tamarai. After hearing his wife plead on Tamarai’s behalf Lord Shiva’s heart finally softens. He now grants Queen Tamarai the gift of three magical children. Then he finds the spirits of three eminent figures from the past and “immaculately” places their (rebirth-ready) embryo forms in her womb. This is a turning point in the story, a fulcrum so to speak, where the power to make things happen shifts to the female side of the divine balance sheet. Parvati has succeeded in winning Shiva over. Like the Virgin Mary in Catholicism, this is a goddess to whom humans can pray, hoping that she will mediate on their behalf . . . with a harsh male overlord. Parvati is no push-

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over. When she sets her mind to acting independently she does so. Furthermore, she will very likely succeed in anything she sets out to do. THE GODDESS CELATTA (OFTEN KNOWN AS MARIYAMMAN) IN MORE DEPTH Celatta directly reflects Parvati’s personality and demeanor. But now we see her in a temple setting where she receives offerings from the heroes’ family on a regular basis (generally three times a day). In the Ponnivala story she is further honored at a yearly festival where her golden (travel-ready) statue is pulled around her temple once a year in a grand ritual said to greatly please her. Celatta also travels to and through the heavens on occasion. In her biggest travel adventure in the Ponnivala story she goes there to seek help from her brother Vishnu, complaining that her earth-bound temple has been neglected. Celatta travels upward on this occasion and soon locates Vishnu’s floating cobra couch. Not finding him there, she continues to search until she finally finds him lying dreamily on his favorite flower-garden equivalent. Celatta uses this meeting to ask her brother to go and find the son of the man who used to be her ardent devotee, the eldest of the first nine farmers in the area. This son’s name is Kunnutaiya. Earlier in the story Kunutaiya was exiled by jealous cousins. That is the reason why Celatta’s temple has been neglected. Vishnu finds Kunnutaiya, now grown into a man, and sees to it (via a long list of adventures needed to achieve this goal) that this “son of the land” finally comes home to till his ancestral lands in Ponnivala. When Kunnutaiya does finally return, his first act is to clean Celatta’s temple and begin his family’s worship of her once more. Later in the story Celatta becomes Vishnu’s helper. Now he asks her a favor. She is to raise Kunnutaiya’s twin sons (the two boys Shiva earlier placed in Queen Tamarai’s womb) for five years, in a cave secretly located just underneath her home shrine. (Using a fanciful metaphor one could say that Celatta “sits” atop the two infant heroes much as a hen sits on her eggs). But the third embryo, a female, does not get this special treatment. She is raised in Kunnutaiya’s palace as a normal child. Why are the boys given this special treatment? There are many ways to answer that question, of course. But the obvious one is that when the two boys are born they are instantly put in danger because of the jealousy of cousin brothers who want to take over Kunnutaiya’s land. Vishnu asks his sister to do the physical work of digging a secret tunnel from the secret room beneath her temple . . . all the way to the birthing room in the heroes’ fine palace. Celatta does this well in advance of the birth itself. Then she travels through her freshly dug tunnel to the birthing room, grabs the boys before they are seen by others, and secretly whisks them away in her arms. She

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travels with them back through the tunnel and the two boys then live with her in her pre-planned hiding place, for five years. Of course this treatment is similar to the magical upbringing many heroes experience in other folk stories. In a further parallel with many other heroic children, the goddess feeds the twins special foods (tiger milk and elephant milk) and also has them play with elephants. The two boys are also taught the martial arts under her guidance. In sum, we see Celatta, like Parvati, behaving as a goddess who nourishes children. She also is dedicated to protecting farming families, and she especially supports their need to generate male heirs. When the twin boys reach age five, however, Celatta sets off to find their “true” parents. The goddess finally locates this couple, now a poor and impoverished little family who are living in exile. Jealous relatives have long ago taken over their lands, citing the fact that there are no male heirs. Celatta’s return of the two boys to their “rightful” parents changes all this. Now the lands of Ponnivala can be reclaimed (and she will again receive worship). Having reached age five these two magical boys are deemed old enough to defend themselves should challengers come forward (which they do). There is one final and very important point to make about Celatta. She is not just concerned with human well-being. Perhaps most important of all, Celatta (like Parvati) is concerned with the lands of Ponnivala and their prosperity. In this epic there is a clear causal relationship between the soil of the area, its produce, and this key local goddess. The message is clear: worship Celatta and the crops will prosper. The causal arrow linking Celatta to prosperity almost seems to reverse direction, however, as one comes to know the Ponnivala story in more depth. The prosperity of the lands around the goddess’s shrine receives repeated praise, mainly through songs. And every time the lands flourish the goddess is described as happy and content. She wants to see green and abundant landscapes all around her. Just caring for the lands and sharing a token of the produce with her is enough to spell good and happy years ahead. One might even call Celatta the ultimate “ecology goddess.” In sum, the prosperity of Ponnivala’s lovely lands becomes the key driver that “causes” the goddess to behave benignly and become content. Significantly, this happy relationship between the land and the goddess starts to decline by the middle of the story. Kunnutaiya’s two sons worship Celatta less and less frequently as they grow up. They also neglect farming. All their thoughts focus around their preferred warrior lifestyle. As a direct consequence of the heroes’ failure to attend to their role as farmers, the lands of Ponnivala no longer prosper. Instead the fields are ripped up, the dikes holding back the stored irrigation water get broken, while the rice paddies and the sugarcane crop meet with ruin. Celatta is easily viewed as India’s story equivalent to today’s widespread concern with sustainable land man-

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agement. She is the divinity in charge of maintaining Ponnivala’s wholesome, balanced, and nonpolluting natural surroundings. THE “GREEN” GODDESS KALI (ELSEWHERE OFTEN KNOWN AS DURGA) IN MORE DEPTH This goddess is interesting both because the story assigns her to the village of the heroes’ insensitive in-laws and because she is the only divinity in the story to have more than four arms. It is abundantly clear from her red eyes, the many weapons she holds, and the color of her blouse and sari that this green-skinned Kali figure can be angry and violent if she so wishes. The story describes her as more gentle and balanced in her thinking, however, than one would imagine a truly aggressive goddess to be. The “green” Kali appears at only two points in the story. The first point is where Kali helps out a female sow-boar who was rudely kicked by Queen Tamarai at the start of her twenty-one-year pilgrimage to Kailasa. That sow-boar curses Tamarai and vows that it will also do penance in order to obtain a male child. That boar-son will become an opposite force whose sole goal in life is to make trouble for Tamarai’s twin boys. The sow-boar mother swears that her son will eventually attack and kill Tamarai’s two sons . . . many years hence. While Queen Tamarai prays to Lord Shiva, this sow prays to the “green” Kali. Green Kali grants the boon the sow requests (while Lord Shiva grants the boon Tamarai requests). A great animal adversary is thus born to “balance” the heroine’s own childbirth-gift. Note that Queen Tamarai insulted the sow-boar. She was unspeakably rude by lifting her foot to kick it. Hers was a moral trespass that gave the green-skinned goddess Kali an opening to right a wrong. The second time the “green” Kali appears in the story is when Queen Tamarai’s in-laws are frightened by their husbands’ younger sister’s appearance at their doorstep. Significant, of course, is the fact that Tamarai was blocked at the main doorway to this fine home where she herself was born, years earlier. Everyone in that household knows that Tamarai is childless. Her brothers and their wives fear she will bring evil upon their children. Tamarai is thought to be a kind of witch and therefore her own siblings order a palace watchman to deny her entry and instead to beat her savagely. Tamarai doesn’t submit to this punishment easily. Instead she responds by calling on Lord Shiva and requesting that he send her a fire ball. Tamarai uses this “fire” to balance out the insult she has received. Now she is the aggressor. She throws the fire balls that descends from the sky and burns the poor palace watchman. But far more terrible, Tamarai also uses her special personal power to curse all of her nieces and nephews . . . six children the family have hidden under a large basket inside the palace. These kids fall

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down on the floor (under the basket) in a death-like stupor. But Tamarai’s anger has not yet subsided. Next she goes to the “green” Kali temple nearby to ask for more help (green Kali is Tamarai’s natal family goddess). Standing on the temple steps, she complains to Kali about the injustice meted out to her by her own brothers. She knows that by convention, her brothers are obliged to grant their sister access to her natal home . . . at any time. Instead, her two brothers have broken that moral code by ordering their own sister locked out and beaten. Tamarai now shows green Kali her wounds. The goddess is sympathetic and tries to find a way to right the wrong done to Tamarai. First the goddess has her priest go to the brothers’ palace. There he suggests that they look under the overturned basket. When these men do this they find, to their horror, that all their children are dead! The priest then suggests that the two brothers go directly to the Kali temple. There the goddess advises them to prostrate themselves before their sister (under green Kali’s direct gaze) and to ask her for forgiveness. This is done and Tamarai soon agrees to revive her brothers’ children. Again we see that a major moral transgression is righted with green Kali’s help. This time Kali serves as a mediator who finds a way to create some peace in the family after a terrible incident. She does not even need any of her violent tools to achieve this, though clearly she has the means to enforce a just solution if need be. Yes, this green Kali looks fearsome. But she is also helpful, and she clearly likes to support the weaker party in a dispute. Indeed it can be said that green Kali is especially sympathetic to disadvantaged or insulted females. No wonder women still find her relevant to their lives! A third intervention by a goddess in the Ponnivala story seems to bridge the two domains I am contrasting: land, prosperity, and wellness (Celatta’s domain) versus following accepted social rules and using good moral judgement (green Kali’s domain). This is the point when a little female dog becomes offended. Ponnacci is a prominent pet of the palace princess in the third generation. She becomes angry when the two hero-warriors (her brothers) do not take her to war with them. Ponnacci belongs to the palace princess, Tangal, but she has been overlooked (much like this girl herself is frequently ignored by her brothers). In this metaphorical incident, all of the kingdom’s fighting men have left with their large, male hunting dogs. They plan to fight their hunter-enemies, but they have not taken Ponnacci along because she is “too small.” Ponnacci, in her anger, goes to Celatta and asks for a curse that will make the twin heroes sick and unable to leave their war tent when it comes time to fight. This little dog approaches Celatta, not Kali, with her request for moral enforcement help. Celatta backs the little dog’s curse and it works its magic. The heroes sicken and then, eventually, learn from a wandering saint/beggar why they suddenly became unwell. Understanding from this soothsayer that they committed a wrong, the heroes then

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quickly apologize to Ponnacci and invite her to join the war effort. As a result of the apology Celatta helps lift the curse and the heroes feel their normal powers return. Now here is the crunch. There was a kind of “moral” transgression here, the exclusion of one dog because of its small size. Why did Celatta get the job of dealing with this and not Kali? First, I would say this illustrates that the three types of goddesses do not have strictly limited powers and responsibilities. Their categories have a kind of “crossover” quality. We are speaking of a sliding scale and not of absolute, water-tight categories. This is also true in “real life” where a problem may have many dimensions. In this story scenario the little dog is concerned to join a war to defend the lands of Ponnivala. Furthermore, Ponnacci asks that they become ill . . . not that they die. This suggests that the health of men leading this defense fight, brothers of her own master, the Princess Tangal, somehow serves as a metaphor for the health of the kingdom at large. These men have ignored her, the unobtrusive little player whom we later learn holds the key to winning the battle ahead. The enemy, a wild boar, has just torn up the beautiful rice paddies and the lovely sugarcane field the Ponnivala rulers are so proud of. Ponnacci can protect the kingdom. Ponnacci needs to send a signal to these men to let her lead them. Yes, they have made a “moral” mistake in excluding her but they have also overlooked the one player who knows how to defeat the great wild boar and save these lands from further ruin. No wonder Celatta is interested. No wonder helping this little dog send a message to Ponnivala’s two warriorrulers falls to this goddess. Yes, this could have been a complaint taken to green Kali, but from the perspective of the story’s heroes, Celatta has “the prime interest” in getting this hunting expedition back on task. She is just as interested in finding and killing a huge, land-destroying wild boar as are the heroes themselves. In sum, here is the borderline case. The job of helping the suffering protagonist could have fallen to either goddess. In this particular story it falls to Celatta and not to green Kali. THE “BLACK” GODDESS KARUKALI (THE DARK OR BLACK KALI) IN MORE DEPTH Now we come to the third and final goddess in this story, who I claim “crystallizes” ideas about the Hindu goddesses into a simplified paradigm. Karukali is the goddess associated with the forest, with hunters and (I think, in particular) with the sacrifice of black animals. Karukali is not an active goddess in the Ponnivala story. Instead she serves as a mirror for Celatta. Karukali stands for what one might say is the opposite or flip side of Celatta. Instead of a golden throne she has a dark one. Instead of golden skin hers has an ashen tone. And instead of a blue (cooling) sari she wears a red (hot) one.

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The goddess Karukali says nothing in this story. She also never moves or flies. Indeed she never leaves her temple. Instead this third goddess, queen of the forest, seems to be in a state of deep, yogic meditation at all times, similar to the kind of austerities Lord Shiva himself performs in a similar forest setting. Karukali’s main devotee in the story is a young girl named Viratangal (a warlike form of Tangal or more literally “the brave little sister”). She is the forest princess, sister to the hunters living there. Note that her opposite is simply called Tangal, a girl who is “little sister” to the heroes (third in that set of embryos placed in Tamarai’s womb by Lord Shiva). Viratangal’s fierce brothers are the heroes’ main rivals. These two similarly named teenage girls are of roughly the same age, both have multiple brothers, and they are clear look-alikes. Tangal is always seen wearing a red skirt and blouse (partially covered by a yellow breast cloth) while Viratangal wears all-blue equivalents. The goddess Celatta, whom Tangal worships, is largely blue while she (Tangal) is largely red. Viratangal, by contrast, worships Karukali. This “black” goddess wears red clothing while her female devotee wears blue. Clearly the two pairs (each a goddess + devotee) are presented as opposites (or at least as mirrored forms) of one another. If we take Karukali to be a kind of yogi, we could then say that her skin is ashen because the heat of her meditation has been directed inward (while her potential fierceness is subtly revealed by her sari color). She is not concerned with events in the outer world around her. This Kali is a very “dark” female, and her key followers are hunters who operate in a dark forest. That seems appropriate for a goddess who never responds. Even when a theft occurs right before her eyes she sees nothing and does nothing. I refer to one specific point in the story where the heroes’ assistant Shambuga runs off with Viratangal’s huge stash of fine iron, iron that had been stored right in front of Karukali’s temple. It is important to note that the part of the story where Karukali mainly appears is the segment where all the death and destruction occur. In these final episodes the heroes’ fields are first uprooted by a great black boar, a demon-pet whom princess Viratangal is very fond of. But in a very clear inversion, Tangal also has a pet. Her tiny sweetheart is a little brown dog said to be barely the size of one human fist. This dog is female and her name, Ponnacci, could be translated as “little piece of gold.” Ponnacci is well domesticated and all of her actions contrast with Viratangal’s huge wild, black male pet, the tusked boar Komban. Komban is eventually weakened (to the point of death) when Ponnacci bites his testicles with her poison teeth. While he crumbles in agony, the little dog politely steps to let the younger of the two brother-heroes finish off the grand prize with a huge boar-spear. His violent and muscular action brings death to the attacking “demon.” But this is only the beginning. Next there is a rapid counterattack by one hundred Vettuva hunters, Viratangal’s own set of brothers. 4

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It is significant that these forest-dwelling men confront the heroes with only sticks and spears (not swords). More interesting yet, Lord Vishnu himself leads their attack. The twin heroes survive the ensuing melee, while all the hunters (appear) to die. But their defeat is more symbolic than real as Lord Vishnu quickly reveals to the twin heroes that he has also been at work behind the scenes. Vishnu now paints a “vision” in front of the heroes’ eyes. He shows how he actually created all those attacking hunter-warriors just moments before the two brothers saw them approach. He did this using his own magical powers and the palm of just one hand. The two see this vision before them . . . as they stand on the battlefield with their swords already bloodied. Now Vishnu asks them just “to fight a little longer.” The great hunter-farmer war now becomes Lord Vishnu’s own “play,” a divinely manufactured illusion. But why? Why would Vishnu challenge the heroes in such a life-threatening way? The answer comes just moments later when Lord Vishnu acts to end the heroes’ lives . . . in a graceful and indirect way. He does this by subterfuge. Indeed he beguiles them into falling forward on their own swords. I use the word “beguile” because Vishnu takes the form of an archer to send his final signal to the heroes via a “love arrow.” We see the god appear, not in disguise, but looking very blue and a bit like another familiar divine form . . . Lord Krishna. Vishnu manifests himself as sitting on the branch of a tree hanging over the small mountain river where the twin heroes are busy washing their swords. The two hear a rustling sound, but they do not see Vishnu. He then shoots a flowered arrow (similar to the weapon Kama— or Cupid—would use), straight at the key heroic brother, Shankar. Indeed he and his brother followed Vishnu’s instructions. They both fought “just a little longer” and then declared the battle over. They have now gone to wash their swords. The love missile (the flowered arrow) files directly at Shankar during the very moment he is washing in a stream near the battlefield. Metaphorically his bath resembles a pre-death cleansing in the Ganges river, echoing the importance given to bathing a corpse with (Ganges) water. But why use a “love arrow” at this point? I believe we can understand Vishnu’s gesture as a love-dart that creates a “swoon.” After all, the heroes have been “chaste” all their lives. They have never so much as touched their wives, even in the act of marrying them. Virgins both, the two heroic brothers are about to undergo a kind of love tryst moment. The two heroes who meet the goddess (who would be an image before their mind’s eye in the moment before their deaths), and are now (due to the arrow) smitten by love for her. Just minutes later the two submit to her charms as they literally fall to earth and become corpses. Both story heroes fall forward (albeit sequentially) on the points of their own swords. (The act is performed in such a way that each blade enters its master’s chest near its victim’s heart). This is a kind of “piercing-to-death” explained by devotees as a gift to, or personal sacrifice

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at, the will of the goddess. The twin heroes die within minutes of each other, but very soon afterward all life in their kingdom also grinds to a halt with the heroes’ sister Tangal helping that process of dissolution unfold. She burns the family palace. After the fire has done its job she calls on the rain to cool the remains. Then she wanders in the forest with her hair in tangles, something a young virgin girl would never, never do in normal life. All she knew in Ponnivala has now dissolved and disappeared before her own eyes. Even her clothes are torn. In sum, Tangal is transformed by her brothers’ deaths. Now she is searching for their dead bodies. This is the end of the Kali Yuga. Earlier the great black boar Komban (the horned one) was speared and his body transformed into a similar sacrificial offering. We now can see that this seemingly simple “boar hunt” was actually a story technique used to foreshadow what would soon happen to the heroes themselves. But there is more. Kompan’s head is first given away to Lord Vishnu (who takes the disguise of a washerman to receive it). Vishnu has to beg the heroes for the boar’s head. For this purpose Vishnu uses the excuse of his pregnant wife, whom he says craves boar meat. This is the ruse he uses to get a hold of the prized sacrificial head. But note: Vishnu’s second wife in the larger mythology is none other than Bhu Devi . . . the goddess of the earth herself. And that symbolism is not lost on the two heroes. They soon come to realize that this gesture is indeed intended to foreshadow their own deaths . . . which will happen very soon . . . as they fall to earth while expressing their love for her. Now let me return to the primary subject in this section of my argument, the goddess Karukali. Who is she? In the local kiramam area Karukali is also known as Angamma or Angalamman. And in the local festival rituals for this goddess that association is backed up by stories about her collected during my fieldwork. Each year Angalamman has a huge pregnant woman fashioned out of mud formed in front of her temple on bare ground. Small black pigs are sacrificed to this huge prone body (using a spear to their chests) at the time of the festival, “to hasten the delivery,” as it is said her pregnancy has gone on for an unnaturally long time. After these sacrifices the festival participants “walk on fire,” in front of her for the same reason (actually on burning coals carefully prepared in a long, deep trench beforehand). Somehow the pierced piglets and the hot coals achieve renewal. The rebirth, however, is not directly enacted. It occurs in some undefined future era when all springs to life afresh. There is an apparent parallel here with the concept of the Kali Yuga coming to a dark end and then the cycle starting all over again once more. Another interesting perspective that helps explain why Karukali is an ashen and static goddess comes from popular understandings of the meaning of the Bhagavad Gita. 5 There some say war is no longer opposed to peace, nor is success opposed to failure, or morality set against immorality. Instead

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the entire phenomenal world becomes an illusion in the age of Kali. Everything becomes Vishnu’s maya or magic in this final yuga where measurable time becomes just one great circular movement within a larger set of repeated cycles. A new round will begin after the end of the old as the fruits of all human labor become reabsorbed at this point. 6 The key idea presented in the Bhagavad Gita, say some, is desire-less action. Katz puts this in epic terms by writing of the need to “cling to heroic values in the face of human tragedy.” In the Ponnivala story this would describe the point at which the story’s two legendary heroes decide to fall forward on their own swords. Borrowing Katz’s words one might say this act expresses the heroes’ “subjugation . . . to a certain principle of inner self-determination of action proceeding by the soul’s freedom from the tangled law of works. . . . The reward of such desireless action . . . is liberation, a form of walking meditation.” This is not “folk” thinking, but what the folk bard (and the artist interpreting his words) have done is to adapt this concept of renunciation and submission and re-present it in story form. We “see” and “feel” the act of renunciation and the desire to free the soul from the world in the Ponnivala epic, where the same idea has been set forth in a poetic bundle of images. Karukali, the fourth and truly final form of the goddess appearing in this legend, is the goddess of the story whose presence supports this basic philosophical perspective, a theme many authors have found central to the Bhagavad Gita. As Katz has written, “God himself cannot change the inevitable cyclical course of fate. He (for Ponnivala . . . Lord Vishnu) establishes dharma, but does not interfere with fate, that is the progression of the yugas.” 7 Here fate could be said to be present in the story, as a concept embodied by the great goddess Karukali Next I will attempt a description of each of these goddesses’ annual festivals. But first, it will be helpful to study a map of their respective locations vis-à-vis each other “on the ground.” The two maps below show the layout of the four key shrines in spatial terms, in the temples central to Kannapuram Kiramam: in figure 1.3, 8 from west to east, we see: 1) a temple dedicated to Shiva and Parvati (the Parvati-type of shrine); 2) a temple dedicated to Batirakali (the green Kali/Durga-type of shrine); 3) a temple dedicated to Mariyamman (the Celatta-type of shrine); and then lastly (somewhat further north and isolated from this cluster), 4) a temple dedicated to Angalamman (the black or Karukali-type of shrine). Note that there is a linear progression in status and in orientation from west to east. The main temple dedicated to Shiva and Parvati faces east while the “subsidiary” Batriakali and Mariyamman temples face north. No one remembers which temple was built first. But in concept, we can certainly say that Shiva and Parvati sit at the apex of this local system. Their temple enjoys ritual priority and the highest respect. Batriakali-Durga is next in line. Mariyamman, on the other hand, is thought of as a sort of specialized offshoot of Durga. She localizes Durga and gives her a strong attachment to one particu-

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Figure 1.3. Location of three goddess temples

lar space, the local kiramam and its eighteen “villages.” Angalamman is a further “offshoot.” She sits at a deliberate distance from these other three shrines (see figure 1.4). 9 Angalamman is the goddess of matters that lie outside regular village life . . . and partakes of a wilder, more chaotic surrounding. This goddess has only one temple in the entire area. She does not have one temple per kiraman as Mariyamman definitely does. HOW DO ACTUAL PATTERNS OF GODDESS WORSHIP RELATE TO THIS SPATIAL MAP? Of course the situation on “the ground” is more complex than a single epic story can encompass. But, in fact, what I managed to observe during my 1965 and 1966 period of intense local fieldwork does not seem to be that much more complicated! In the area where this Ponnivala legend is best known, the spatial layout and celebrations performed for the key goddess shrines do, in general, correspond to the epic-story paradigm I have just described. I will now expand on this point. The Kongu region of Tamilnadu, as I knew it then, contained four basic types of goddess shrines.

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Figure 1.4. Traditional sub-divisions of Kangayam Natu

SHRINE TYPE ONE DESCRIPTION: PARVATI—A TEMPLE LOCATED INSIDE THE LARGER SHIVA COMPOUND The temples I would place in Shrine type one are easily identifiable. These are the common Shiva temples that dot the landscape everywhere. In almost all cases these temples include an interior shrine dedicated to Shiva’s wife, Parvati. She occupies an important small temple of her own within the larger compound, a sacred enclosure second in importance only to the adjacent shrine dedicated to her great husband, Lord Shiva. The stories told about this divine couple, and which describe the temple’s key festivals each year, all focus on their marriage. These myth-legends also depict the occasional disputes that arise between husband and wife. In some temples there is a nightly ritual where a small brass image of Lord Shiva is physically carried into his wife’s “chambers” for the night, and then removed each morning. In the temple I am most familiar with, the Kannapuram Shiva temple, the most important festival annually depicts the couple’s marriage. It is celebrated in the month of April–May (Cittirai) and the actual wedding day is timed to closely (though not always exactly) correspond to the full moon. As the

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Table 1.6. A Four-Point Folk Paradigm for Goddess Shrines (Based on Evidence from the Kongu Area of Tamilnadu)

Key Themes

SHRINE TYPE ONE

SHRINE TYPE TWO

SHRINE TYPE THREE

SHRINE TYPE FOUR

The goddess Parvati as seen inside a Siva temple compound (a Parvati temple setting)

Family and clan goddesses (a Celatta/Gaurilike temple setting)

Goddesses protecting a specific territory and/or dealing with a core human issue (a green Kali/ Durga-like temple setting)

Goddesses associated with death, chaos, wild places, and the end of time (a black Kali/ Kali-like temple setting)

CREATION and also SUPPLICATION

WELL-BEING, WRONG-DOING DEATH, HEALTH, and also FERTILITY, ECOLOGY, and PUNISHMENT and also SOCIAL ORDER COSMIC RENEWAL

story goes, Parvati laments the fact that her first wedding was too fast and not very pleasant (the Daksha story, not described further here) and that now she would like to celebrate it again (and again) in a more relaxed and enjoyable way. The three preliminary days of the Shiva temple festival represent the period of the pair’s engagement. On each of these days the couple circle their temple together, each time using a different “vehicle.” On the first day they ride together in a palanquin. On the second day they ride together on a large wooden bull and on the third they ride side by side on a wooden horse and a wooden elephant. The fourth day is the day of the marriage itself. This event is celebrated with elaborate pujas, ritual chants, and poetic recitations. Interestingly, this is the one day when the couple do not exit the temple together to circumambulate their compound in a celebratory parade. The fifth day constitutes the big public announcement of the marriage. Now the newlyweds circle the temple compound together atop their great wooden chariot. This is the only day of the year that this great chariot is used. On the sixth and seventh days the couple again circle their shrine compound, but his time they sit separately on a horse and an elephant. On the eighth day they ride a horse and an elephant once more, but now a poet reads a story about a temple thief who ran away with the family jewels. On the ninth day, there is another story told. This time the tale describes a marital fight. As reenacted, Parvati temporarily locks her husband out of the entire temple com-

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Figure 1.5. Parvati’s main image in the Kannapuram Shiva temple (view figures Ea through Eh at the affiliated website).

pound. But all is resolved after some time and she allows the great lord back in. There is no outside-of-the-compound excursion made by the couple on this final day, but there is a more modest internal parade enacted. Now their “son” Ganesh joins them in a trip around the temple’s symbolic stone pillar

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base, the stambha. Following this, a handful of seedlings are placed in the temple well. This gesture would seem to reference the idea that the great divine marriage is now happy once more. Now life will prosper and things will grow well. The ceremonies are over. SHRINE TYPE TWO DESCRIPTION: CELATTA—LOCALLY KNOWN AS MARIYAMMAN OF KANNAPURAM I will start with a broad description of this well-known goddess, generally named Mariyamman. 10 Locals believe that she plays a critical role in bringing rain to parched villages and that she is able to protect their local settlements from disease, especially from the ravages of smallpox. According to earlier traditions in the area, only those castes associated with agricultural activities, the farmers and their immediate service allies (the so-called righthand castes), were allowed to participate in her annual festivities. More importantly, perhaps, Mariyamman has always drawn people from the entire area she oversees (the kiramam). She was and still is a territorial goddess who is primarily concerned with maintaining order, prosperity, and good health for all. And in direct alignment with this responsibility set, all the festival duties linked to her major yearly celebration are interwoven in a way that requires most of the many different communities involved in her worship to all work together. If disputes arise, which is not uncommon, any current disputes will surface at the time of her festival and must be resolved before the key ritual activities can proceed. In this way Mariyamman’s festival is a social-control tool that “enforces” order between the several communities involved, by requiring their close ritual cooperation. The story goes that Mariyamman is approached by an untouchable lover who disguises himself and eventually beguiles her into marrying him. But she is greatly angered when she finds out about his true status. So, in revenge for his deceit, she soon burns (or beheads) him. He dies from this attack (understandably) and she ends up a widow, but only for one day. Then Mariyamman returns to her normal, relatively calm and normal state. Except for the period of her festival this goddess “lives alone” in her temple. Out of respect, however, she is treated as a still-married woman. She wears a colored (rather than a white) sari to symbolize this important fact. During her festival Mariyamman’s “mistaken marriage” is highlighted by a post with three branches that is installed right in front of her temple early on in the proceedings. This post, called the kambam, explicitly represents her ill-fated lover. Taking the form of a fire pot, described as hot with her anger, Mariyamman sits on this post each night. During the day that pot is taken away and a (cooling) earthen vessel full of green leafy branches replaces it. Adding to this symbolism of oscillating “hot” and “cool” periods, there are

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Figure 1.6. Mariyamman in her separate Kannapuram temple (view figures Fa through Fl at the affiliated website).

two important ways in which female devotees participate in Mariyamman’s festival. For one, both women and children bring pots of water and pour them around the ritual post to “cool” it. They also circumambulate the temple

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(clockwise), pouring yet more water all along this route. By the end of the festival both the temple surround and the ritual post, in particular, sit in a sort of swampy wet sea of mud. All this wetness helps to link the goddess to rain and to the well-being that accompanies good rains in a farming community that is otherwise located in a dry (even parched) upland area. In the Ponnivala story several women sit on pillars for long periods of time (a theme not developed here for lack of space). This act parallels, in a general way, what we “see” Mariyamman doing during her festival. One is reminded of the importance of cosmic pillars (and trees) in broader Hindu mythology. Whatever or whoever sits on a post or pillar is symbolically lifted up toward the sun and toward the source of rain water. Meanwhile, in both the myth and the festival ritual, Mariyamman’s demon lover gets killed or beheaded. A key sacrifice is performed right at the end of the Mariyamman festival (on the tenth day). At this point a sacrificial goat (previously a buffalo kid) is beheaded right in front of the kampam. Its head (and traditionally the body as well) are then buried in a hole nearby dug expressly for this purpose. The kampam is then immediately “uprooted” and carried to the temple well. It is thrown in there to sink and is abandoned (to the watery deep). In sum, whoever “sits” on the festival kampam reaches upward, those sacrificed in front of it get pushed into a deep hole (dug expressly for this purpose). The victim thus enters the world “below” while the pillar-sitter seems to reach out to the world above. The second ritual activity of note in the Mariyamman festival is that devotees, specifically one women from each family that worships her, bring little flour lamps to the temple (ma villakku) and set them before the goddess as their own special offering, on the last day. A similar little light is floated on the temple well after the demon’s tree trunk is submerged in its waters at the end of the festival. That latter light is specifically said to represent the goddess herself. Therefore one might say that the lamps the women bring to the temple earlier the same day symbolize these women’s participation in the power and the fame of the goddess. Local women do not articulate the connection but locating a bit of Sakti power within every women fits easily with wider Hindu views. The gift of these little lamps, similar to gifts of food to a god or goddess more generally, involves a two-way sharing. The goddess is thought to “partake” of the offering (incorporate it into her being) but then the devotee takes “the remainder” home, where the family eats it as a special kind of prasad. These little lamps are not to hot or too dangerous. They are more like a bunch of cool stars that circle a central pole (the north star), rather than hot like the sun itself. Barefoot men, on the other hand, bring pots of Kaveri river water (tirtham) to offer the goddess (which they carry on special wooden frames called kavadi). These frames go with empty pots to the river and return with them after they have been filled. There is much dancing and devotional singing along the way. This special water is

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then used to bathe and cool the goddess during her worship on the final day. Both Mariyamman and her worshipers end up cooled, together. Like Celatta in the Ponnivala story, Mariyamman the goddess is ultimately a local protectress. Women from each family in the area add their bit of “light” to her brighter one, while men help to augment her other key quality, her coolness. All Mariyamman’s worshipers, therefore, participate in the symbolism of caring for all living things. This is a core idea the goddess herself represents. Just as the original farmer brothers worship Celatta each day in the Ponnivala epic story, here families from the kiramam do their part by worshiping (and identifying with) her counterpart, Mariyamman. Mariyamman is basically a goddess of a specific territory, and she presides over a collaborative group of hierarchically structured co-workers. These workers are led by a few major landlord-kings, men representing the original three male clans to locate in the area. They are given a set of symbolic roles in the Mariyamman festival (not further described here for lack of space) and their wives behave as very small, well-controlled “satellite” goddesses. In sum, despite her “wrong marriage” Mariyamman represents the structured wellsocialized side of the great goddess’s many forms on earth. Mariyamman is welcomed into village life annually and celebrated within the bounds of civilized life. But there is something peculiar in the timing of the Mariyamman festival. The celebration begins on the Wednesday just on or just following the dark moon night. The preliminary rituals performed by men from the temple’s lead agricultural families (we can call them the temple’s managing directors) happen on this day. Then nothing much happens for a week, until the following Wednesday. Now the tree that will become the kampam is cut, brought to the temple, and this all-important symbol is put in place. After the planting of this post Mariyamman’s “upside-down” or wrong marriage begins and it will last for nine days (from the Wednesday evening when the kampam is installed upright in its freshly dug hole in front of her temple, until the following Thursday evening when it is removed. Batirakali’s wedding and then Parvati’s wedding follow. What is odd about this is that one would expect, from normal social protocol, that the highest-ranking goddess would be given ritual priority. Shouldn’t she be honored first in any key sequence of ritual events? Why, in this context, do we see a surprising “inversion?” Before answering that questions, let me lay out the ritual sequence more clearly in table 1.7. 11 The “good wedding” of Shiva and Parvati allows the year ahead to commence with its best foot forward. But it would seem that this auspicious “kick off” requires some framing. The festival linking of the three temples (whose priests are also one and the same) appears to “remind” local residents of a core symbolic theme: righting wrong. As we can see from the calendar, Mariyamman undergoes a “wrong wedding” that has to be brought to an end.

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Table 1.7. The Kannapuram Temple Complex—Related Timings of a ThreeWedding Festival Calendar (Held in the Month of Cittirai = April/May) Phase of the Moon

Day of the Week

A Wedding Celebrated For:

A Wedding Celebrated For:

A Wedding Celebrated For:

Mariyamman (red-hot night anger)

Batirakaliamman (green/black warrior)

Parvati (mild, turmericcolored, gentle listener)

Dark or New

(1st Day) Wednesday

First rituals performed

Quarter #1

(9th Day) Thursday

Kambam cut and erected Mariyamman married (for eight days) (water poured each day)

(10th Day) Friday

Batirakali married (for one day) (scares off evil spirit)

(11th Day) Saturday

First rituals performed

(14th Day) Tuesday

Parvati married (for full year)

Full

(16th Day) Wedding ends, Thursday Kampam is removed, and ceremonies are completed

Quarter #3

(19th Day) Sunday

Ceremonies are completed

In fact Mariyamman’s wedding begins at night, late in the evening, another sign that something has been reversed or is incorrect. Human weddings are not held near midnight, but rather most often in the very early morning. In this complex Batirakaliamman is like a warrior-ally that helps her “sisters.” Note that the goddess Batirakali/Durga becomes “active” in her temple the very next day after Mariyamman’s undesirable wedding occurs.

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SHRINE TYPE THREE DESCRIPTION: GREEN KALI—LOCALLY KNOWN AS BATIRAKALI OF KANNAPURAM Batirakali first undergoes a symbolic, formal, but very brief marriage herself. Then she (presumably) transforms into a woman who acts on her own (even though technically married). Now she focuses on supporting a broad cleanup of the wrongdoing around her. Her eight arms and fierce personality are needed, though she always lends her assistance in a quiet way. Significantly, Batirakali’s priests conclude her rituals late on the Friday night, with the scaring off of evil spirits. All this midnight activity seems to indicate that there has been a battle during the day and there are now “corpses” lying around that evil spirits will come to feed on (view figures Ga through Gf at the affiliated website). The very next morning, after the ritual “removal” of an unwanted denizen of demons, preparations for Parvati’s fully auspicious wedding begin. She is the primary goddess and her wedding is the one that will last. All is well after Mariyamman’s wrong marriage has been recognized and all the dangerous, hovering evil spirits have been dispensed with. Interestingly, Shiva and Parvati have their own ritual argument, but her prescribed ceremonies clearly indicate that this wedded couple (unlike Mariyamman and her unwanted husband) quickly patch things up. All ends well. But note a further engaging fact: Shiva and Parvati’s festival events, although very auspicious, are not the most popular with local residents. Mariyamman’s upside-down wedding is much more raucous, more “fun,” and much better attended. Nonetheless, all this feverish festival activity is designed to end on a good note. At the end of the cycle we are left with Mariyamman’s wedding terminated, and a happily married, peaceful Parvati. For the entire twelve months to come she will be honored and respected as “first goddess,” by all. Batirakali/Durga’s ritual priority (her wedding day occurs four days before Parvati’s) may also reflect her very ancient origins. Because of her rather pro-forma and relatively unstressed presence in this local temple complex, it is worth providing some added background on her mythology and its possible significance. Durga is a very “old” divinity, known in one prototype as Vāc, the goddess of victory. 12 Suggestive references can also be found to a similar goddess on Indus Valley seals, and even among early Mesopotamian artifacts. 13 There are also strong hints of a “Durga-like” presence in early Indus Valley settlements. 14 Furthermore, R. C. Agrawala notes that the first known sculpture of Durga as Mahisasuramardini in Indian Art dates from the first century BC. 15 The same female power is also mentioned in the early Sangam literature from Tamilnadu, where she is named Korravai. Again in these ancient sources, she is portrayed as the goddess who kills the buffalo demon Mahisasura. 16 Durga is also very prominent in the famous stone carvings at Mahabalipuram, in Tamilnadu, where several sculpted rep-

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Figure 1.7. Batirakaliamman in her Kannapram shrine, without festival clothing. Note: One can clearly see her ten arms

resentations of her appear. She has obviously been well integrated into the official iconographic traditions of South India by the mid-seventh century. Durga is also prominent at Aihole, Karnataka, in a temple dating from rough-

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ly the same time period. And she is a key figure in Ellora Cave #14, which is said to date from around 600 AD (view figure Gf at the affiliated website where the local Batirakali is shown dressed for worship). My own contemporary field observations place Durga somewhere in the middle of the range of goddesses most popular on the ground in Kannapuram today. 17 She is fiercer than Mariyamman but not as scary as Angalamman 18 or Kali. Perhaps Durga’s early myth-story served as a “foundation” on which later story embellishments were constructed. It seems likely that some stories developed Durga’s “social side” as a protectress of particular locales and families. In this form she might have morphed into a Celatta-Mariyamman kind of goddess prototype. At the same time, working on the other side of the same Durga story, other imaginations may have fixed on her wildness, her violence, and then her victim/lover’s death followed by renewal as a core theme. These imaginations may have started circulating an Angalamman/ Kali-type of proto story and celebrated that idea in rituals concerned with fertility and birth. We know that this kind of “splitting” is a common process worldwide and it has been well documented as having occurred elsewhere in Indian mythology too. 19 In our own Ponnivala story, furthermore, there is an interesting example available of the same concept. The father-king in this legend, named Kunnutaiya, is given two sons by Lord Shiva. These boys are explicitly twins. They embody two key opposing aspects of their father’s “parental” personality (timid and headstrong, respectively). These differences play out in the third generation of family adventures. The personalities of these “equal but opposite” twin sons expand at some length on an opposition only lightly embedded in the personality of their father. In sum, then, the local Kannapuram complex of temples depicts, by way of its annual festival celebrations, the outlines of what one might call a popular “Durga cycle.” In her mythology Durga is a great sovereign goddess, a woman responsible for enforcing justice, a woman ready to right wrongs committed, a woman ready to apply supernatural force if need be. She is the full equal but opposite in gender to the idea of a powerful male ruler-god. Not allowed to be her lovers, Durga’s suitors are swiftly transformed into respectful guardians, subservient men who are asked to assist her in upholding a well-structured social order (with all overtones of their sexual attraction to her having been thoroughly quashed). There is one lover-attacker in particular, the great Mahisasura, a horned black buffalo who approaches her violently. He is the prototype demon whose presence clearly underlies the fundamental Durga story. Often Mahisasura has two personalities, one a human male and the other a black (male) buffalo. At times he is portrayed as a buffalo with a human head, and at others as having a human body with a buffalo head. In essence I suggest that, at least in the area where I did fieldwork, this core Durga myth has been “fleshed out” in two opposing directions (giving

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her a disease and ecology focus in Mariyamman and a death-leading-torenewal essence in Angalamman). Looking back at figures 1.3 and 1.4, we see the Batirakali (Durga) temple placed right next to Mariyamman. In fact they shared a single temple compound wall (until recently when, alas, the old Mariyamman temple was destroyed and a new and more modern, independent structure was built. Interestingly, no one has touched the Batirakali temple. Her shrine still stands virtually the same as I knew it in 1965. She is not a very popular goddess locally. It is Mariyamman who draws the festival crowds. It was Mariyamman to whom people were willing to donate the money needed for this expensive rebuild. But we can assume from her continued presence on the ground here that Batirakali still retains her local “rights.” She claims (I think) the valued status of being the “senior goddess,” now holding her own as “the” ancestral goddess prototype. In concluding this section, consider the two maps once more. The Angalamman temple stands at a significant distance from the “cozy” Kannapuram complex just described. Her temple was originally built far from any settlements, right next to a graveyard. Here we find the area’s only (Kali-like) temple, a shrine dedicated to a roaming goddess of the wastelands and forests. Within the Kannapuram temple complex several varieties of ritual coexist, but each in its own way stresses the separation of good from evil. Each references the need to establish a viable social order. Outside this complex, and at a significant distance, we find a festival that stresses the opposite . . . that is the coming together of things, in wildness and in death, in order to generate renewal. This marked contrast in festival style will become clearer when I describe the Angalamman annual ceremonies in more detail, below. SHRINE TYPE FOUR DESCRIPTION: BLACK KARUKALI— LOCALLY KNOWN AS ANGALAMMAN OF MADAVALAKU Angalamman’s temple lies outside the settled area of Madavalaku. 20 Essentially her temple is located in an empty space, right next to a graveyard. Furthermore, the main events that celebrate Angalamman each year cluster around Shiva Ratiri, the night of Shiva and Kali’s wild dance upon the corpses of the dead. Shiva Ratiri lies on the other end of the calendrical cycle. It falls on the new moon day in the Tamil month of Masi (March 10, 2013). This is a wild and dangerous time, suited to graveyard dancing, spirit possession, sword fights in the middle of the night, huge effigies of overpregnant women, and more. Both the Angalamman festival and the celebrations for the epic’s twin heroes (depicted next) enjoy a climax on this scary night. In essence, Angalamman represents the wild side of the great goddess. Here Shiva Ratiri falls on night two of her festival proceedings.

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Figure 1.8. The goddess Angalamman in the village of Vervedampalayam near Dharapuram (view figures Ha through Hi at the affiliated website).

THE ANNUAL FESTIVAL FOR ANGALAMMAN IN MADAVALAKU First day (and night): The white flag of the goddess is painted with an image of her vehicle, the bull (displayed in reddish yellow) and that cloth is tied to the temple flag pole. Then an upside-down pot inside the temple becomes the target of a handful of castor oil seeds that are thrown at it by two priests who shout, “Uhe, uhe.” This is simply a magical word, but the name for castor oil seeds in Tamil is kottai muttu. The term “kottai” refers not only to castor seeds but also to the testicles of a man. “Muttu” simply means “seed.” That night a huge sixteen-foot-long by five- or six-foot-wide image of a pregnant woman (the wife of a Raja) is fashioned out of mud so that she lies on the graveyard near the isolated temple. Two white boiled eggs provide her eyes. Second day: The face of Peychiamman (meaning “troubling ghostgoddess,” but here said here to be a kind of midwife/helper) is made by molding her face out of flour paste in the center of an ordinary peasant winnowing fan. This image is carried onto the graveyard area by a priest whose body has been covered with ash. He is dressed in red clothes and he then dances and impersonates the ghost, while holding the decorated fan.

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Next the goddess Angalamman is invited to come to the graveyard. Then a brass temple image of Peychiamman is brought out to the site on a palanquin. On the way a black goat is sacrificed. Following this, the non-Brahman priest takes lamp black and places a dot in the center of each egg-eye of the prone woman. This “opens” her eyes and brings her to life. A black pig is then speared and buried at the foot of the huge graveyard image. A black chicken is also beheaded. Next the priest lays the Peychiamman winnowing fan down near the head of the huge graveyard image and the crowd shouts, “Graveyard killing, graveyard killing.” Meanwhile, inside the temple the goddess is called to the battleground by a special drummer and her bull vehicle is offered cooked pulses and tubers (which are substantial foods that strengthen and heat their consumer). 21 Finally a light is waved in front of the bull’s sculpted image, making sure that the goddess inside can see it. Third day: Now a new mud pot is taken to a special spring and filled with water. A protective thread is tied around it and it is set in front of the goddess on a small mound of husked paddy. A special temple sword is then laid across its mouth. The priests throw handfuls of rice at the sword while shouting magical verses. This is called “the puja for the beautiful appearance of god.” After a time the sword is ceremoniously removed and a very “cooling” green pulse is thrown at the bull statue. The goddess is also offered raw (presumably cooling) foods. At midnight her image is thickly covered in butter, as a trench is dug outside her temple for the fire walk that will take place on day four. Fourth day: Devotees walk on the hot coals in the fire trench (burning since the night before) as occurs in many goddess festivals, including some for Mariyamman. Many female devotees pray to the goddess asking for a pregnancy. These women make small lamps of five types of flour (ground from grains that have not been previously parboiled). These are the same as the lamps that are given to Mariyamman (see above). These soft little mounds have an indentation in the center used to hold oil. They are brought to the goddess by any woman (not widowed) who wishes to participate (but this time the offering is not restricted to certain castes living in the locale . . . as are the offerings women set in front of Mariyamman that were described earlier). After this the butter oil on the goddess is removed. There is general feasting to celebrate. Fifth day: The festival now winds down and the temple flag is lowered. Now the celebrants are joyful and they throw colored water at their “cross relatives” (meaning those who are deemed to stand in a marriageable relationship to them). This final evening a special “child puja” is performed. Now a pregnant female goat is sacrificed and the priest, again playing the role of the troubling midwife-helping goddess (Peychi), dances with that goat’s intestines wrapped around his neck. He is possessed by the ghost Peychiamman and he now dances around the graveyard with the goat’s liver

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in his winnowing fan. The crowd throws coins into the fan. It is then taken to the edge of the village and left there outside the village boundary (after the priest removes the money). Another goat is sacrificed, this time to the boundary guardian Karuppanasami. This ends the festival proceedings. Interpretation: This festival is, obviously, about a mix of graveyards, death, and fertilization followed by pregnancy. 22 Much of the symbolism is too obvious to require a commentary. However, one must mention that winnowing fans are “separators” of grain from chaff. It would seem that the role of both Peychi and the winnow fan here have to do with separating the dangers of pregnancy and birth from its goodness and the desired renewal that a pregnancy will result in. 23 The overturned pot at the beginning appears to suggest that the goddess has hitherto been asleep or in some other way withdrawn. The pot-womb that bears the potential of delivering fresh cosmic-life-energy is unavailable. Castor oil seeds are then thrown at it to awaken the goddess and the heating foods supplied are intended to enliven her husband Shiva (via the vehicle he shares with her, the bull). He is being readied to father new life. In this Angalamman festival setting no “wrong marriage” has occurred, as is the case with Mariyamman. Instead we now have a “wrong pregnancy,” a fetus carried for much too long. The raja’s wife that has been fashioned in the graveyard (lying on her back with a huge stomach bulge) is said to be fifteen months pregnant! All the sacrifices, especially those of pregnant animals, seem therefore to have a double meaning: these sacrifices help to fertilize the earth (and the goddess who stands for mother earth) while at the same time the liver and intestines of the dead animals are quickly separated from their sacrificed bodies, as if to remove possible contamination or other problems often encountered during delivery. Angalamman is a goddess that is especially worshiped by women wishing for children. Her temple is full of toy cradles that embody the devotee’s fervent wish for children. Countless barren women have visited her. Note that a core festival theme seems to be about reversing barrenness. This same theme is also a major focus of the prayers of the Ponnivala story heroine, Tamarai. The Angalamman festival is colorful, no doubt. But I have described it at length with a different purpose in mind. I want to contrast the general thrust (but not every detail) of this celebration with that of the Mariyamman festival already depicted earlier. Now we witness the same core Durga myth stretched out and reinterpreted in a very different direction. The key symbolic acts that participants observe appear to be about violence, infertility, and death in general. These Angalamman rituals are not focused on righting the social order and casting off a bad marriage. Instead the ceremonies for this goddess are directed at universal issues, and at linking death to new births in general. The first festival, celebrated in honor of Mariyamman, features a post and a degree of verticality. It also highlights hot, dark nights contrasted

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with green, bright (and perhaps cool or watery) days. Here the central pot(s) are not intended to generate new life, but rather to represent the personality of a goddess who is trying to enforce social order and suppress ill-directed (sexual) male aggression. The Angalamman rituals contrast with this focus by referring explicitly to the need for sexual activity and the substantial foods that support it. This energy is required to keep the world’s yuga cycles turning over. Both the Mariyamman and the Angalamman festivals reference an original proto-Durga core myth, but proceed to unpack and extend it in quite different directions. The goddess Angalamman does not dominate and kill her suitor. Instead she is asked to welcome a correct and proper lover (her husband) into her temple for the sake of both human and cosmic revitalization. In terms of the epic’s parallel story, the Mariyamman festival reverberates with the mid-section of Ponnivala’s larger action frame. In a central section of this great legend, Tamarai leaves her husband behind and climbs a pillar as she seeks to reach Lord Shiva’s council chambers. She takes this trip largely on her own while her husband rests partway along the pilgrimage path and awaits her return (taking on a death-like trance as he waits). Tamarai proceeds on her own in order to seek fertility from above. The Angalamman festival, on the other hand, best parallels the end of this Ponnivala story. Now the focus is on scenes where the two male heroes (sons of Tamarai) end their lives in a symbolic love-swoon. They submit their lives to the goddess Periyakanti and are then revived by their young virgin sister, Tangal. Ritually, in the Virappur re-enactment ceremonies, a tree is shot with a love arrow, as was the key hero himself (just a little while earlier). Love makes the world go round, but it does not always make for a calm and well-ordered social system! Both order and chaos are needed, in alternation. These festivals represent two poles of the same core dilemma: how to keep the world spinning without letting it devolve into absolute confusion. A SECOND EXAMPLE OF SHRINE TYPE FOUR: A TEMPLE DEDICATED TO THE PONNIVALA STORY HEROES I turn now to the festival that actually links directly our core story, The Legend of Ponnivala. There is a key temple complex dedicated to these heroes, and an annual festival is held there as well. How does the set of rituals performed there fit into the paradigm I have been developing? The events I am about to describe belong to a place called Virappur, at a fair distance northwest of the well-known city of Trichy (or Tiruchirappalli). These celebratory events occur in a very remote spot, far from any substantial village. To reach this area one must travel deep into a desert-like area that is surrounded by forbidding and mountainous jungle growth. The festival

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events last for several weeks but come to a climax on Shiva Ratiri, that night in late February or early March (on the dark of the moon) when Lord Shiva is said to dance with his wife Kali in a graveyard (or cremation ground). Remember, this is the very same point in the calendar year when the Angalamman festival (described just above) is also celebrated. In order to be brief, I list the main events of this festival as I know about them, below. The correspondence with events described by the epic story is unmistakeable. THE VIRAPPUR ANNUAL FESTIVAL CELEBRATING THE HEROES OF THE PONNIVALA EPIC First through seventh day: The festival calendar begins the day after Shiva Ratiri, a timing that corresponds to the new moon day of the Tamil month of Maci (February–March). 24 On this day the local temple headman (a landowning Jemindar in the Virappur area where the festival occurs) will tie a thread to his wrist as a sign of his ritual dedication to the goddess Periyakanti. He will now “fast on raw foods,” bathe regularly, and sleep inside the temple compound for the rest of the festival period. This is a standard feature of all local goddess festivals, including the rituals undertaken for both Mariyamman and Anglamman. Seventh night: A procession of the heroes’ most committed devotees forms and proceeds to walk to the sacred “battle ground” (pattukulam) where the twin heroes are said to have given up their lives. This is a long and stiff hike but the ardent worshipers are ready. Several young virgin girls, between the ages of about ten and twelve, accompany the group. They bring with them small pots of water and in these are small branches of the leafy margosa tree. There are also storytellers in the group and many hand drums (which the storytellers will use as they sing key excerpts taken from the final battle scenes of the story). Upon reaching the battleground the drumming and singing begins in earnest. Gradually, the most dedicated devotees find themselves overcome (possessed) by the spirits of the two deceased brothers. They then pick up the swords they have brought and begin swaying. After some more time they begin mock fighting with one another. Nonpossessed onlookers, including the goddess in her palanquin, stand well back from this dangerous fray. Eventually most of the possessed men will fall to the ground in a kind of “death trance” and stiffen while lying there, as corpses do. These “corpses” are then carried off to the sidelines, out of danger from the mêlée, by assistants who first roll each body onto its back. Then two men pick up each surprisingly board-stiff body by the head and the feet only. These bodies of the fallen are lined up alongside one another and covered with white sheets, as the dead in a “real” funeral setting would be. Eventually a greatly re-

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spected singer-bard moves forward and begins to sing key verses over the long row of “dead men.” At the very same time the young girls who have come to the ritual site sprinkle water from their little pots over the prone bodies using their margosa leaf twigs as shakers. This makes a fine spray out of the water droplets taken from their pots. A very similar event occurs in the actual epic at the point where the brothers’ virgin sister finally finds her siblings’ bodies lying on their swords at the end of her long and wild forest journey where she searches for them. Tangal, the story heroine, also sprinkles liquids over her dead brothers. She uses several types of watery substances that she has carried to the pattukulam in small pots. In these ritual proceedings the corpses are finally brought back to life (just as Tangal, in the Ponnivala story, is described as having revived her own brothers). In the epic context the resurrection is brief, simply providing a short period during which the two heroes talk for a few minutes with their sister. In that conversation the twin brothers give their sister several reasons why they must now depart this earth despite her begging them to return with her to the family palace. Following this the brothers lose their lives (once more). Then Vishnu quickly transports their spirits to Kailasa and delivers them to Lord Shiva, in person. By contrast, the festival re-enactment of this story results in a full return to life for the devotees. Made whole once more by the bards’ songs, plus the effect of the magical water sprinkled on their bodies by the several virgin girls, these men stand up. Then they hike back along the forest path and return to the Virappur temple with the others. There they rejoin less adventurous members of the crowd who await their arrival. Having been through a deathlike experience, these men are now whole once more. Eighth day: A new procession, now carrying several icons in palanquin style, leaves the Periyakandiamman temple at the Virappur site for the town of Aniyappur. This small settlement, mentioned repeatedly in the epic story, lies at the edge of the forest. It is interesting to note that this “procession” destination is not a traditional burial or burning ground but rather an actual settlement. In the story at least, Aniyappur is a village associated with the artisans (a group who often behave as the heroes’ adversaries). Aniyappur is also a place that stands “on the very edge” of civilized space. After reaching Aniyappur, a priest (acting for Ponnar’s statue) shoots a ritual arrow into a banyan tree located there. Following that ritual act, apparently the sole reason for the trip, the entire procession turns back and travels again to the shelter, where the two female statues await them. This “resting spot” is far from any village. Here Ponnar (represented by his icon) is now said to “die.” A local landowner (a Kavuntar by caste) performs a small funeral ceremony. Also, a goat is sacrificed at the precise moment of the hero’s spirit’s leave-taking, helping to mark the moment. The entire party of travelers then spends the night at this shelter. The next morning they return to

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the Periyakanti temple in Virappur. It is important to take note of the metaphorical relationship of Vishnu’s “love arrow,” which is shot by his Kamalike form, just before the heroes’ ritual suicide in the epic story (refer to the details provided above in the section of this chapter that describes the goddess Karukali, the “black” Kali). Could the heroes’ bodies in the Ponnivala story be symbolically identified with a cosmic tree (similar to the ritual banyan in Aniyappur)? Could the arrows shot on both occasions be a kind of “tree graft” that precedes new growth? This is not the only ritual where shooting an arrow into a symbolic tree occurs in local tradition. In Kannapuram, the village area where I did my core fieldwork many years ago, a similar arrow is shot by a Brahmin priest into a plantain stalk (a stand-in for a nonexistent local banyan tree?) during a festival held in the local Shiva temple near where I first collected the Ponnivala story on tape (see figure 1.3). 25 That ritual occurs during the Durga festival of Navaratiri (held between October 5–13, 2013). Navaratiri is linked to imagery about new growth (just as the Virappur rituals are), and to the (hoped-for) re-emergence of an expanding period of light after the period of growing (solar) darkness, a darkness that winter will soon bring on. The rite that occurs in Aniyappur is the last “act” before the hero’s final death and departure heaven-ward. Instead of occurring in October (roughly at the time of the autumn equinox) the Ponnivala hero’s injection of energy into the “cosmic” tree occurs near the time of the spring equinox, that is, eight days after the new moon of February–March (the new moon was on March 10 and the festival climax occurred on March 18, 2013). In sum, in Virappur we see an officially sanctioned wildness followed by a love-death swoon that is (if we follow the epic’s interpretation of submission) partially self-willed. Earlier we saw that Durga’s story provided a statement about the separation of animalistic desire from structured propriety, a story that depicted passion and then replaced it with submission and the demands of hierarchy. Significantly this is a hierarchy that puts the female “on top.” In the Virappur festival we see a part extension and part rewrite of the Durga story. This festival provides a time where temporary license for violence is accorded a warrior but with little added in the way of sexual overtones. The closest the rituals described come to a visible sexual theme is when the arrow is shot into that banyan tree, an arrow that is perhaps intended to harbour new growth. Furthermore, this violence is enacted in a forest area, far from any center of human social life. The re-enacted violent interlude entails death but is followed by the warrior’s return to life. In a sense each devotee is reborn. But we do not see much hierarchy or any central references to the female being the real conqueror who wields control. Granted, the assumption is that all this is done for the goddess Periyakanti, and that ultimately she reigns supreme. But we do not see that side of the Durga story acted out explicitly and vividly in the festival events themselves.

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More interpretation: The whole Virappur festival is associated with Shiva Ratiri, the night of Lord Shiva’s own wild dance on a graveyard site alongside his wife who, on this occasion, takes the form of Kali. This is a dance of death and destruction, but it also is a dance of renewal. The live festival for the two story heroes mirrors this with its own wild night of flailing swords and dying devotees. Although this festival event is intended to re-enact the death of the two story heroes, it also includes a (danger-filled) resurrection accomplished by their virgin sister Tangal (who is identified by the singerbard as one of the seven Kannimar). 26 Just as Komban the huge wild boar was conceived to balance out the heroes’ fearful presence on earth, so is Tangal seems born to counterbalance her two violent brothers’ warrior nature. She has been given the power to resurrect them when they die. After this one wild night all subsequent events of the festival seem formal and lacking in emotion. But they are symbolically important nonetheless. The arrow shot into the banyan tree is an important detail. That ritual tree trunk seems to symbolically parallel a key scene in the Ponnivala story where the heroes’ mother, Tamarai, once performed her own long, long penance. The cosmic banyan in this great legend stands very near the spot where Tamarai requests a magical pregnancy from Lord Shiva. Not only do we have the momentary resurrection of the heroes themselves, and the real revival of their fervent devotees, but now we also have a symbolic re-energizing of the power of the pillar that holds up the sky. But we cannot pursue this correspondence very far. A pillar is not a central symbol at the Virappur festival. Nor is anything placed on top of a post as an object said to represent the goddess. However, because a tree does get shot by what we presume to be a “love arrow,” it does seem to be (momentarily transformed) into a symbol of passion and potential fertility, a momentary inversion, perhaps of the normal lingam. My personal understanding of the latter is that it is intended to be an icon of control and abstinence (as most ithyphallic representations of Lord Shiva can be viewed). It is never easy to lay a symbolic paradigm on to social reality. Reality is always messy and the human imagination can take events (and especially ceremonies) in many unexpected directions. Goddess festivals and their related ritualized events vary from place to place and often build on the theme of “contrast.” By this I mean that the residents of one village or town will deliberately develop a tradition that states (in some symbolic fashion) that we are different from the people “over there.” Levi-Straus has pointed out this tendency, with examples that show themes morphing as they pass from myth, to art, and into ritual. 27 For this reason I do not want to assert that one simple paradigm can ever fit all the ethnographic data that is available now or may, in the future, be reported. Nonetheless, I believe we can talk about a likely (perhaps statistically dominant?) pattern. I want to conclude by listing a set of tentative general oppositions that I hope can be verified by further field-

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work. I leave it to other researchers to ask if the following set of contrastive ideas and images also appear in other Hindu village arenas. To help other observers ask fresh questions of their own field data, I provide a simple chart of the opposing concepts I see. 28 Table 1.8. Key Contrasts Embodied by the Godesses of the Ponnivala Story THEMES FOCUSED ON SEPARATING OFF THREATS, CULTURE, and SOCIAL ORDER (Celatta/Mariyamman)

THEMES FOCUSED ON JOINING and IMPREGNATION and NATURE and RENEWAL (Angalamman/Periyakantiamman)

Located in society, in the kiramam

Located in the wilds, the forest, outside society

Associated with separating good/bad, especially in relation to marriage or sexual liaisons

Associated with Siva’s night, possession, graveyards, and transitioning/re-growth from death

Features sacrifice by cutting off an animal’s head

Features sacrifice by piercing an animal’s body

Festival involves a prominent post or pillar (linked to climbing, standing, or sitting)

Festival features the ground and a dying place (linked to lying down and/or falling down)

Features an active goddess who dominates, is independent, and enforces a gender role reversal

Features an ascetic, whose power derives from her virginal status

Devotees are from diverse communities that must collaborate in daily life within a shared social system

Devotees are mainly individuals, or belong to one single family group or community

The rituals move more or less from chaos to order and end with the goddess in ascendency

The rituals move more or less from order to chaos and end with enhanced devotee well-being

Focused on this world’s rewards: health and prosperity

Focused on rewards after death (especially rebirth)

Symbols may involve an Askokan-like pillar/king’s rule

Symbols may involve closed sanctuary/an ashen color, life under or on the ground

Yakshinis and/or fire on a pole in the night sky

There is an emphasis on destruction, war, and graves, plus arrows, spears, or hunting

There is an emphasis on ancestors, perhaps on death, farming, or plowing the earth

The surround is too dry or too wet, activities may involve artisans, craftsmen, and/or hunting

Activities and prayers feature water and/or rain, and perhaps good crops

There may be a reference to the sky, to stars (as in natural shining, celestial), and release from life on earth

There may be alteration, such as a back and forth The seven Kannimar and/or virgin girls linked to between day and night, but with an emphasis on the womb of the sky (the Pleiades) may have a role overcoming darkness, sickness, or a host of asura- to play like beings

Historically may link to Varuna myths and themes and/or link to Suriya’s first son, Shani

Historically may link to Mitra myths and themes and/or to Suriya’s second son, Yama

I have argued that the Ponnivala epic story lays out a conceptual map, a set of structured principles that may prove helpful in understanding the many forms of the goddess in India. Certainly one can find an interesting set of parallels when studying local temple festivals. But in the goddess-on-earth triad laid out in The Legend of Ponnivala, the second goddess in the sequence (Durga) is passed over lightly. This is also true in terms of local temple activity. However, Durga (as Batirakali, the goddess with many arms) is present on the ground. And she is involved in the major festival marriage

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celebrations during the April–May hot season. But Durga’s wedding re-enactment is short and unspectacular. There are few attendees. Instead, the local imagination has “pulled” themes from her well-known story and stretched her “concerns” in two opposing directions. One elaboration (Mariyamman of Kannapuram) features protecting territory, the warding off of dangers, and the re-enforcing of violated social norms, especially hierarchal ones. Meanwhile a contrasting elaboration focuses on the natural energies of life that democratize and level out (or even invert) standard participant roles. Those Kali-like ceremonies (Virappur’s Periyakantiamman and Matavalaku’s Angalamman) feature wildness, death, impregnation, and rebirth in a wilderness type of space. These two festivals make little reference to the wider society and its social norms. But what is most striking, perhaps, is the fact that “Kali’s temple images” seen in this area seem quite restrained. The dark end of the continuum I have described, therefore, does not feature violence and chaos so much as transformation through meditation and (perhaps) a participant’s passage through a luminal time that is both dark and secretive. Like Shiva himself, the “black” Kali in my field data has to be “awoken” by her worshipers . . . so that she can help the world undergo renewal. Of course, there is a strong precedent for this idea in the classical mythology surrounding Shiva. He is also described as blue or ashen colored much of the time. He spends many hours alone, in a forest setting, deep in meditation. Other beings around him in need of help first have to “wake him up.” Only then can they ask for assistance. Furthermore, the Kali yuga lies at the end of time. It is the last period, the point at which the world’s vast four-fold cosmic cycle reaches its terminus. In the epic Ponnivala legend too, Karukali appears near the story’s conclusion. This is fitting. She is associated with termination. Her dance, like that of her husband Shiva, brings with it an ending. But we don’t experience Kali as an active goddess. Instead she is withdrawn, quiet, and secretive. What is suggested by the story, but not made explicit, is that this odd behavior . . . her death-like stillness . . . points at transition. Each ending that involves Kali’s seems to suggest a process of leveling (as in the common expression “dust to dust”) but then points to a new beginning. CONCLUSION To conclude I will quote a few sentences from the introduction to Dr. Devdutt Pattanaik’s brilliant little book called Myth=Mithya. The few sentences I have chosen are strung together, with large ellipses for brevity. Ancient Greek philosophers knew myth as mythos. . . . Mythos gave rise to oracles and the arts. . . . Mythos gave purpose, meaning and validation to existence. . . . Ancient Hindu seers knew myth as mithya. . . . Mithya was truth

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seen through a frame of reference. . . . For Rishis . . . mythya served as an essential window to the truth sat (truth that was independent of a frame of reference). If myth is an idea, mythology is the vehicle of that idea. Mythology constitutes stories, symbols and rituals that make a myth tangible. . . . [Their] unrealistic content draws attention to the idea behind the communication. . . . A god with six heads and a demon with eight arms project a universe where there are infinite possibilities, for the better and for the worse. . . . People outgrow myth and mythology when myth and mythology fail to respond to their cultural needs. 29

I would add to Devdutt’s insights my own conviction that a myth, in this case a great folk epic, can most certainly provide an attentive listener with a meaningful framework, a foundation stone, a point of reference in our confusing world. But a great story like this has to be told and retold. A person has to live it and revisit it time and time again. This is what has happened to me personally. It is only through the repeated study and re-study of this great legend, and then my years of work spent directing its animation, that have led me to thoroughly appreciate its insights. The Mahabharata and the Ramayana still do have this kind of stature in the minds of millions of South Asians today. Many people in each and every state of India, and well beyond, know these two stories thoroughly and revisit them endlessly. I readily acknowledge that both are great epics. But perhaps because these have not been sung into my ears endlessly, the way I have experienced The Legend of Ponnivala, they do not hold as much insight and as much power for me as does this one humble and localized story I have lived with for two-thirds of my life. There is something about the crystallized insights conveyed by the oral storyteller . . . that succeed in presenting India’s core cultural paradigms with surprising clarity and force. I believe this relatively simple and comprehensive story can have the same effect on students, especially ones who are newcomers to the Indian Hindu world. The story simply has to be presented to them in a way that allows them to pull out such insights for themselves. Discovery for oneself is the best teacher of all . . . and there is truly much to discover in The Legend of Ponnivala. I have only scratched the surface in this chapter. After all, the great goddess Sakti lives through the stories people tell about her. If not, then how else can her moods and her great powers become known? NOTES 1. Brenda E. F. Beck, Elder Brothers Story (Known as the Annanmar Katai in Tamil), Vols. I and II, (a folk epic of Tamilnadu in Tamil and in English, on facing pages), Madras, Tamilnadu. Institute of Asian Studies, 1992, collected, translated, and edited by B. Beck. There are many Indian folk epics available in the published literature but almost none that have been seriously studied from an analytic standpoint. 2. The Ponnivala epic is now available as an animated series of twenty-six episodes (each twenty-five minutes long). And as of the moment of writing this chapter the full set of episodes

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is being broadcast across Canada six times a week (twice in Tamil and four times in English). See www.ponnivala.com for details. To hear a short excerpt from the original tapes go to: http:/ /www.folkways.si.edu/TrackDetails.aspx?itemid=45679. 3. The Daksha story can be found in many places. One useful retelling is Pattanaik, 2006, pp. 168–72; another is Kramrisch, 1981, 319–40. 4. The mythology surrounding Gandhari, mother of the Kauravas, is suggestive here. She, too, underwent a long, long unnatural pregnancy and when her one hundred sons were eventually born they were said to have been formed from one large amorphous lump of flesh. The underlying idea seems to be that these enemies of the Pandava brothers were somehow nonhuman (or sub-human) by birth and likely dangerous. The parallel with the Vettuva hunters who attack the Ponnivala heroes in “our” story is striking. They are said to number one thousand (a formulaic number, of course) and they too are somehow nonhuman, being a kind of illusion, and created one by one from Lord Vishnu’s own right hand. These various stories suggest there may be a constellation of folk images that link the prominent Hindu concept of the pralaya (world dissolution) with a very dark form of Kali, with the sacrifice of black animals, and with the concept of the arrival of an undifferentiated “horde” of attacker-destroyers. 5. Ruth Cecily Katz, Arjuna in the Mahabharata (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 1989), 227. 6. Ibid., 227–28. 7. Ibid., 230. 8. Adapted from Beck, Peasant Society in Konku: A Study of Right and Left Subcastes in South India (Vancouver, BC: University of British Columbia, 1972), 147. 9. Adapted from Beck, 1972, 173. 10. See Beck, Social and Conceptual Order in Konku: A Region of South India (London: Oxford University, 1968), 151–69; and Beck, “The Goddess and the Demon: A South Indian Festival in Its Wider Context,” in Purusartha: Recherches de sciences socials sur l’Asie du Sud, Pt. 5 (Paris: Ecole des Hautes Etudes, 1981), 82–136, for more details. 11. Adapted from Beck, 1968, 158–59. 12. Asko Parpola, “Vac as a Goddess of Victory in the Veda and Her Relation to Durga,” Departmental Bulletin Paper (Kurenai: Kyoto University Research Information Repository, Kyoto, Japan, 2000), especially 43 and 118–19. 13. R. C. Agawala, “The Goddess Mahisasuramardini in Early Indian Art,” Artibus Asiae, Journal of Asian Art and Archaeology, Vol. 21, No. 2, (Zurich, Switzerland, 1958), 127, as cited in Shivaji Pannikkar, Sapta Matrika: Worship and Sculptures (New Delhi: D. K. Printworld (P) Ltd., 1997), 167. Also described by Jeremy Black and Anthony Green, Gods, Demons and Symbols of Ancient Mesopotamia: An Illustrated Dictionary (Austin: Austin University Press, originally published by the British Museum, 1991), 108–9 (under the name Inana). 14. Pannikkar, 1997, 2. Pannikar suggests that Durga has a “dichotomous personality” as do the other saktis known at the time. On p. 24 he further discusses Durga’s intimate connection with Shiva and mentions early references to her as a bridging force that helps to carry devotees through tough times as they cross the “ocean of existence.” Images of her crossing waters to a “further shore” are prominent in the Mahabharata and the Devi Mahatmaya. Such crossings obviously reference her role in bridging opposites. 15. Parpola, 2000, 127, 129, and 135. 16. George Hart, The Poems of Ancient Tamil (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1975), 23. His reference is to Kur., 218, and also to the famous and very early Tamil epic known as the Cilappatikaram. Apparently the story of Korravai (Durga) is one of very few myths that precede the incursion of Aryan elements into Tamil tradition, 131. 17. Beck, 1968, 148, and later conversations with the priest that works there (Olappalayam Krishna Sundaram). 18. My knowledge of the Angalamman festival events is detailed in Beck, 1982, 46–54. 19. Wendy Doniger, Splitting the Difference: Gender and Myth in Ancient Greece and India (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999), provides an extensive discussion of this. 20. The ritual details to follow are taken from Beck, 1968, 171–86. 21. Beck, 1969.

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22. See David Shulman, Tamil Temple Myths (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980). In this broad-ranging and very scholarly book Shulman makes the same argument but references a much wider canvas. He essentially finds that the same theme of love in death lies at the core of much, perhaps all, Tamil temple mythology. 23. A winnowing fan is also an important ritual object in the Ponnivala story, where I believe it foretells the imminent separation of the two heroic brothers from their sister Tangal, and then their subsequent death, while she will remain alive. 24. These details are from Beck, 1972, 46–54. Regrettably, I do not have photos of the key festival proceedings I am about to describe, as practiced at the Virappur site. 25. See figures Ee and Ef at the affiliated website. A small “forest” is also created (figure Ed). Note the small rectangular “planting” located in front of the temple pillar. It is very clear that these tiny plants, set out in a square pattern, are meant to ritually represent a forest even if they are so dry and helpless that we realize they cannot survive. 26. These Kannimar are a very interesting group of goddesses and I plan to discuss their importance at length in a separate article. 27. Levi-Strauss, La voie des masques (Paris: Plon, 1967) (later translated into English as The Way of the Masks). 28. Just hours after I have finished constructing this chart and writing the final lines of this paper I came to know of a new issue of Nidan, a journal published online from South Africa whose latest issue was totally dedicated to recent studies of the goddess, and most of the chapters were focused on South India. I was very gratified to discover that these seven fresh papers roughly confirm my general conclusions (in my view), as outlined above. Indeed, I found it stunning that each and every paper seems to focus on either Celatta-Mariyamman type imagery or on “black” Kali-like themes. Because these papers are so interesting and so relevant I want to make a few observations drawn from details these seven Nidan authors have contributed. Two papers center around Mariyamman and I will discuss them first. The other five either directly discuss Angalamman, or provide case material I consider relevant to that end of the Hindu goddess spectrum. That aside, the general focus of all the authors included in this issue of Nidan is on quite “modern” topics, issues such as emotion, sub-altern status, and the like. To my surprise and delight, therefore, I found that the entire range of articles presented by this issue of Nidan combine to both compliment and reinforce the general conclusions I have (just) reached. It is a happy moment when scholars unknown to each other, more or less unwittingly coalesce in their reports of a rough basic understanding of patterns observed. This new issue of Nidan is a good example of how scholars trained in different schools of analysis, and asking very different questions, can reach a fruitful middle ground of common discourse and participate in a process of cross fertilization. Certainly I gained new insight by reading these eight essays. Hopefully each of these authors will also enjoy a few moments of discovery while perusing mine! Here are a few brief observations drawn from details provided by these seven Nidan authors: A) Srinivasan: Perundevi Srinivasan presents new and compelling data on Mariyamman that depicts a goddess who, though significantly androgynous, still identifies herself to others as fundamentally female. More importantly, these stories focus on the many ways Mariyamman finds to assert her dominance and her powers of control. First this goddess uses her powers to demonstrate her ability to afflict her own husband, Shiva, with pustule-like sores. Then she turns these same tools (especially the ability to afflict others with a range of pox-like illnesses) against all others who refuse to submit and worship her. These stories describe the endless battles Mariyamman wages against all demons and power mongers, and especially all of her male challengers. Srinivasan helps us to see the essentially feminist perspective Mariyamman presents and reinforces this with specific ritual observations that parallel mine . . . in particular the fact that the goddess sits on a post, maintains that high ground, and refuses to cede her supremacy to anyone. Furthermore, the myths Srinivasan recounts depict a series of rebirths for Parvati where this key cosmic female powerhouse takes human form sequentially in figures that closely parallel the personalities and actions of the three women whose lives are threaded through the Ponnivala epic story in a similar way. The material Srinivasan collected describes the pillar and the needles the goddess sits on while performing her extreme penance in particular detail. These fine points are exceptional for their parallels with the exact descriptions the

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Ponnivala story provides of the same core event. And finally, I found the discussion of how Mariyamman kills her own son, Kataviraiyan, powerful evidence for Mariyamman’s role as a sovereign ruler. In killing her own son this goddess demonstrates her fairness and her responsibility toward the entire community, by suppressing any feelings of protective compassion she might otherwise be assumed to have for her own closest of kin. B) Harman: William Harman’s article is also about Mariyamman. In the first part of the essay, where he discusses the traditional goddess, he describes a female who has been widowed, raped, expelled, or otherwise abused in some way. The goddess reacts with anger, as also happens in my material. But the details in his description of the goddess and her devotees become strikingly different as he moves on to depict the goddess as she is worshiped by middle class, upwardly mobile devotees. Nonetheless, I still see a related theme in this modern material . . . a living embodiment of the goddess who now tries to help “her” devotees (he is actually a male) find control over their lives in modern circumstances (career, jobs, etc.). Modernization, here, seems to shift the concern with control away from the deity’s powers and onto her individual devotees. With this increased emphasis on individualism also comes a shift in some of the symbolism, particularly as a goddess-possessed man who embodies her. He has a passion for rolling around the core shrine he has popularized, while lying prone on the ground. Here is a shift from vertical to horizontal symbolism consistent with a move away from traditional ideas about social identity and toward a more modern worldview. C) Craddock: Craddock’s essay is specifically focused on Angalamman. And again it is fascinating for the detail it provides. Another set of myths, this time about Angalamman, also provide a progression that parallels (in some ways) the progression I have described from the goddess Mariyamman through Batirakali and then to Angalamman. And there are many ritual details that suggest death, cremation, a prone body, and then some kind of joining of male and female that together presage resurrection. Particularly fresh and fascinating for me is her description of Aravan, son of Arjuna, who agrees to sacrifice himself so that the Pandavas can win the Mahabharata war. This is not just the idea of a pre-battle sacrifice, which I have mentioned above. Even more interesting is the fact that the mother of the Ponnivala heroes did penance in the exact spot where Arjuna is said to have stood. Aravan is a son of Arjuna. The Ponnivala heroes are “sons” of their mother, who is a female stand-in for Arjuna. The two Ponnivala heroes commit suicide, just as Aravan does, with the hope of gifting better times to those who will follow. But there is a difference. Aravan hopes to help the heroes of the Mahabharata fight their upcoming war. The Ponnivala heroes hope for a better future for those (non-relatives) who will live on to till the lands of Ponnivala (hopefully without a future war). Here is another way in which the epic of Ponnivala is entwined with the very essence of the three Hindu goddesses I describe. But as I have also argued (elsewhere) this regional epic inverts or otherwise significantly modifies what we are accustomed to hearing described in the Mahabarata. These Ponnivala heroes commit suicide just after a war is over, and not before it. They are the agents of renewal, not a darkening cloud that presages conflict. Just as Craddock stresses that her Angalamman material is about struggle and the attempt to escape (overthrow) domination, so too is the Ponnivala story an attempt to assert the power and pride of a (previously) marginalized people. Hiltebeitel discusses the god Aravan and the temple rituals performed for him at length in his work (2010). D) Kondos: The description Kondos provides of the goddess Kumari, as she is worshiped in the Kathmanadu Valley, Nepal, is both unique and exciting. Here we see not just a going down, but dramatic going underground . . . through water, in order to contact the goddess and her renewing energy. This amounts to the ultimate symbolic affirmation of the presence of a “hidden” and secretive “black” Kali. Kondos discusses this, and the process of disintegration that is so forcefully expressed during Guhyeswari temple worship. She also is well aware of the leveling processes that are present and of the liminal space/time context, as well as of a joining theme . . . all of which end in transformation. Here the worshiper achieves a “fresh” beginning after reaching into a literal “black hole.” Furthermore, this Kaumari festival seems to culminate on Shiva Ratiri (here called kalratiri) just as related rituals do for both Angalamman and the epic brothers festival celebrated in Virappur. Note that these two sacred spots are separated by thousands of kilometers (Nepal and South India)! Particularly stunning is the account, in Kondos’s retelling of Vishnu’s role in the myth of Devi’s fall to earth. Kondos writes (91):

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“Then Vishnu, in order to bring Shiva to his senses, hit Devi’s body with an arrow, dismembering it. All the parts fell to earth.” Here I have found for the first time a direct (if genderinverted) parallel to the arrow Vishnu uses in the Ponnivala story to signal it is time for the death. The Ponnivala heroes, just like Devi, fall to the earth as a result of an arrow making contact with them. Kondos also stresses that there is no idol, no pictorial image and even more interesting, mentions that the vision of the devotee is “blocked.” This reminds me of the immobile “black” Kali image who never stirs from her temple, no matter what is going on around her. When Kondos speaks of refuse and waste imagery I am further reminded of the two bodies of the Ponnivala heroes as they lie dead, on their own battle ground, which is equally their place of submission and of worship. There is clear reference here to process. First there is a breaking down and then a rebuilding of something new, just as the Ponnivala heroes are resurrected and their spirits then carried back to Lord Shiva’s council chambers by Lord Vishnu. In sum, this is an amazing, revealing, and very fresh essay that is worthy of continued study. E) Schuler: Schuler clearly believes in the importance of oral traditions, just as I do. We also agree about the usefulness of exploring story, song, and ritual as one large bundle of symbolic thinking, in order to obtain maximum insight. Furthermore, the stories about Icakkiyamman she presents and also the descriptions she provides of her devotee’s ritual activities are reminiscent of Angalamman in my materials. There is a marital bed, a lying down, references to an erotic union taking place, and then to renewed fertility. Referencing Schuler’s major theme, that is, the dynamics of emotion as expressed in ritual behavior, her work demonstrates that both female rage and female sexual desire are given positive connotations in Icakkiyamman’s ceremonies. In normal life those emotions would most certainly carry a negative charge, especially when seen in women. This evidence of social “leveling,” perhaps even of gender role inversion in the ritual context, strikes me as significant. In my view Icakkiyamman resides comfortably on the “black” Kali end of my spectrum. In sum, Schuler’s overall commentary fits nicely into the paradigm I have put forward here. F) Zeiler: Zeiler’s essay describes what she calls the goddesses that symbolize or deal with “evil” in Hindu written texts, as well discussing images of them found in such contexts. Her focus is on Dhumavati, a goddess with a medieval Tantric background. Interestingly, Zeiler implies that this goddess is far more fearful than Durga and that she is clearly linked with darkness, inauspicious periods and evil in general. Only in the late nineteenth century, she says (102), are there new texts written that try to “pacify” and “sweeten” the image of this most terrifying divinity, a sweetening intended to partially identify her with the more “virtuous” Durga. Zeiler says the texts describe Dhumavati as “pale” (meaning ashen?), as dirty, and as having a crow (associated with funerals) on her banner. Besides all this, Dhumavati often has a big nose, a swollen belly, mighty teeth, and crooked eyes. Furthermore, she is said to be deceitful and to hold a winnowing fan in one hand. I, too, see these attributes as symbolizing someone or something different from “green” Kali (or Durga) who occupies the “mid-range” in my paradigm. Zeiler speaks of a female goddess who stands for evil whereas I discuss a similar goddess (the “black” Kali) using words such as “death,” “chaos,” “social leveling,” and “renewal.” I think these differences are relatively superficial. At the core of our two essays we seem to agree that there is a wider typology at work and that seen through its lens, the most fearful Hindu goddesses are consistently portrayed as dark, very scary, possibly deceptive, and always secretive. G) Mines: Mines suggests that worshipers of the fierce goddesses use their rituals to generate self-dignity and also to challenge accepted boundaries and sources of power. As her example she uses a roadside goddess named Malaiyammal. Interestingly, this goddess is located in a mountainous and forested area and her worshipers belong to a community that has both a tribal and a hunting heritage. As in the other essays discussed above, there are clear links to death, to wild places, as well as to danger, waste, and leftovers. Furthermore, this goddess can strike her challengers with blindness, and in particular the opponents of her forest loving ways—humans who happen to be plowmen. Here we encounter the same opposition we see this in the Ponnivala story between forest dwellers (who worship “black” Kali) and farmers (who worship Celatta-Mariyamman). A strong theme of transformation is also present, where death and servitude become respect and social equality through rebirth. Mine talks of the dead

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exerting a “historical force” on the present that emerges out of a loss (of life and of place) in the past. She also speaks of crossing gender lines (transvestite behavior) by storytellers who tell the goddess’s myth. I encountered this when I met Angalamman’s local storyteller, too (figure Hb). I agree that “the past extends itself into the now” through these goddess stories. And I also see consistency in the opposition of tribal, forest-dwelling, dark-skinned and secretive with mainstream farmer, land-plowing, lighter skin, open (public) and above-ground themes. I do not suggest that this is just an Indian preoccupation. These hunter/farmer contrasts are nearly universal in cultures that now depend on agriculture for their survival. But I would argue that the symbolic unpacking of this historical shift in power and associated modes of livelihood, finds differing expression in different societies. India’s Hindu traditions are unique in the power they give to goddesses while seeking to grasp the deep meaning of this key historical transformation. 29. Devdutt Pattanaikpp, Myth=Mithya: A Handbook of Hindu Mythology (New Delhi: Penguin Books India, 2006), xii–xv.

Chapter Two

Constructing Goddess Worship Colonial Ethnographic and Public Health Discourses in South India Perundevi Srinivasan

This chapter attempts to trace the genealogy of the worship of Mariyamman, the goddess (Amman) of ammai (varieties of poxes, measles, and certain other infections) and rain, in the discourses of public health administration on smallpox vaccination and ethnographic literature in colonial Tamilnadu during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. 1 It explores the ways in which knowledge of Mariyamman worship within a broader context of village goddess worship has emerged in these discourses, taking into account the introduction of “scientific” smallpox vaccination in India by the British in the early nineteenth century. As we shall see, the discourses of public health administration did not operate in epistemological isolation in producing knowledge about Mariyamman worship; rather, they were largely attuned to ethnographic discourses of missionaries and scholars on village goddesses of that time. In the existing scholarship on smallpox vaccination as a part of Indian medical history, there is a tendency to locate the correspondence between the discourses related to the public health administration and the “smallpox goddess” within a given dichotomous paradigm of the colonizing, medically intervening self and the colonized, doubting, or resisting other. This tendency supersedes the inquiry of how the “smallpox goddess” and her worship are framed at the outset in the colonial discourses of the public health and how this framing is inflected by ethnographic accounts in the colonial period, which often disparage goddess worship by equating the goddess with a demon or devil or petty spirit. More frequently these studies subscribe to the 63

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representation of the worship of the “smallpox goddess” as something “peculiar” and “particular,” as against the universalizing discourse of science in the form of vaccination. For example, David Arnold, while discussing the “raw secularity” of vaccination in contrast to the variolation involving the goddess Sitala, observes that vaccination was “construed as a site of conflict between malevolent British intent and something Indian, something sacred, that was under threat of violation and destruction.” 2 Further, since belief in the goddess provided a “religious explanation” which conflicted with “Western medical secularism,” Arnold perceives that such belief, among a few other factors, invested the colonial administration with “a peculiarly colonial predicament in which the administration was culturally and politically distant from the lives of its subjects.” 3 For Niels Brimnes, the “particular Indian feature” of smallpox, if any, was in the cultural practices, including ritualized variolation, centered on the smallpox goddesses Sitala and Mariyamman. 4 According to him, the presence of a “particular” cultural practice in the form of worship of smallpox goddesses and ritualized variolation on the one hand and the invention of the smallpox vaccine by Edward Jenner on the other produce “smallpox prevention” as a site which features a “vision of the civilizing mission within the rhetoric of British colonialism in the first decades of the nineteenth century.” 5 Brimnes also employs the term “peculiar” in his discussion of colonial accounts of indigenous resistance to vaccination in another article: From Trichinopoly the collector reported in 1802 that the Indians saw variolation as “an unnatural and dangerous Provocation” of a disease from which Providence might otherwise spare them. This probably reflected the view of many Indians that smallpox was a divine possession rather than a preventable disease. More peculiar was the belief, referred to by Surgeon Prichard from Tripassore, that if humans did not get smallpox, the cattle would get it instead. 6 (emphasis mine)

In this narrative, the word “peculiar” is not only loaded with the nineteenthcentury colonial view of a cultural practice, but through being uncritically cited, its usage also turns out to be a gesture of erasure of a discerning distance between the colonial viewpoint and a contemporary, scholarly perspective reporting that viewpoint. Thus, in these analyses of the history of smallpox vaccination, cultural practices surrounding the goddess are rendered either “peculiar” or “particular” in themselves or they are presented as the source of a “peculiarly colonial predicament.” It is interesting to note that in these analyses, European scientific vaccination, which involved imparting a substance from animals to humans, does not emerge as “peculiar” or “particular” practice (as it could have in the eyes of the Indians), but the cultural practices of the colonial subjects are implicated with the adjectives “particular” and “peculiar,” for

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they appeared so to the British. It is an irony that these accounts, which brilliantly problematize smallpox vaccination in terms of “colonial predicament” and “civilizing mission,” subscribe uncritically to the divide of the universalistic, civilizing, normal, European science and “particular, peculiar,” sub-continental cultural practices of goddess worship. This divide, like any other dichotomous divide, seems to reify one category, namely European medical science, over the other, that is, cultural practices centering on the goddess. It underlies Brimnes’s argument that in the context of vaccination “the notion of a civilizing mission made sense,” for “such practices could be altered or even abolished through reform and ‘progress.’” 7 However, the discursive construction of “smallpox goddess” worship in public health discourses reveals a more complex process at work, which problematizes the assumption of a blatant power of the “civilizing mission” over the “indigenous” cultural practices. Moreover, in advancing their discursive strategies concerning the “smallpox goddess” public health discourses were in alignment with scholarly studies including missionary tracts and ethnographic accounts of the period. GODDESS AND THE “CIVILIZING” MISSION Mapping out the genealogy of goddess worship in colonial ethnographic texts would be a good starting point for inquiring into the connection forged between Mariyamman and the European “civilizing mission.” The rhetoric of Europe’s “civilizing mission” in the context of Amman worship proceeded with strategically constituting it as a distinct domain that was separated from the realm of “refined” Aryan religion on the one hand and that was simultaneously brought in alignment with Christianity on the other hand. This strategy, overtly advanced by Reverend Robert Caldwell (1814–1891), an evangelical Christian missionary, in his writings, eventually seeped into later missionary and scholarly accounts on South Indian religion. An article, “On Demonolatry in Southern India,” published by Caldwell in the year 1886, is illustrative of the way in which he conceived the arrival of “civilization” in the form of “Christianity and education” in Tirunelveli region, which, according to him, was “the home of demon-worship”: Tinnevelly [Tirunelveli] was so much the home of demon-worship, at one time, that it came to be regarded by Europeans as one of the special peculiarities of the district; but it can no longer claim this unenviable distinction, for, owing to the spread of Christianity and education, most of the people in Tinnevelly are now ashamed of their old demonism, and the wild orgies of devilworship may almost be regarded as things of the past. 8 (emphasis mine)

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Earlier, Caldwell had defined “demonolatry” as “worship of evil spirits by means of bloody sacrifices and frantic dances” that had been prevalent “in the forests and mountain fastnesses throughout the Dravidian territories, and also in the extreme south of the Peninsula among the low caste tribes” which seemed to have prevailed even “at an early period.” 9 In his article on “demonolatry” as well, he stated that the “essential features” of “devil worship” were “devil-dancing and the offering of bloody sacrifices.” 10 Among the “demons,” he included male and female village divinities, who, according to him, were “semi-divine and semi-diabolical beings” and “devils properly so called.” 11 Ulrike Schröder, citing Caldwell’s The Tinnevelly Shanars (1849), points out that Caldwell’s notion of the realm of “demonolatry” included both the “spiritual beings” (or “pey”) and “to some extent,” the “Amman goddesses”; however, his article published in the year 1886, contrary to his earlier “classification,” included male deities such as Aiyanar too in the realm of “demonolatry.” 12 Further, Schröder states that Caldwell “clearly distinguished” between “Amman goddesses” and “devils/demons (pey)” in his article. 13 However, Caldwell’s initial differentiation of “devils properly so called” from Amman goddesses, who, according to him, were “semidivine and semi-diabolical beings,” seems to be an empty gesture, because of the equivalence strongly forged between them elsewhere in his article: Notwithstanding the superior dignity attributed to the Ammans, I question whether they are not, after all, more diabolical than the professed devils. Cholera and small-pox, the most dreadful of all pestilences, are inflicted by them alone; and what is specially extraordinary is, that small-pox is invariably called by the common people “the sport of the Amman.” When a person is stricken by small-pox the expression the people use is “the Amman is taking her pastime over him.” The technical word for small-pox, vaisuri, is heard in dispensaries, but rarely in the houses of the people. Mari-Amman is the special title of the cholera goddess, and mari means death personified. Measles are called “the little Amman.” There is no difference between the Ammans and the devils in regard to their appetite for blood. They all alike delight in bloody sacrifices, and all alike require frantic dances to be performed in their honour, especially in times of pestilence. The only difference, indeed, that I can perceive between the Ammans and the devils, consists in this, that the Ammans are never supposed to take up their abode in the bodies and minds of their worshipers. 14

Caldwell’s rendering the Amman goddesses and the malignant beings alike and drawing them together based on their “diabolical” nature and demand for blood sacrifice, went along with his constituting a distinct, autonomous domain for them in the name of “demonolatrous system” or the religion of the Dravidians, in contrast with the “Sanskritic, Aryan, Brahmanical” religion. 15 As the trope of blood sacrifice was deployed by Caldwell to bring the Amman goddesses and the malignant beings closer, it was also brought

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into service to secure the boundary between the “demonolatrous system” or the religion of the Dravidians and Aryan Brahmanism; eventually, the trope was interpreted by Caldwell to forge as well as facilitate the realm of “demon worship” receptive to Christianity. For example, in his account on the religion of “Shanars” these strategies can be discerned clearly: One of the most important parts of the system of devil-worship is the offering of goats, sheep, fowls, etc., in sacrifice, for the purpose of appeasing the anger of the demons and inducing them to remove the calamities they have inflicted, or abstain from inflicting the calamities which they are supposed to have threatened. This is one of the most striking points of difference between the demonolatrous system and Brahmanism. It points to a higher antiquity; and, though now connected with a base superstition, is more capable of guiding the mind to the reception of Christianity than anything which Brahmanism contains. 16

In his discussion on the differences between the precepts and practices of orthodox Brahmanical Hinduism and those of the popular religion of the “Shanar” caste group, the connection between the notion of Christian sacrifice and the blood sacrifice of the Dravidian natives, forged by Caldwell, was made more explicit: There are certain facts and truths proper to Christianity, such as the doctrine of our redemption by sacrifice, which are peculiarly offensive to some of the Brahmanical sects, and are supposed to be offensive to the Hindu mind everywhere, but which convey no offence in Tinnevelly; where the shedding of blood in sacrifice and the substitution of life for life are ideas with which the people are familiar. 17

Caldwell’s “interpretation” of “the ritual of bloody sacrifice” in terms of “a substitutional practice” that “serves as a kind of ‘praeparatio evangelica’” has also been noted by Schröder, who observes that for Caldwell this practice of “demonolatry” remained as “the most important point of contact for Christian mission.” 18 Notwithstanding the identification forged between the popular religion of the Dravidian natives and Christianity by Caldwell, one cannot miss a disheartened voice, which complains that the faith of the natives was only in “demonolatry” in his narrative. 19 Caldwell noted that the natives did not “seem to have received from their fathers any distinct tradition of God’s creation of the world or government of it,” and they were devoid of God in the world. 20 “This beautiful world,” wrote Caldwell, “so full of divine philosophy, is to them a mere mass of dead matter, without a mind or a heart.” 21 Caldwell’s narrative discloses two interrelated moves in founding a distinct, autonomous domain for the Amman goddesses and malevolent beings in order to facilitate the discourse of civilization: on the one hand, by and through such demarcation and separation, the domain of the goddesses and

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malevolent beings was rendered devoid of any divinity that could possibly represent the “subtle, higher noble” virtues; on the other, the demarcated domain, predominantly of the Amman goddesses and malevolent beings, with their gross “appetite for blood” highlighted as their common major trait, presented itself as a cultural field “without a mind or heart,” necessitating and demanding civilizational intervention and transformation. For Caldwell, Christianity was best suited for the job, for it shared the common notion of blood sacrifice with the “demonolatrous” Dravidian religion, and was therefore well-connected to it. With the first move of separation of this Dravidian domain from Aryan godheads and constituting it as autonomous, the way was cleared for the Christian god to be installed in the place of the distanced “superior” Aryan gods in the domain; while, with the second move of underscoring the “appetite for blood” sacrifice as a key trait of the Dravidian domain, which had now been rendered autonomous of “non-bloodthirsty Aryan gods,” effective arguments about “native superstition” could be made, and the necessity of establishing “rational” modes of life, in the form of an analogous but “superior” Christian religion along with modern system of education from Europe, could also be advanced. Caldwell’s account on Amman goddesses functions as a major point of departure in the discourse of goddesses in anthropological surveys on south Indian religion. In the earlier writings, such as those of the German Protestant missionary Bartholomaeus Ziegenbalg (1713) and the French naturalist and traveler Pierre Sonnerat (1788–1789), we do not find such a conflation between goddesses and “malignant beings” and “bad genii” notwithstanding the location of goddesses in the bottom rungs of the Hindu pantheon in their classificatory enterprise. 22 Moreover, even when “sanguinary sacrifices” of goddesses found a mention in the texts, these practices were not deployed to carve out a distinctive domain for the goddesses. 23 Another work, Hindu Manners, Customs and Ceremonies, attributed to Abbe Dubois, a French missionary as well as a smallpox vaccinator in southern India, merits consideration in the context of this discussion. Sylvia Murr has shown that this popular and much-reprinted text was originally copied from the manuscript of the Jesuit missionary Gaston-Laurent Coeurdoux (1691–1779). 24 However, as one gets from Catherine Cornille, Dubois seems to have made revisions to the work, and his revised work, later edited by Henry Beauchamp and published in 1906, embodied Dubois’s own “insights” and “experiences” as well. 25 Dubois’s work, which stands between the ethnographic accounts of Ziegenbalg and Sonnerat on one side of the timeframe and of Caldwell on the other, was based upon his life in India for about twenty-six years (1792–1818) at the turn of the century. 26 It was a period in which the Jennerian smallpox vaccination became a popular subject in public health discourses and Dubois himself was one of the early introducers and advocates of the smallpox vaccine in south India, especially in and around Mysore. 27

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While Dubois was very much aware of the prevalence of Mariyamman worship in connection with poxes, we do not find her in his classificatory schema of the Hindu pantheon of deities. 28 Even though he refers to Mariyamman as “cruel” 29 and “one of the most evil-minded and bloodthirsty of all the deities of India” in his work, 30 we cannot certainly say that he regarded her as an evil spirit or a demon. In the background of these earlier accounts, Caldwell’s narrative establishes a distinct trend; his relegation of Amman worship to the discursive domain of the Dravidian, while at the same time equating it with “demonolatry,” is a break away from earlier discursive strands of scholarship that discussed her worship. 31 Caldwell’s move could be tied to two ideological tendencies that started to be predominant from the beginning of the nineteenth century. First, it was the time when discourses about the conception of a distinct “Dravidian” category started appearing on the colonial oriental scene in south India; the publication of a paper on the notion of the Dravidian language family by Francis Whyte Ellis, district collector of Madras (1816), requires to be mentioned in this context. 32 Second, Caldwell’s formulations could be seen in the background of the “emergence of conversion as distinctive to the micropolitics of colonialism” with a “shift” in the colonial scene from the first half of the nineteenth century, as suggested by David Scott. 33 Scott argues that “the production of colonial knowledge depends on the constitution of privileged ‘scenes’ where what counts as ‘true’ knowledge is to be found” and the “physical and symbolic place of this ‘scene’ shifted according to the imperatives of the colonial enterprise.” 34 The “scene” shifted from the cityscape of Calcutta, which operated as a center of Orientalist studies, to “outstations,” “villages,” and “hamlets,” which had become the foci of missionary activities in the Indian subcontinent. 35 Especially after the year 1813, with the East India Company changing its “policy toward missionaries” and with evangelical missionaries starting to live in close quarters with the natives, a legitimating discourse of colonialism in the form of a “civilizing mission” emerged, and this new condition demanded “a different modality of power and a different site of application.” 36 According to Scott, in this scenario a “privileged technique” in the form of the “evangelical practice of conversion” surfaced on the colonial scene. 37 Scott’s work brings forth that in Sri Lanka, with the “practice of conversion” into Christianity emerging as a major player on the scene, “the productive gaze of colonial knowledge” was transformed; and a new object of knowledge, namely “demonism,” emerged as a major discourse of the Sinhalese local religion. Consequently, the Sinahalese local religion was constructed as something which was “both more and less than” textually constructed Buddhism: “more, insofar as Sinhalas were said to have two systems of religion; and less, insofar as the predominating one of these two was not Buddhism, but demonism.” 38 In the comparable yet different context of

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south India, the discourse of “demonolatry” marked the field of Dravidian religion, which was entirely severed from the field of the “higher” Aryan Brahmanism. Simultaneously, these two fields of religion were discursively allocated to two different populations, namely Dravidians and Aryans. 39 Further, a strategy of identifying the “blood-thirsty” goddesses along with malevolent spirits exclusively with the Dravidian realm was adopted so that it can serve as a receptacle to related yet “superior” Christianity. Caldwell’s perspectives would play a crucial role in shaping the British administration’s perceptions as well as scholarly writings on south Indian religion in the future. A later record of the colonial administration titled Manual of the Administration of the Madras Presidency described south Indian religion along the lines of Caldwell’s equation of deities and demons in its discussion on the subject of “ethnology.” Essentializing the worship of the Dravidian population to “demons” or to “deities who rule[d] such demons to induce their interposition,” the Manual observed that the distinction between the “demons” and “deities” could not “always be ascertained.” 40 As the Manual discussed the demon worship in detail, it also incorporated the village goddess who “protected the village from sickness and disaster” in the category of superior demons, who, it stated, had attained the “rank of deities.” 41 Missionary scholars who came after Caldwell on the south Indian scene, such as Samuel Mateer, Wilbur Theodore Elmore, and Henry Whitehead, also followed Caldwell’s conceptual configurations, namely his setting up of dichotomous domains, his arrangement of village goddesses within the paradigm of demonolatry, and his identification of blood sacrifice (along with “devil-dancing”) as a significant trait of the Dravidian religion. Reverend Samuel Mateer, for instance, set apart idolatry of Brahman-centered Hinduism from the worship of “evil and malignant spirits” performed by “natives of Southern India.” While relating the latter with similar forms of “demon worship” prevailing in several parts of the world (such as China, Mongolia, and Siberia), he duly followed Caldwell in delineating its characteristic features as “bloody sacrifices and frantic dances.” 42 Under the category of “demons,” he incorporated several male and female village deities along with spirits and goblins. 43 As he attributed “ignorance” of the natives as a reason for the existence of “mischievous and malignant devils,” he observed: “How sudden and mysterious attacks of such diseases as cholera, small-pox convulsions, and paralysis could, in the established order of things, occur, they knew not.” 44 Expectedly, among the “female demons” listed by him, we find the goddess of smallpox, whose worshipers he ridiculed as “ignorant” and “fanatical”: Closely related to the worship of Pattirakali is that of a class of female demons called “Ammen,” or “mother,”—awful desecration of the sacred term! The

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principal Ammen appears to be a personification of the small-pox, the seeds of which she is said to sow upon the bodies of human beings: she is hence called “Muttaramma,” “the mother of pearls.” When small-pox prevails, unceasing worship is offered to the Ammen. Her ignorant and fanatical worshipers object to take medicines, or use any means for the cure of small-pox, imagining she will be excited to greater vengeance if deprived of her expected prey. 45

Further, in his analysis on blood sacrifice to village deities, Mateer went along with Caldwell in recognizing its affinity with the Christian sentiment or “truth” of “shedding of blood”: The custom in South India is to offer in sacrifice, on important occasions, sheep, goats, fowls, and pigs. Thus even these uninstructed heathens recognise, though in a sadly corrupted and exaggerated form, the great truth—that “without shedding of blood there is no remission of sins.” 46

The latter missionaries and ethnographers, namely, W. T. Elmore (1915) and Henry Whitehead (1921), reinforced the discourse of the distinct identity of the village deities, particularly goddesses, locating them along with demons or malignant spirits within the Dravidian religion in contrast with Brahmanical Hinduism. Elmore noted that the “Dravidian deities . . . are commonly of the female sex, in contrast to the masculine nature of the Hindu gods” and pointed out the characteristic propitiation of the former with bloody or animal sacrifices. 47 He categorically differentiated the Dravidian Sakti, which was “any female ghost” and which had “evil powers” from the Aryan Hindu Sakti, who was the “personification of the energy of the Hindu god in the person of his wife.” 48 Ceremonies or worship of the Dravidian Saktis were propitiatory in nature in order to “prevent their doing some evil.” 49 The village deity, according to Whitehead, belonged to the “pre-Aryan cult of the Dravidian peoples” that was different from the worship of “popular Hindu deities Shiva and Vishnu, and the worship that centres in the great Hindu temples.” 50 Differing from the “philosophic reflection on the universe as a whole,” which was the central tenet of the religion connected with Shiva and Vishnu of Brahmanical Hinduism, the village deities, for him, were connected with “simple facts [such] as cholera, small-pox, and cattle disease.” 51 Whitehead noted that “village deities, with very few exceptions [were] female” unlike the “principal deities of the Hindu pantheon,” who were “male.” 52 The “village deity” was remarkably different from the Hindu deities such as Shiva, whom he called a “world force,” “an interpretation of the universe,” and “the embodiment of a philosophy.” 53 The “village deity,” Whitehead contended, was

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Perundevi Srinivasan nothing more than petty local spirit, tyrannizing over or protecting a small hamlet, occasionally venting spite or her ill-temper on a handful of poor villagers. She inspires fear because of her power to do grievous harm by inflicting diseases and injuries on man and beast when she is offended, but she has no relation to the universe or even to the world: she is the product of fear untouched by philosophic reflection: so she does not draw out any feelings of wonder and admiration, still less of love and gratitude, nor does she lead her worshipers on to any higher ideals of morality. 54

Whitehead considered that the “animal sacrifices with their crude butchery and coarse bloodshed bear witness to a low and unworthy conception” of Dravidian deities and ridiculed shedding blood as “superstition,” “disgusting,” “immoral,” and “madness.” 55 Notwithstanding such criticism, he interlinked the blood sacrifice in goddess worship with the Christian atonement. According to him, underneath the system of blood sacrifice, there was “still the instinctive craving of the human heart for communion with God,” which reflected a “rudimentary religious feeling.” 56 Fear inspired in people by an “ill-tempered, revengeful” goddess was after all “not a bad preparation for a belief in a God of love,” and, indeed, “their fear of evil spirits [was] one reason why the doctrine of an omnipotent God of infinite love appeal[ed] to them with so much force.” 57 In this context, Whitehead saw a similarity between the “need of protection from powerful enemies” felt by Jewish people, espoused in the Jewish Psalms, and the “need of protection against evil spirits” felt by “villagers of South India.” 58 In the equivalence forged between the religious feeling of the Jewish people and of the villagers of South India, Christianity is implied as a next logical step in the evolution of the Dravidian religious culture. It is apparent that Whitehead was a dedicated disciple of Caldwell in constituting an autonomous domain in the name of the Dravidian religion for the village goddesses, cut off from the Aryan divine figures, who were understood as personifications of larger “world forces” (consider Whitehead’s description of Shiva). Once the domain of the “petty local spirits” or goddesses could be constituted as different and autonomous, laying fresh inroads into this domain becomes much easier. A metaphoric phrase— “cutting down the jungle”—used by Whitehead in this context is noteworthy: In the writings of Hindu philosophers and poets there are many noble and inspiring thoughts, but there is nothing in the vast jungle of beliefs and practices that have grown up during the course of ages around the worship of the village deities that the Christian Church could wish to preserve. The first step toward any religious progress in the villages of South India is to cut down this jungle of beliefs and practices, rites and ceremonies, and clear the ground for the teaching and worship of the Christian Church. 59

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Severing the domain of the goddesses from “noble and inspiring thoughts” facilitates the articulation of this domain as a shapeless, dangerous jungle, and “cutting down” this jungle and “clearing the ground” allude to the act of civilizing. Through aligning the practices of the local goddess worship with the “jungle,” and therefore with uncontrolled nature, the European civilization’s role and responsibility in taming or correcting this unruly nature are validated. The image of the jungle also brings to the mind the description of Hinduism by orientalists such as Sir Charles Eliot (1862–1931) in the colonial period, cited and discussed by Ronald Inden. 60 Inden pointed out the colonial construction of Hindu thought as “disorderly,” “sponge-like,” and “feminine” in opposition to Western, “world-ordering,” male, post-enlightenment rationality. 61 Further, as the early nineteenth-century notion of singularly Aryan ancestry of Indian and Hindu institutions gave way to the conception of these institutions as an “outcome of interaction between a higher Aryan and lower pre-Aryan races,” this interaction was also conceptualized as the one between the abstract and the concrete, represented as the masculine and the feminine principles respectively. 62 Inden considers the orientalist Gustav Oppert’s (1836–1908) observations, for instance: Oppert, who discussed the “development of Hinduism as the result of the interaction” between the Aryan and the pre-Aryan, Gauda-Dravidians, stated that the former revered the “Forces of Nature, while the latter adored the Manifestations of the Forces of Nature.” 63 For Oppert, the Aryan thought not only “manifested the tendency toward abstractness” and the pre-Aryan or non-Aryan thought displayed a “predilection toward concreteness,” but the “distinction” between the two systems of thought “expresses the gulf which separates the Male from the Female principle and it explains the superiority in position and conception maintained by the Aryan over the non-Aryan deities.” 64 Inden noted that such construction of Hinduism, predicated on the interaction between the Aryan and the pre-Aryan/Dravidian, entailed a “shift” in the colonial discourse about the “mind of India, as exemplified in Hinduism”: this “mind,” previously associated with the “masculine Aryan mentality” and considered “on par with that of the [European] Self,” was now predominantly identified as the “feminine Dravidian mind,” that was “fundamentally Other.” 65 With this “shift,” the “jungle” of Hinduism was imagined to comprise “Dravidian plants” or “primitive, emotional, violent elements” of “Aryanized Dravidians,” which by nature required to be “managed” or “taken care of.” 66 In the colonial ethnographies on south Indian religion, the “feminine” nature of the Dravidian realm was explicit since it comprised predominantly female deities. At the same time, this realm was not constructed as primarily “Other” to the European “Self” that was articulated in the “civilizational” rhetoric promoting Christianity. Rather, the Dravidian realm was forged as the one similar in kind (in terms of religious sentiment of blood sacrifice),

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but ignorant or misplaced in spirit (since the “Dravidian sacrifice” did not commemorate the Christian God, but was addressed to demons) in relation to Christianity. Conceived as a realm, distorted in relation to or preparatory to Christianity, the Dravidian realm was not identified as an alien Other, rather as a “lost” or “primitive” kin of the Self anchored in Christianity. The need of the time, therefore, was not that of “maintaining” the Dravidian “jungle,” but it was to “clear” the “jungle” and/or deploy its material to establish the “proper” religious culture. Reverend Samuel Mateer wrote about an instance of the felling of an old timber tree on a mountain in Travancore for using it in the “erection of the large chapel at Neyoor.” 67 The tree was “so large that four men with outstretched arms could not compass it.” 68 It was one among several others, which were thought to be abodes of Dravidian “demons,” and felling these trees was considered to be “sacrilegious” and “dangerous” by natives. 69 Mateer’s account on felling of the tree illustrates the literal enactment of “cutting down the jungle” (see Whitehead, discussed before) and the deployment of the jungle-material for “erecting” the Christian chapel: This tree was supposed to be the abode of a very powerful spirit. . . . Several rude stones of small size were placed at the base of the tree and worshiped. It was the blood and ashes and other manure deposited there on sacrificial and festival occasions that had nourished and so wonderfully enlarged this colossal tree. . . . While engaged in the work of felling it, the missionary and workmen saw a monstrous tiger at a short distance looking at them; but on their shouting and making a great noise he walked slowly away. Had any of the people been seized by this tiger, it would certainly have been ascribed to the wrath of the demon; but the providence of God graciously preserved them from all danger. The mountaineers firmly refused to assist in cutting down the tree, so that they had to bring Christian workmen from a considerable distance. At last the tree fell with a terrible crash, which echoed among the surrounding mountains, amidst the screams and cries of the heathen, who from that time seemed to listen more readily to the exhortations of the missionary. Much of the woodwork of the chapel was made of this single tree; so that what had formerly been used in the service of the devil now became subservient to the worship of the one true and living God. 70

While Christianity, as a civilized institution, could be erected once the “jungle” in the form of the Dravidian realm of village deities/goddesses was cleared, it was also conceived to be a strategic tool that could facilitate the enterprise of clearing and civilizing it. In Mateer’s narrative, in cutting down the larger tree, a microcosm of the “jungle,” the religion of the workmen played a significant role. We can also remember Caldwell’s observation that the spread of Christianity along with modern education worked toward the obliteration of “demon worship.” At the same time, through the image of the “jungle” the Dravidian realm is formulated as a formidable challenge, despite its vulnerability to the European “civilizing mission.” Unexpected dangers

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lurk in the “jungle.” Mateer described the sudden frightful appearance of the tiger as the tree was being chopped. Yet, the “providence of God,” according to him, protected the Christian workmen and the missionary from danger. The difficulty and vulnerability advanced in and through the Dravidian realm of village deities or goddesses, as exemplified in the image of the “jungle” in the writings of Mateer and Whitehead, to the “civilizing mission,” in general, marked the ethnographic scholarship on goddesses. For instance, even though Caldwell expressed the hope that with the spread of Christianity together with modern education, the “demonology” had become a thing of the past, complaints and details about how people still perceived poxes as the “sport” or “pastime” of the goddess proliferate in his narrative. In Whitehead’s scholarship as well, a similar double dynamic persists: while his work paid attention to the propagation of the Christian church, several chapters of it were dedicated to variegated worship practices related to goddesses including Mariyamman in south India. On the one hand, this double dynamic was coded with a wishful idea that the European civilization, especially in the form of Christianity (and often together with modern education system from Europe) would disempower the deities of the Dravidian realm (including the “demonic” or “cruel” smallpox goddess), and undermine their importance; and on the other, the discourse was marked by the necessity to acknowledge and report, albeit in a critical manner, the challenge standing in the way, that is, the popularity of the “native” practices of worship and the sway they held over people. This double dynamic of the ethnographic discourses is pertinent, for a similar double dynamic characterizes another body of knowledge on Mariyamman, namely the discourses of public health administration of smallpox vaccination in south India. Modern smallpox vaccination was introduced in India and in Madras Presidency at the beginning of the nineteenth century, roughly around the same period in which the “shift” in the colonial scene took place, with “demonism” dominating the discursive realm of Dravidian religion. It would be worthwhile to explore how and to what extent this “scientific” intervention, introduced in the colonial context as a gesture of medical benevolence, reinforced the discursive field of knowledge about Mariyamman worship. VACCINATION: GOVERNMENT’S PEARLS In the course of my exploration of the encounter between goddess worship and colonial medical intervention in the form of vaccination, I chanced to find a satirical comment on the reluctance of the people of Thanjavur to undergo vaccination, which was published in Anandavikatan, a Tamil magazine, in 1934. Under the heading of a news column, “What Is Special,” a

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journalist writing under the pseudonym “Vambu” (Gossip) remarks: “The Municipality has issued notices that as ammai is prevalent here, everyone should undergo revaccination, failing which they will be prosecuted. People who have no faith in this have decided to pay to the Bench Court what they have set aside to give as offering to Mariyamman.” 71 While the brief remark in Anandavikatan conveyed the people’s mood of resistance to compulsory vaccination with a tinge of humor, an article in English by V. V. Ramanan in “The Siddhanta Deepika or the Light of Truth,” published three decades earlier, had discussed the same phenomenon in a more serious manner. “The Smallpox Goddess,” published by him, in two installments in June 1900 and May 1902, introduced the smallpox goddess as one of the “rural demons” guarding the village during nights to fend off pestilential diseases and showed how “the orthodox villager” was reluctant to undergo vaccination. The following is an excerpt from the article relating to vaccination: The European nations avoid the contagion by dreading and fleeing from it [smallpox], while the Hindu courts it from the superstitious fear that he provokes the wrath of “Mari” in case he does not willingly place himself under her “merciful sway,” when there is an opportunity. The small-pox may be raging in a village and may be carrying off men and women as victims in large numbers, yet the Hindu will hardly dare to hear any advice coming from a sanitary or vaccination inspector as to the ready means of keeping it in check. Instances are not uncommon when a vaccination inspector visits a village with his “lymph” and “lancet,” while the Brahmans try to send him away with bribes. They do not want the Englishmen’s “false-pearls,” for to see counterfeit things smuggled into her port will excite Mari to greater anger and she may “play away” then with the population only too heartily. Such is the belief of the orthodox villager toward vaccination. 72

Ramanan’s description of people’s resistance to vaccination in terms of “counterfeit” and “false pearls” (in contrast with the “genuine” pearls of the goddess in the form of pustules on the skin of the afflicted individual) demands a close reading. In fact, almost fifty years prior to the publication of Ramanan’s article, in the Report on Vaccination, 1856, Assistant Apothecary R. Donaldson, circuit superintendent of vaccination, Salem District, had articulated people’s resistance to vaccination in an analogous manner. Here, the vaccine is described not as “false” pearls but as “the Sircar’s smallpox”: There cannot be a doubt that in many places the people do not care for vaccination, some being simply indifferent and apathetic, while others look with dread on the operation, considering it irreligious to take any means for preventing an affliction that comes from their gods, and say they prefer the disease thus sent, to what they call the Sircar’s [government’s] smallpox. 73

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In the Tamil context of poxes, “pearls of ammai” alludes to the pustules that erupt on the skin of those afflicted by the disease. Moreover, both smallpox and vaccine are denoted by the term ammai, which helps make sense of the phrase, “the Sircar’s smallpox” and which explicates why the vaccine is also conceived as “false” or “counterfeit” pearls as against the “true” pearls of smallpox, “provided by” the goddess. The role of cultural practices organized around “local” religion or goddess worship in articulating “indigenous” resistance to smallpox vaccination in colonial India has been discussed by scholars: Religious worship of the goddess is listed by Arnold as one among the several other reasons, such as alienation of vaccinators from the community, unwillingness to expose women to vaccinators, and failure rates of vaccination, that provoked resistance to vaccination. Nevertheless, Arnold contends that goddess worship still played a major role against vaccination. According to Arnold, “the greatest objection to vaccination was its raw secularity.” 74 Contrary to this view is Mark Harrison’s observation: for him, the “historian may have placed too much emphasis upon cultural reasons for resistance to vaccination” in India. 75 Harrison argues, “Indians feared the procedure for the same reasons as people in Europe: namely, that it was painful and sometimes gave rise to secondary infections.” 76 Moreover, because of the hot climate of the tropical region, which rendered the vaccine often ineffective, multiple scars were sometimes inflicted on the body, and this increased “fears of infection and disfigurement” among Indians. 77 For Frederique Apffel Marglin, resistance to vaccination in India was “essentially of a political nature” clothed in “religious garb” and she observes that people resisted the way in which the alien practice was imposed on them more than the practice itself. 78 Vaccination abolished the indigenous variolation, which was affordable and effective. Moreover, the logocentric perspective of health as absence of disease underlying the practice of vaccination was against the non-logocentric, popular conception of health and life which viewed the goddess as “both the presence and the absence of the disease.” 79 And, therefore, Marglin argues that the resistance “voiced in the language of ‘the anger of the goddess’s should be read as a sign of political resistance to the logocentric, authoritarian, top-down disciplinarian activities of the government.” 80 The arguments and observations as above pertain to the geographical contexts of northern and northeastern India. The Tamil situation might be somewhat, if not altogether, different because traditional ritualized variolation was quite rare in Tamilnadu. Hence, there is no question of erasure of a traditional mode of knowledge with the advent of vaccination in Tamilnadu, nor could the resistance to vaccination be attributed to the presence of indigenous variolation as was the case with other places in India. Among various scholars who have worked on the history of smallpox vaccination in colonial India, Brimnes alone deals with the materials from the Madras Presidency

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and the Tamil realm. Precisely due to this, I consider his idea that since the field of cultural practices (such as goddess worship) “could be altered or even abolished through reform and ‘progress,’” the notion of “civilizing mission” in the form of vaccination “made sense” to the colonial authorities, as more problematic; 81 for the cultural practice of reverence to the “smallpox goddess” was not perceived by the colonial public health administration in Tamilnadu as a simple factor to reckon with. Despite the hope expressed by the public health administration that eventually European modern education and actual experience would bring the people over to the side of “scientific” vaccine, goddess worship also emerged in the discourses as a formidable obstacle impeding vaccination. I understand the need to proceed with caution in locating the significance of Mariyamman worship within the framework of people’s resistance to the project of vaccination. I take note of Brimnes’s observation that the resistance in Tamilnadu appears to be based on specific and “local conditions” which cannot be drawn into any particular pattern. 82 According to him, the British did not bother to explore the heterogeneous factors behind the resistance, and instead subsumed all the factors under the rubric of “static and traditional” nature of Indian society. 83 He moreover noted that “reducing the diverse and specific reasons Indians had to oppose immunization to abstract notions of indigenous prejudice and superstition helped the British to envisage the campaign against smallpox as a civilizing mission.” 84 A few vaccination reports did speak of the presence or decline of “prejudice,” “superstition,” and “apathy” among the people when they discussed popular response to the vaccine. For example, one of the earliest reports on vaccination, Report on Vaccination throughout the Presidency and Provinces of Madras for the Year 1854, indicated that “native prejudice” had mostly “abated,” and only “apathy” exerted a “most baneful influence” against the “diffusion of this blessing” of the vaccine in the country. It also observed that this apathy would be eventually surmounted through “the power of education, in enlightening the mind and intellect of the people.” 85 Earlier, a vaccination report for the year 1853 had also advanced a similar view that “popular prejudice [was] disappearing,” whereas “indifference and apathy operate[d] almost as injuriously to its [vaccination’s] spread.” 86 It further admitted that only after people experience the protection given by the vaccine, they would be “willing to receive” as well as “diffuse” the remedy. 87 Another vaccination report for the year 1857 pointed out that both “native prejudices” and “native apathy” existed; but it expressed hope that only with the dissemination of education, and as the community “[got] enlightened,” the vaccination project might succeed. 88 It is possible that people’s resistance to vaccination on various grounds were subsumed under the overarching terms of “prejudice” and “apathy” by the British administration. It is also probable that even impediments caused

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by factors such as sheer institutional inefficiencies on the part of the government machinery, shortage of vaccine, funds and human resources, lack of coordination between government departments in charge of vaccination, and other heterogeneous local factors could have been misrepresented by attributing them to the “prejudice” of the natives. It also cannot be denied that in their encounters with administrative authorities, people could have resorted to the reference of their “religion” in general and/or of the goddess in particular as a calculated strategy or as a desperate attempt to escape vaccination for their own reasons, ranging from their perception of it as an “alien” and unfamiliar practice on the body to their fear of its occasional adverse effects or the pain and inconvenience it caused. We can never access the minds of a past era in a foolproof manner, nor can we now retrospectively connect in an authentic way the patterns of resistance to specific motives, which people or medical officials were supposed to have harbored in those times. The story has many narrators, and there might have been as many plots. While all these possibilities might stand in the way of ascertaining why goddess worship was reported in official records in a particular fashion(s) in the colonial period, these constraints need not hinder us from understanding how the goddess was represented vis-à-vis the “civilizing mission,” articulated in terms of the vaccine as the medical “blessing” in the colonial archives. Various official records, such as reports, discussions, and correspondences, meant for sharing among the colonial authorities, did not refrain from openly referring to goddess worship in their discussion on the progress of the vaccination project. For instance, in The Report on Vaccination throughout the Presidency and Provinces of Madras for the Year 1856, in which extracts from annual reports by the local superintendents of vaccination were gathered, a superintendent cited an objection made by people resisting the vaccination: “We have no faith in vaccination, and we would rather [let] our children take the smallpox, and leave the rest with our Maareetha [Mariyamman] to dispose of as she thinks proper.” 89 Another superintendent remarked that in his jurisdiction there prevailed a “superstition” that “an idol supposed to preside over smallpox” existed and by submitting to vaccination, the “idol” would be offended. 90 Similarly, in Report on Vaccination throughout the Presidency and Provinces of Madras for the year 1858, worship of the goddess, phrased as “superstitious reverence,” was included as one of the reasons that “retard the diffusion of blessings” of vaccination. 91 Even seventy years after the introduction of vaccination in India, the colonial government authorities were contemplating whether “religious prejudice” would stand in the way of a strict implementation of the vaccination project, which, in a way, attests that a cloud of uncertainty over dealing with cultural practices was still in place. In 1872, the inspector general, in his proposal to the secretary to the government for a new scheme that envisaged giving money (two annas) instead of rice as batta to encourage those under-

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going vaccination, proposed that a trial run of the scheme might help the government to decide on the question of “religious prejudice.” 92 A few years later, a colonial manual related to Trichy District expressed how the prospects of public employment, which required the production of a vaccination certificate, had overcome the “objections” related to the “goddess Mari.” 93 Notwithstanding this optimistic note, the manual foregrounded the fact that since the year 1857 smallpox had been absent from Trichy for only one year, and regretfully complained: “Indeed no other result than its constant presence can be looked for, when it is remembered that its [smallpox’s] appearance is esteemed by Natives as a visitation sent by the goddess Mari, which it would be impious to attempt to resist. With a system such as this what is to be expected?” 94 The attractive financial incentives or material benefits to inhabitants did not seem to have impressed the natives. In the 1880s, the colonial authorities observed that the vaccination project had not made strong inroads into people’s lives and, again, the “goddess of smallpox” was regarded as a major obstruction to reckon with. For example, the Manual of the Administration of the Madras Presidency (1886) in its “Sketch History of Government Sanitation in the Presidency-Vaccine Department” noted: The Medical Board writing in 1807 observed prejudices have led the natives to suspect even the benevolent intentions of Government, from the anxiety that was shown to diffuse vaccination, and caused them to attach to it many foolish intentions. It is to be regretted that even after three-quarters of a century, these prejudices still exist among the masses of the people. One of the chief objections brought forward to vaccination was that Mauriamma [Mariyamman], the goddess of small-pox, would be offended if artificial means were adopted to avert the malady. 95

It is to be noted that as soon as the Manual refers to “prejudices,” it first lists the worship of Mariyamman, rendering it as a prejudice. Such a mode of narration tells us that even if Mariyamman worship was not overtly mentioned in other colonial records, the practice could have been subsumed within the overarching catchphrases, like “native” or religious “prejudices” and “superstitions” used commonly in them. 96 Nearly three decades after such remarks, the issue of the goddess still remained unresolved in the realm of public health administration. In The Report of the King Institute of Preventive Medicine for the year 1912–1913, we find a letter by Captain O. A. E. Berkeley Hill, the inspector of vaccination and deputy sanitary commissioner in the Madras Presidency, which expressed the struggle of the colonial vaccination project owing to a “stifling load of misconception of which the [Indian] tendency to regard all manifestations of disease as an expression of Divine wrath.” 97 Similarly, Report on Vaccination in the Madras Presidency for the Year 1923–1924 referred to a communication between a Taluk officer

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and the district health officer, Ganjam, in which the former has reported that people of two villages under his charge had refused to be vaccinated and they had “thought that smallpox was due to the influence of a Goddess and that vaccination would only incense her.” 98 It is obvious from the above references that as in the case of ethnographic narratives a double dynamic operates in the public health discourses of vaccination as well: occasionally these discourses are imbued with hope that cultural notions and practices associated with the smallpox goddess would soon be abandoned by the natives with their actual experience with the efficacy of the smallpox vaccine and/or with the spread of “scientific enlightenment” through modern education. At the same time, they also clearly strike a pessimistic note when they identify the cultural notions and practices as a difficult terrain to traverse and often attribute the ineffectuality of the vaccination project to them. CONCLUSION This chapter has outlined how in the colonial ethnographic and public health discourses in south India during the eighteenth and early twentieth centuries, village goddess worship was not construed as an easy field through which the European “civilizing mission” with its emphasis on “reform” and “progress” of natives would meet with success. In the ethnographic discourses, especially in the scholarship of Caldwell through Mateer, Elmore, and Whitehead, village deities or Ammans, including Mariyamman, came to be identified with demons or devils belonging to the realm of the Dravidian in contrast to the realm of Brahmanical, Aryan deities. This “unruly” Dravidian realm of demons and devils, disconnected from the “superior” Aryan religion and metaphorically visualized as a “jungle,” was deemed to need “civilizational” intervention through the dissemination of the “higher” religion of Christianity and the spread of enlightenment through modern education based on European models. In the ethnographic discourses, worship practices—particularly animal sacrifice or blood sacrifice performed toward deities of the Dravidian realm—were condemned as superstitious and base. Yet, a strong connection was forged between the Dravidian realm and Christianity based upon a purported “rudimentary” religious sentiment that was said to underscore both the Dravidian blood sacrifice and the Christian notion of sacrifice. This connection facilitated the discursive formulation of the Dravidian realm well-prepared for and receptive to the Christian gospel. The Dravidian, “demonolatrous” religion was thus constituted not so much as the “Other” of the European self anchored in Christianity, but, rather, as a “lost” or “primitive” kin of the latter.

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In the ethnographic discourses, the “civilizational reform” was visualized as a project of clearing the “unruly jungle” of the Dravidian realm, “lost” in wilderness and waiting for evolution in terms of its religious culture. However, a double dynamic, marked with both hope and despair, characterized the project, since practices of worship of village deities, while regarded tractable to the “civilizing” project, were also considered unwieldy. In the discourses, notwithstanding the projection of an optimistic perspective that deities of the Dravidian realm would soon be dethroned and the “jungle” of “superstitious” practices cleared, popularity of the village deity cults and their persistent influence over the people had to be admitted time and again. In the domain of colonial public health administration, a similar double dynamic characterized the discourses of the smallpox vaccination project. As in the case of ethnographic discourses, worship practices associated with Mariyamman emerged here as susceptible and yet challenging to the civilizational rhetoric that underscored the “scientific” smallpox vaccine. The goddess worship is thus constituted as an episteme of ambiguity in the ethnographic and public health discourses. It is pertinent to note that the discursive feature of ambiguity was resourcefully deployed in the colonial propaganda for disseminating the smallpox vaccine: while the susceptibility component of the episteme was creatively manipulated by articulating the smallpox vaccine as one of the forms or manifestations of the goddess Mariyamman, the challenge component was circumvented by representing her as an ultimate authority even over the newly introduced “scientific” vaccine in the subcontinent. Such an inclusive strategy of taking in the goddess worship in the dissemination of the vaccine was anticipated earlier, among others, by none other than Dubois, the missionary-ethnographer and vaccinator, and the strategy was later adopted through some significant strands of colonial propaganda to promote the smallpox vaccine in the early twentieth century. In his letter addressed to the medical board and the governor in council in the year 1804, meant to be later circulated among the district collectors, as Dubois was expressing the difficulties he had to face as a vaccinator due to the cultural worship of Mariyamman, he suggested a way to deal with the “difficulty” in convincing the natives of the benefits of vaccination: 99 I am persuaded that this difficulty however serious, will soon give way, and when more experience has convinced the inhabitants of the advantages of vaccination they will easily persuade themselves that Mariama [Mariyamman] herself has chosen this new mild mode, to make her appearance among them, and has preferred it to her former hideous and loathsome form, and then vaccination as is the case with every institution shall triumph over every obstacle and become as general. 100 (emphasis mine)

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Dubois, thus, was of the view that the acceptance of the vaccine by the natives would not be based on their consideration of it as a product of the European medical science as such; rather, it would be accepted by them as a form, albeit a milder one, of their deity. Moreover, he conceived that even the “experience” that the natives gain through the merits of vaccination would not render it as an “experience” of the civilizational benevolence of Europe; rather, their “experience” would still draw its meaning from and be located within the paradigm of their cultural practices of worshiping the deity of smallpox. The strategy laid out by Dubois should not be regarded as an idiosyncratic notion of an individual, for a similar idea had persisted among colonial administrators of the Madras Presidency at his time. 101 Later, during the early twentieth century, the goddess was given positive attention in the governmental campaign of vaccination to the public, proving the insightfulness of the observations of Dubois. Although it cannot be asserted that this strategy of negotiating with the goddess’s worship in promoting the vaccine was always adopted throughout the course of the colonial vaccination project, we do get evidence that this strategy was definitely present as a significant strand in the propaganda of vaccination. 102 This accommodative spirit on the part of the colonial discourses, as brought forth by and exemplified in Dubois’s observations, makes good sense, considering how popular the worship of Mariyamman is even today in Tamilnadu in connection with the various prevalent afflictions of ammai, such as chickenpox and measles, in the post-smallpox era. NOTES 1. This chapter draws substantially on chapter 1 of my unpublished dissertation. Perundevi Srinivasan, “Stories of the Flesh: Colonial and Anthropological Discourses on the South Indian Goddess Mariyamman” (PhD diss., The George Washington University, 2009), 31–68. 2. David Arnold, Colonizing the Body: State Medicine and Epidemic Disease in Nineteenth-Century India (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1993), 144. 3. Ibid., 157. 4. Niels Brimnes, “The Sympathizing Heart and the Healing Hand: Smallpox Prevention and Medical Benevolence in Early Colonial South India,” in Colonialism as Civilizing Mission: Cultural Ideology in British India, ed. Harald Fischer-Tine and Michael Mann (London: Anthem, 2004), 195. 5. Ibid. 6. Niels Brimnes, “Variolation, Vaccination and Popular Resistance in Early Colonial South India,” Medical History 48 (2004): 216–17. 7. Brimnes, “Sympathizing Heart,” 195. 8. Robert Caldwell, “On Demonolatry in Southern India,” Journal of the Anthropological Society of Bombay 1.1 (1886): 91. 9. Robert Caldwell, A Comparative Grammar of the Dravidian or South-Indian Family of Languages (London: Harrison, 1856), 519. 10. Caldwell, “On Demonolatry,” 100. 11. Ibid., 93.

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12. Ulrike Schröder, “No Religion, but Ritual? Robert Caldwell and The Tinnevelly Shanars,” in Ritual, Caste, and Religion in Colonial South India, ed. Michael Bergunder, Heiko Frese, and Ulrike Schröder (Halle: Verlag der Frankeschen Stiftungen zu Halle, 2010), 143–44. 13. Ibid., 144. 14. Caldwell, “On Demonolatry,” 94. 15. For a different viewpoint, see discussions in Schröder, “No Religion,” 144–47. Schröder considers that the “opposition” between Brahmanism and “demonolatry” advanced by Caldwell in his earlier writings was less emphasized in his article on “demonolatry” (144). According to her, revising his earlier stance, Caldwell attempted in his article to “re-integrate the system of demonolatry into a broader concept of Hinduism,” and in this he was influenced by Monier-Williams’s consideration of “demon-worship” forming “an integral part of Hinduism” (144). Further, she adds that since “Shanars/Nadars” had protested against Caldwell’s notion that their religion did not form part of Hinduism, his earlier position could have changed. Schröder also refers to Caldwell’s statement attesting to his revised standpoint: “In fact, a belief in every kind of demoniacal influence has always been, from the earliest times, an essential ingredient in Hindu religious thought” (Caldwell, “On Demonolatry,” 92; cited in Schröder, “No Religion,” 145). Nevertheless, in the same article, Caldwell has argued: “The worship of these local devils, though tolerated and even encouraged by Brahmans, was not brought to the South by them, but was probably the religion of the aborigines long before the arrival of the Brahmans, or even before the arrival of their Dravidian predecessors. The element of demonology, which is contained in the Puranic system, appears to have been borrowed from this old Dravidian superstition. The Buddhists of Ceylon most probably borrowed their demonolatry from the Dravidians of the old Pandya kingdom; if so, it cannot be unreasonable to suppose that it was from the same, or a similar source, that the Brahmans borrowed the demoniacal element contained in their religion” (Caldwell, “On Demonolatry,” 95). Hence, Caldwell’s retraction of his earlier stance, namely, the “opposition of Brahmanism and demonolatry,” in the article seems doubtful to me. 16. Robert Caldwell, The Tinnevelly Shanars: A Sketch of Their Religion, and Their Moral Condition and Characteristics, as a Caste; With Special Reference to the Facilities and Hindrances to the Progress of Christianity among Them (Madras: SPCK, 1849), 21. 17. Ibid., 7. 18. Schröder, “No Religion,” 147. 19. Caldwell, The Tinnevelly Shanars, 9. 20. Ibid. 21. Ibid. 22. See Bartholomaeus Ziegenbalg, Genealogy of the South-Indian Gods (1869; repr., New Delhi: Unity Book Service, 1984), 6–7. A four-tier hierarchy was drawn by Ziegenbalg in his classification of Hindu deities, and as he included Mariyamman as one of the “Gramadevatas” at the third level of the hierarchy, he clearly distinguished her from “malignant beings,” such as “demons,” “Bhutas,” “Rakshasas,” and “Asuras.” Also see Pierre Sonnerat, A Voyage to the East-Indies and China (Calcutta: Stuart and Cooper, 1788–1789), 64–65, where he classified goddesses including Mariyamman as “Demi-Gods” of Indians, placing them below the Trimurti. Sonnerat called goddesses the “protectresses of the cities” and “tutelary divinities” and made a clear distinction between them and “the giants” or “the bad genii.” Ibid. 23. For example, see Sonnerat, Voyage, 65. 24. Sylvia Murr, L’Inde philosophique entre Bossuet et Voltaire, Vol. I: Moeurs et coutumes des Indiens (1777), and Vol. II: l’Indologie du père Coeurdoux. Strategies, Apologetique et Scientificité (Paris: Ecole Francaise d’Extrême Orient, 1987), quoted in Catherine Cornille, “Missionary Views of Hinduism,” Journal of Hindu-Christian Studies 21 (2008), Art. 9: 29, 31. 25. Cornille, “Missionary Views,” 29. 26. According to Henry K. Beauchamp, his translator, editor, and biographer, Dubois left France for India in 1792 and lived in India until the years 1822–1823. Dubois seems to have completed the first manuscript of this book in 1806, which was returned to him in the year 1815 so that he could make necessary revisions and corrections. He submitted a first revision of his work in the year 1818, and another re-revised version three years later to the Madras govern-

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ment. For these details see Henry K. Beauchamp, editor’s introduction to Hindu Manners, Customs and Ceremonies, by J. A. Dubois, trans. from the author’s later French manuscript, edited with notes, corrections, and biography by Henry K. Beauchamp (Oxford: Clarendon, 1906), viii–xxviii. 27. Ibid., xi–xii. Beauchamp points out that Dubois was granted a special pension by the East Indian Company for his role in promoting the smallpox vaccine among the people. 28. Dubois’s list included the Trimurti (Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva), Vigneshwara, Indra, and the Ashta-Tik-Palakas (“guardians of the eight directions”) through the animals, bird, snakes, and fish to Bhootams (evil spirits) and inanimate objects. See J. A. Dubois, Hindu Manners, Customs and Ceremonies, trans. from the author’s later French manuscript, edited with notes, corrections, and biography by Henry K. Beauchamp (Oxford: Clarendon, 1906), 612–48. 29. Ibid., 599. 30. Ibid., 597–8. 31. Caldwell, “On Demonolatry,” 94. 32. See Stuart Blackburn, Print, Folklore, and Nationalism in Colonial South India (Delhi: Permanent Black, 2003), 93. Also, see Thomas R. Trautmann, Languages and Nations: The Dravidian Proof in Colonial Madras (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 75–76. 33. David Scott, Formations of Ritual: Colonial and Anthropological Discourses on the Sinhala Yaktovil (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1994), 158. 34. Ibid. 35. Ibid. 36. Ibid. 37. Ibid. 38. Ibid., 159. 39. Schröder observes that Caldwell’s “theories” on south Indian culture and religion “underwent a considerable development between the 1840’s and 1880’s” and notes that “while he observed from the beginning the difference between the ‘orthodox system’ of the Brahmans and the local religious practices of the lower castes in Tirunelveli, which were depreciated as ‘devil-worship’ by the missionaries, in his later accounts he separated the Shanars / Nadars, and subsequently the Dravidians, on the basis of linguistic, racial, and particularly religious arguments from the dominant Brahmans / Aryans.” See Schröder, “No Religion,” 140. 40. Manual of the Administration of the Madras Presidency, vol. I (Madras: Government Press, 1886), 76–77. 41. Ibid., 81. 42. Samuel Mateer, “The Land of Charity”: A Descriptive Account of Travancore and Its People with Especial Reference to Missionary Labour (London: John Snow & Co., 1871), 191; 214. 43. Ibid., 193–201. 44. Ibid., 192. 45. Ibid., 200–201. 46. Ibid., 214. 47. Wilbur Theodore Elmore, Dravidian Gods in Modern Hinduism: A Study of the Local and Village Deities of Southern India (Hamilton, NY: Author, 1915), 18. 48. Ibid., 145, 39–40. 49. Ibid., 40. 50. Henry Whitehead, The Village Gods of South India (1921; repr., Delhi: Sumit Publications, 1976), 16–17. 51. Ibid., 17. 52. Ibid. 53. Ibid., 153. 54. Ibid. 55. Ibid., 152. 56. Ibid., 155–56. 57. Ibid., 156.

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58. Ibid. 59. Ibid., 154, emphasis mine. 60. Ronald Inden, Imagining India (Oxford: Blackwell, 1990), 86. 61. Ibid., 86–87. 62. Ibid., 119–20. 63. Gustav Salomon Oppert, On the Original Inhabitants of Bharatvarsa or India (1893; repr. New York: Arno, 1978), 553–54, quoted in Inden, Imagining India, 120. 64. Ibid. Falling in line with missionary scholars like Caldwell, Oppert also observed that the “veneration of the female energy is of non-Aryan origin” and categorized the female deities of the village as those pertaining to the “non-Aryan population of India.” Oppert, On the Original Inhabitants of Bharatvarsa or India, 412, 450, 503. Further, he regarded village goddesses and the male deity Aiyanar as “fallen angels,” and even though, according to him, the “influence” of these “fallen angels” is “not malignant,” he still placed them together with “evil spirits” in the non-Aryan realm. Ibid., 454, 457. 65. Inden, Imagining India, 120–21. 66. Ibid., 121. 67. Mateer, “The Land of Charity,” 206. 68. Ibid., 207. 69. Ibid., 206. 70. Ibid., 207. 71. Anandavikatan, April 24, 1934, 16. 72. V. V. Ramanan, “The Smallpox Goddess,” The Siddhanta Deepika or the Light of Truth 5 (June 1901–May 1902): 142. 73. Report on Vaccination throughout the Presidency and Provinces of Madras (Madras: Government Press, 1856), 40. 74. Arnold, Colonizing the Body, 143. 75. Mark Harrison, Disease and the Modern World: 1500 to the Present Day (Cambridge, UK; Malden, MA: Polity, 2004), 96. 76. Ibid. 77. Ibid. 78. See Frederique Apffel Marglin, “Smallpox in Two Systems of Knowledge,” in Dominating Knowledge: Development, Culture, and Resistance, ed. Frederique Apffel Marglin and Stephen A.Marglin (Oxford: Clarendon, 1990), 116–20. 79. Ibid., 120. 80. Ibid., 120. 81. Brimnes, “Sympathizing Heart,” 195. 82. Ibid., 201. 83. Ibid., 202. 84. Ibid., 203. 85. Report on Vaccination throughout the Presidency and Provinces of Madras (Madras: Government Press, 1854), 3. 86. For a reference to Report on Vaccination throughout the Presidency and Provinces of Madras (Madras: Government Press, 1853), see Madras Public Consultations, Vol. 933, 5473. 87. Ibid., 5474. 88. Report on Vaccination throughout the Presidency and Provinces of Madras (Madras: Government Press, 1857), 3. 89. Report on Vaccination throughout the Presidency and Provinces of Madras (Madras: Government Press, 1856), 9. 90. Ibid. 91. Report on Vaccination throughout the Presidency and Provinces of Madras (Madras: Government Press, 1858), 3. 92. GO No. 533, Proc. of the Madras Government, Public Department, April 24, 1872. 93. See Madras District Manuals: Trichy (Madras: Government Press, 1878). In a footnote, the manual expressed: “Vaccination is fairly well received by the Natives, especially the poorer classes, who are induced to submit to it by the batta of 2 Annas allowed for each person. Any objections that caste Natives, Brahmans and the well-to-do classes, might urge toward prevent-

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ing the access of the goddess Mari to their bodies, are fairly put aside by the fact of it being necessary for them to produce a certificate of vaccination when applying for public employment.” 94. Ibid., 91. 95. See Manual of the Administration of the Madras Presidency, 512. 96. In colonial reports on vaccination we do encounter phrases, such as “religious prejudices,” Report on Vaccination, 1856, 5; “religious superstitions,” Report on Vaccination, 1857, 8; Report on Vaccination, 1856, 29; and “native prejudice,” Report on Vaccination, 1854, 3. Brimnes also notes that a “standard phrase” that formed part of the “vocabulary” of the colonial vaccination campaign was “indigenous prejudice and superstition.” Brimnes, “Variolation, Vaccination, and Popular Resistance,” 217. 97. Report of the King Institute of Preventive Medicine (Madras: Government Press, 1912–1913), 16–17. 98. Report on Vaccination in the Madras Presidency (Madras: Government Press, 1923–1924), 4. 99. See Coimbatore District Records, Volume 565, 173–81. 100. Ibid., 177–78, emphasis mine. 101. For example, Francis Whyte Ellis (1777–1819), collector of Madras, wrote a text titled “The Legend of the Cowpox,” in Tamil, which he himself later translated into English, in the same period. See Trautmann, Languages and Nations, 231. The narrative, written in the form of a conversation between the goddess and the divine physician-sage Dhanvantari, presented the vaccine as a “virtue” infused by the goddess of death into cows, and constructed the goddess as the one who disseminated knowledge about this “virtue” to the divine physician for the benefit of the people. 102. For more information on this, see “Mariyamman as the Source of the Smallpox Vaccine,” chapter 2 in Perundevi Srinivasan, “Stories of the Flesh: Colonial and Anthropological Discourses on the South Indian Goddess Mariyamman” (PhD diss., The George Washington University, 2009), 69–96.

Chapter Three

From Local Goddess to Locale Goddess Karumariamman as Divine Mother at a North American Hindu Temple Tracy Pintchman

The Parashakthi temple in Pontiac, Michigan, also known in English as the Eternal Mother Temple, was established on sixteen acres of undeveloped wooded land in the year 1999—or, more precisely, the first portion of the temple was constructed that year, as the existing temple has been greatly expanded from its original form. The Divine Mother worshiped in this temple is named as the goddess Karumariamman, “Black Mariyamman,” who, the temple website asserts, has manifested herself both in the village of Thiruverkadu, just outside Chennai in Tamil Nadu (figure 1.3), and at the Parashakthi temple in Pontiac. 1 Karumariamman (also rendered as “Karumariyamman” or “Karumari Amman”) is a regional goddess in her original South Indian context, and her temple in Thiruverkadu serves mostly local and regional devotees. But she takes form in her temple in Michigan also as a universal goddess who has come to the West for the benefit of all beings. The Parashakthi Temple website announces that Divine Mother wished to have a house of worship built in the United States so she could give her “Eternal Grace to all her devotees and protect them from harm and tragedies that may befall” the world at large. The site further declares this goddess to be supreme consciousness and the eternal, divine mother who has been worshiped “in all cultures, the world over, since earliest of times . . . known to us from the ancient written records of Egypt, Mesopotamia, Greece, Rome, and India.” She is, however, simultaneously, the goddess of Thiruverkadu. From early on in its founding, the temple was constructed on a vision that disrupts mundane boundaries, such as those of ethnicity, religion, and geography, 89

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while still grounding the goddess in a specific place, or, in this case, places (South India and Michigan). The goddess becomes both local and universal, Tamil and American, Hindu and pan-religious. The discourse and practices promulgated at the Parashakthi Temple help construct a form of locative religiosity that is rooted in Indian Hindu vernacular goddess traditions but transforms such traditions in dynamic conversation with the temple’s American and translocative context. In Michigan, the Goddess and her temple are emplaced in the American landscape; yet they simultaneously participate in a transcultural, transnational, and transhistorical economy of divine power that reveals the nature of both goddess and temple as entities that ultimately transcend the types of religious and ethnic boundaries that characterize the mundane human world. In this temple, a regional Tamil goddess comes to claim universal status, participating in what Joanne Waghorne calls “the globalization of more localized temple traditions.” 2 Waghorne describes this as a process by which Indian temples that are not large national sites but are instead regionally or even locally known temples come to be “transported with their wandering devotees into a global context,” fomenting “a new kind of ‘transnational religion.” 3 She argues that this phenomenon has not yet occurred in the United States. But the Parashakthi Temple is a prime example—the only example of which I am aware, in fact—of a Hindu temple in the United States that engages in exactly this kind of globalization of a deity whom many devotees and scholars would consider to be more properly local or regional. In this chapter, I explore the nature of this goddess and ways the Michigan temple leadership, following instructions understood to have come directly from the goddess herself, helps creatively construct “the local” in this diaspora context rather than simply reproduce it. What happens when a local goddess changes locale? Here, following Merriam Webster, I understand “locale” to refer specifically to a place where something particular happens, a place or locality “viewed in relation to a particular event or characteristic” (www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/locale). Can a local goddess be local to more than one locale? How does locale matter for locality? And in what ways might local and universal become mutually enriching categories, at least in this particular context, when both come to be grounded in a specific locale? MARIYAMMAN AND KARUMARIAMMAN In Tamilnadu, Karumariamman is widely understood to be a form of Mariyamman, “Mother Mari.” A great deal of scholarly work has been written about Mariyamman, and interested readers would do well to consult that

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body of research. 4 Here I will discuss only some of her most salient characteristics as they are particularly relevant to the discussion at hand. Mariyamman is revered in South India and is widely, although not always accurately, associated with illness. She is most commonly known as the goddess of smallpox, but the list of illnesses with which she is associated includes at least sixteen different varieties of poxes and measles. 5 As a goddess of disease, she has the power both to afflict humans with illness and to remove illness. Elaine Craddock notes that she is often depicted “as a fierce, angry goddess with a voracious appetite for blood sacrifice and a capricious character, a vivid manifestation of ambivalent power.” 6 Mariyamman is, however, much more than a goddess of maladies. Like all goddesses, Mariyamman is also understood by her devotees to be a mother goddess and a form of Sakti, the divine, transcendent female power that creates and sustains the universe. 7 Since the worldwide eradication of smallpox, Mariyamman’s specific association with pox illnesses has receded, 8 but her nature as a mother goddess who can both punish and reward her human worshipers has remained a central characteristic of her personality. She is known especially for possessing devotees both with and without their assent. William Harman notes that planned possessions often occur at “auspicious festival events” such that Mariyamman festivals “can occasionally turn into events of major ecstatic trance-possession that can spread contagiously, as do many fever-inducing illnesses attributed to her.” 9 While such possessions are generally considered auspicious, involuntary possessions are not; they tend instead to be “unwelcome, involuntary, and associated with a prolonged illness cause by Mariyamman entering the body.” 10 Mariyamman is also a goddess of fertility, rain or water, and general wellbeing. The term ammai is used to indicate not just the goddess herself, but also these auspicious qualities as well as the sixteen varieties of poxes and measles that she governs. 11 Mariyamman is associated with snakes and anthills, too, both of which are emblematic of fertility and abundance, and she can assume the form of both. Perundevi Srinivasan observes that the “image of an anthill with holes and serpents strikes an obvious sympathetic correspondence with a body having ammai in the form of pustules.” 12 Anthills are also linked symbolically to Vedic sacrifice, as Elaine Craddock has noted. 13 Craddock refers to Heesterman’s observation that “standard elements and acts of the ritual are referred to as the head of the sacrifice, their installation or performance signifying the severing and/or restoration of the head.” 14 References to the severing of heads also recalls real battles in which an enemy’s head was severed in battle. Hence Craddock notes that in the Black Yajur Veda, the head of an enemy killed in battle “is replaced with an anthill containing seven holes.” 15 Anthills and snakes also form part of a symbolic nexus of sacrifice, fertility, and rebirth, processes that Tamils associate with Mariyamman. 16 These

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symbolic associations reveal themselves also in a well-known narrative recorded in the Mahabharata (3.116.1–18) and retold countless times, in numerous versions, concerning Mariyamman’s origins from the woman Renuka. In brief, Renuka is a virtuous, high-caste wife whose firm vow of chastity gives her the power to carry water without a pot. One day, she sees in a river the reflection of a gandharva, and she admires his beauty, which causes her to lose her special powers. Her husband, Jamadagni, enraged that she has lost the powers conferred upon her by her chastity, orders their son, Parashurama, to kill Renuka, granting him a boon if he will do so. Parashurama chases his mother with an ax, catching up with her in the home of an untouchable woman, where Renuka has gone to hide. Parashurama kills both women by chopping off their heads. But he then asks as his boon that his mother be brought back to life. He attaches the women’s heads back to the bodies and sprinkles them with water, bringing them back to life; but he accidentally mixes them up, attaching his mother’s head to the untouchable woman’s body and vice versa. Renuka in this hybrid form becomes the goddess Bavaniyamman, another form of Mariyamman. Craddock notes of this narrative: Renuka is like a sacrificial victim; her violent death catalyzes her regeneration in a more powerful form, as the Goddess . . . the fierce power that Renuka gains through her suffering is transformed when Renuka becomes Bavaniyamman, whose fierce power is viewed by her worshipers as a protective potency that demonstrates a mother’s supreme love. 17

The story recounted above also reveals Mariyamman’s association with transformation and the crossing of boundaries, processes that are embodied in her corporeal reconstruction as half untouchable, half high-caste goddess. In this regard, William Harman notes that while the term “Mari” can refer to disease or rain, it can also mean “change.” 18 And indeed, Mariyamman is a goddess capable of great change across various divides, moving in the past several decades out of villages and away from her very humble roots to capture new, middle-class, and high-caste devotees. Craddock notes that although Mariyamman is “originally a low-caste goddess, emerging from the agricultural milieu in which the majority of Indians still live, she now draws devotees from urban as well as rural areas and across caste lines.” 19 Harman traces such transformations in South India, contrasting in particular the goddess’s traditional representation at her temple in Samayapuram (figure 1.3) with her incarnation in Melmeruvattur as Pankaru Atikalar, the male spiritual leader of the Adhiparasakthi Movement, but he notes as well that Mariyamman temples have moved well “beyond the boundaries of India” into a number of diasporic contexts. 20 Joanne Waghorne observes that “Mariyamman’s mercurial rise in popularity over the last decade and the growing wealth and importance of her temples speak of her popularity among urban people. She

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and other Tamil ammans are fomenting a new solidarity that somehow cuts across caste lines, crosses class distinctions, and bridges the urban-rural divide—all under the banner of new middle-class respectability.” 21 She refers to this process in India as the “bourgeoisification” of the goddess. But Waghorne is also interested in the globalization of such local temple traditions as originally local deities are “transported with their wandering devotees into a global context.” 22 She argues that local Tamil ammans like Mariyamman (along with Murugan) are especially appealing to diaspora Hindus because they intrude directly into the lives of devotees: they “are not impersonal but rather living energy, the vibration of the universe and the pulse of the devotee.” 23 KARUMARIAMMAN AND HER TEMPLE IN THIRUVERKADU As a form of Mariyamman, Karumariamman, the goddess of the Thiruverkadu temple, embodies Mariyamman’s traits and associations. For example, in Tamilnadu, Karumariamman is associated with pox illnesses, rain, processes of change, and general fertility. She is said to reside inside an anthill although she also appears to her devotees in the form of a cobra. 24 Srinivasan recounts a narrative that one of the priests of the temple in Thiruverkadu tells about Karumariamman: The goddess was first born as the daughter of the Pandiyan king of Madurai: she was Minakshi. In the next yuga, she was born to Dakshan: hence she was called Dakshayani or Parvati. In this Kaliyuga, she is born not from a fetus (karu) but she has assumed a changed (mari) form which is that of a snake in the anthill. 25

Today the Karumariamman temple is under government administration; it is an Agamic temple, with ritual worship performed by formally trained, caste pujaris. Yet the temple has Paraiyar (untouchable) roots and is reported to have been for many generations a place of prophecy (kurimedai) and healing. According to one of the main priests at the temple, Ganesha Gurukkal, who claimed to have served at the temple for twenty-eight years when I interviewed him in January of 2009, the change in the temple from Paraiyar control to state control occurred in the 1960s, when one of the Shankaracaryas reportedly came to the temple, installed a proper icon, and wrested control of the temple away from the Paraiyar family that had run it for generations Before that time, it seems the goddess was represented in the temple by an icon of only her head—as is true also of other amman temples in Tamilnadu. 26 At least two members of that original family still live in Thiruverkadu and continue to run their own, albeit smaller and less visited, Karumariam-

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man temples where the goddess possesses them to prophesize and to perform healings. The reported granddaughter of the Karumariamman temple’s founder, a woman named Mariammal Sami, runs a small temple within walking distance of the main temple in Thiruverkadu. When I met and interviewed her in January of 2009, she affirmed that the change in temple administration took place in the early 1960s. According to Mariammal, before the change, her father had presided over the main temple, having taken over its administration from his father (Mariammal’s grandfather). The goddess used to “come into him” and prophesize, but when he died, the goddess instead came into Mariammal’s brother and then, later, her. She claimed at the time I interviewed her that the goddess had been “coming into her” for forty-three years. Mariammal recounts that just before her father’s death, her brother was at work when he came down with smallpox, so he was sent home. As he was bicycling to his house, he received word that his father died; he fell down, and his pox instantly vanished. After that, he took his father’s place in the main temple. But his downfall came, according to Mariammal, when he took a second wife, reportedly a Brahmin woman, and abandoned his first wife and child to live with her; people in the village objected strongly to this arrangement and felt he was no longer fit to be a vehicle of the goddess. They therefore welcomed, or perhaps encouraged, the change in the temple’s structure and leadership. Mariammal’s brother, too, reportedly continues to prophesize and perform healings in his own small temple in the village. I was unable to meet with him or interview him when I was in Thiruverkadu in 2009 because he was out of town. I heard from people living in Thiruverkadu, however, that he was in the process of establishing a new, satellite Karumariamman temple in a forested area in Chingleput district, about sixty miles away from Thiruverkadu itself. The goddess herself reportedly came to him in a dream and told him to do this. Perundevi Srinivasan reports in her dissertation 27 that she interviewed a man in Thiruverkadu, Madurai Muttu, who claims the same ancestry as Mariammal and functions as a medium of Karumariamman; I assume Muttu is Mariyammal’s brother, but I have not been able to verify that assumption. Ganesha Gurukkal recounted to me that the person most responsible for helping popularize the worship of Karumariamman in the region since the 1960s was a temple priest named Ramdass, who may have originally served as assistant to Mariammal’s father. Ramdass was no longer alive when I was in Thiruverkadu in 2009. But he reportedly played an important role in helping launch the Parashakthi Temple.

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THE PARASHAKHTHI TEMPLE IN PONTIAC, MICHIGAN Like the Rajarajeshvari Pitham in upstate New York that Corinne Dempsey has written about, the Parashakthi Temple, too, diverges in significant ways from patterns that tend to characterize Hindu temples in the American diaspora. 28 Like many other American Hindu temples, it has a governing temple committee; however, it is the only such temple of which I am aware where more than half of the members of the governing body are not of Indian descent but are instead Caucasian American. 29 Although the temple is nominally sectarian, focusing on Karumariamman as Divine Mother, numerous other deities have also been installed; however, their presence in the temple is not a result of committee discussion 30 but by direct command from the goddess. Furthermore, deity icons are described in temple discourse as the material manifestations of the Divine Mother’s vibrations (spanda). Finally, unlike in many American Hindu temples, the religious life of the Parashakthi Temple is shaped directly by a charismatic leader, Dr. G. Krishna Kumar, who also serves as the temple committee’s president. Kumar is also a Tamil American physician who serves as a gastroenterologist on staff at William Beaumont Hospital. While Kumar is the temple’s acknowledged spiritual director and is recognized by many temple devotees as a mystic and religious visionary—a recently established website (www.drkrishnakumar.us) that includes videos of his talks as well as textual instruction describes him as a “renowned seer, modern mystic”—he refuses the moniker “guru,” insisting instead that he is simply a “mailman” whose role is to deliver instructions and truths that he has received directly from Divine Mother. Kumar was also a principle founder of the temple. Many other individuals were heavily involved in establishing the temple, and many in the initial group of founders continue to support the temple financially and remain actively engaged in temple activities. However, none play the kind of central role that Kumar does in guiding the temple’s ongoing religious life. Kumar reports that he came from India to the United States from Tamilnadu, South India, in the mid-1960s to do his medical internship. 31 He advanced in his career very quickly and began teaching at Wayne State University. During his first decade in the United States, he recounts that he was not particularly religious but was instead absorbed in developing his career. Sometime in the early 1970s, he began to feel restless, as if something important were missing. A friend of his offered to take him to an expert in Bhrigu nadi, a form of predictive astrology, in South India, and Kumar agreed. This nadi reader, A. N. K. Swamy, allegedly reported during this first encounter that Kumar had been a medical doctor in many previous lifetimes. A. N. K. (as Kumar calls him) revealed further that Kumar would eventually be called upon to build a temple for the goddess, although Kumar says he did not know at the time what that would entail. After the nadi reading, Kumar

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reports that he became increasingly interested in mysticism and the occult, taking up a practice of meditation and doing research on a wide range of religious topics. He returned to India frequently during the 1970s and 1980s, often meeting with A. N. K. and having readings done on his own behalf and on the behalf of others. But he did not yet act on the call to build a temple for the goddess. It was during this period that Kumar also began to develop an important spiritual relationship with a Caucasian female colleague of his, whom I shall call Jane. Kumar reports that one day, when passing him in the hall, Jane greeted him, teasing that he rarely stopped to say hello to her in the material world. But, she told him that he was coming to her in her dreams and offering her religious teachings. Kumar was surprised to hear this and didn’t believe her. But when he next returned to India, he brought Jane’s biodata with him and had a nadi reading done for her. This was sometime around 1988. A. N. K. confirmed that Kumar had indeed been going to Jane and offering her spiritual instruction in her sleep. Subsequently, the two reportedly developed a friendship and close spiritual relationship. Jane and her husband, who also has played a major role in creating and sustaining the temple, had a number of Caucasian friends who were spiritual seekers, engaging in Native American vision quests together, and Kumar became friendly with them as well. The formative moment for Kumar and the temple came in 1994, when the Divine Mother first appeared directly to him in a vision while he was engaged in deep meditation. Here is how Kumar described it to me in an interview I conducted with him in 2009: Kumar: From ’72 to the eighties I was studying these mystical things, the occult, but I really did not communicate (with Divine Mother) . . . in ’94, when Mother appeared . . . at first I didn’t know who she was. . . . I was just meditating and this form came (and said,) “You build a house for me, because the world is going to go through major turmoil beginning 2000. So you install me, you build the house for me, and I’ll protect the earth.” Tracy: Had you had visions like that before? Kumar: I had visions, but not so specific like that. I had it twenty-seven times, same thing. . . . Then I knew it was something genuine. Kumar then conferred with A. N. K., who confirmed that Divine Mother was calling upon Kumar in her form as Karumariamman. A. N. K. sent to Dr. Kumar a picture of Karumariamman’s icon. Kumar maintains he was not at all familiar with this form of the goddess until she appeared to him in the vision. Around this time, too, Jane called Kumar and told him that some

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goddess had been appearing to her repeatedly and asking that she and Kumar build a house for her. When Jane came to Kumar’s office one day, Kumar showed her the photo of Karumariamman that A. N. K. Swamy had sent from India, and Jane confirmed that it was the same goddess. So, Kumar reports, they both knew the temple would have to be built. 32 When Kumar then went to India and visited the Karumariyamman temple in Thiruverkadu for the first time, he reports that he encountered Ramdass, the priest who Ganesha Gurukkal claims helped spread the popularity of the Thiruverkadu Karumariamman temple. Kumar reports he was walking in the temple when Ramdass, whom he had never before met, approached him and said that Divine Mother wanted Kumar to pay for a Divine Mother’s chariot. As Kumar tells the story, Karumariyamman had revealed to Ramdass in a vision that She wanted a chariot to be built to process her icon outside of the temple on festival days. But even though many devotees offered to pay for it, the goddess would not allow anyone to have it built for her until Kumar came to Thiruverkadu, at which point she revealed to Ramdass that Kumar was the person she had chosen to sponsor the chariot. Kumar says he agreed to fund it. Kumar reports further that when he returned to the United States and was back in his home meditating, Divine Mother came to him again to reveal that the chariot had larger significance, as it was symbolic of her desire to be brought out of the Thiruverkadu temple all the way to Michigan and installed in a temple there. The goddess’s miraculous appearances in 1994 crossed ethnic and religious boundaries between Indian Hindu and Caucasian American non-Hindu, appearing to both Kumar and Jane and enjoining both of them to build her a house. These communications to her human agents, furthermore, took place across time and space, spanning decades and the distance between India and the United States. The goddess revealed her will through both the 1972 nadi reading in India and the 1994 visions occurring in Michigan, both of which were filtered through A. N. K. Swamy’s interpretations as well as Ramdass’s visions. Kumar writes in the first temple newsletter, put out in 2001, that A. N. K. Swamy had described to him the land on which the temple would come to be built when he performed Kumar’s first nadi reading in 1972. 33 After Kumar’s vision in 1994, he began to search for this land. An Indian American acquaintance who was a real estate broker called Kumar one day and told him he had come across a plot of sixteen acres of undeveloped land in the middle of Pontiac that was for sale. It was topographically similar to the site of the Minakshi Temple in Madurai, and Kumar knew that this was the land the Divine Mother wanted. The owner is reported to have been an elderly Caucasian man who had moved to Florida, and when Kumar expressed interest in buying it, the owner insisted that Kumar come to Florida to discuss the matter. It was the month of January, and the weather was miserable in Michi-

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gan, but Kumar was very busy with patients and couldn’t leave. Inexplicably, according to Kumar, the owner agreed to come to Michigan and ended up selling the land to Kumar even though the owner had bigger offers on the table. When I interviewed him in Chennai in 2009, A. N. K. Swamy made particular note of the similarity between the name “Pontiac,” the town in Michigan, and the name “Pandya,” the empire that was responsible for building the Minakshi Temple, claiming that Pontiac is the New World recreation of the Pandyan Empire, a South Indian Tamil dynasty that ruled parts of South India until the fifteenth century. Significant in this regard, too, is the reported role played by Dr. V. V. Svarnavenkatesha Dikshitar, one of the main priests of the Shaiva Chidambaram Temple, also in Tamilnadu. 34 Kumar reports that Divine Mother told him in the 1994 nadi reading that he should seek out for help the Brahmin Dikshitar, whom Kumar had never met. Kumar narrates that A. N. K. took him to meet Dikshitar, who at first rejected Kumar and was angry that A. N. K. had bothered him. However, Kumar reports that Divine Mother had given him secret information about a yantra in Dikshitar’s possession, which he revealed to Dikshitar. The Brahmin then told his guests to leave and return the next day. When they returned, Kumar reports, Dikshitar accepted the meeting with them and explained that Ganesha himself had told Dikshitar Kumar was worthy of his attention. Kumar reports also that Dikshitar was a powerful tantrika and master yantra maker who came to Michigan to oversee the installation of the first yantras and icons in the Parashakthi Temple, beginning with the yantra and icon of Divine Mother herself. A photo of Dikshitar hangs in the temple, and Kumar continues to refer to Dikshitar as his guru. In the nadi reading, it was predicted that the land on which the temple that Kumar would eventually build would have been occupied previously by priests of another religion. Kumar and others intimately involved in establishing the Parashakthi Temple maintain that the temple grounds had previously been considered sacred by Native Americans in the area and had been a site of powerful shamanic activity. Kumar reports that the presence of Native American shamanic spirits was revealed to him one day when he was deep in meditation, well after he had purchased the land. One Caucasian devotee told me that she and a friend were walking on the land one day before the temple had been built, and the friend went into the woods. This friend came out a few minutes later visibly frightened because she had heard the sound of drumming in a particular pattern, as well as voices singing in a language she had never heard before, sounds that this devotee understood to be the music and voices of Native American spirits still inhabiting the area. 35 Kumar recounts that the Divine Mother herself had been present in the land for millennia and set up the shamanic spirits that are still present in the land around the temple. He also reports that he and others have seen on the temple

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grounds huge deer with large antlers, which are invisible to most humans but are the spirits of the deceased shamans. The land’s connection to its reported Native American past has become well established as part of public narratives about the temple. 36 It is significant that the land chosen for the Divine Mother’s house in the West, situated in a largely African American city, is experienced by devotees as infused with the religious power of the spirits of deceased Native American shamans and is also imitative of South Indian Hindu landscape, specifically that of the Minakshi temple in Madurai. The Parashakthi Temple functions as both a Tamil, Hindu Goddess temple and a divine power-spot that crosses boundaries, transcending its Tamil, Indian, and Hindu trappings. In fact, several individuals closely involved in the establishment of the temple have told me that the original plan was to build the temple as a monument to the Divine Feminine in all religions, with shrines to Mary and goddesses from other traditions, but the Divine Mother appeared to Kumar in a dream after the initial structure had been built and consecrated and told him that she did not want that initial plan fulfilled. The temple’s precise location matters, however, and matters a great deal. The land on which the temple itself was built is described in temple discourse as chosen and prepared over the course of many centuries by Divine Mother herself, imbued in a unique way with her concentrated energy. In the temple’s first newsletter, Pamela Costa writes, “Modern day visionaries have also been attracted to the land’s power and sacred past. It is apparent to many that a vortex of energy exists at the site. We, at the Eternal Mother Temple, believe the Holy Land is aligned with the various planetary and star systems in such a way so as to heighten the energies at the present day site.” 37 I have heard temple spokespersons continue to describe the temple to large audiences in public temple events as a “vortex” and a place where communication with the Divine Mother functions via a “faster cable” than at other places. Similarly, the deities, or devatas, established at the Parashakthi Temple are described as vibratory cosmic forces whose power comes to be embodied at the temple when their icons are ritually installed in installation ceremonies (pratishtha). The ritual practices performed at the temple remain for the most part conventionally Hindu, and largely South Indian Hindu, although the theology of the temple moves decidedly into the realm of tantra, yoga, and even New Age discourse. And in this theology, the goddess moves from being a local goddess to being a locale goddess, a deity whose power is rooted in and dependent upon the precise location upon which her temple is built.

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THE LOCALE GODDESS AS LOCAL/UNIVERSAL GODDESS Waghorne argues that a turn to what she calls “localism” on the part of some diaspora communities often functions “in the face of other kinds of transnationalism such as the ever-present neo-hinduisms and hindu-nationalisms . . . that invade the very language available to ‘explain’ the deities devotion and in a global context.” Waghorne is mainly interested in what she calls the “production of locality” in a global context and the place of certain temples in that process. 38 She argues further: “The contemporary return to the local, even a nostalgia for the local in matters religious, openly returns—I will argue—to religious experience that can be loosely termed ‘magic’ or, in the old Weberian term, ‘enchantment’—the sense that the concrete world becomes the site for divine powers to interact with human devotees, for curing pain in the body and agony in the mind, for financial success, for general mangalam (auspiciousness).” Waghorne observes that both Murugan and Tamil goddesses function as predominant “icons of locality” even as they globalize. 39 In the case of the Parashakthi Temple, I wonder if it would be more accurate to view “the local” or “locality” less as something to which those most involved with the temple return and more as something they creatively construct in conversation with the American landscape, American history, South Indian goddess traditions, and the locale that Divine Mother has chosen for her Western manifestation. The goddess’s miraculous powers remain a central part of her identity in Pontiac; but the main mission of the temple, that is, the main reason Divine Mother has purportedly called upon human agents to build the temple, is to protect the West during a dangerous period in history. To this end, the goddess’s power has had to take up residence and inject itself into the American landscape, as is repeatedly emphasized in temple literature and in the numerous public talks that Kumar gives. The goddess does not just move from one place to the other but recreates herself in a new paradigm more suitable for the new context and the primary role she is to play in this context. She becomes a goddess of locale. Thomas Tweed’s description of the religions of diasporic groups is relevant here to how one might think about the dynamic creativity of the religion of the Parashakthi temple. Tweed describes the religions of diasporic groups as potentially locative, that is, associated with a homeland where the group resides; supralocative, that is, with diminished ties to both the homeland and the adopted land; or translocative, that is, with a tendency to move symbolically between the homeland and the new land. 40 He argues that diasporic religions tend to be translocative. This is certainly true of the religion of the Parashakthi temple. The temple does not just reproduce the power of the goddess in the homeland but recreates and reimagines it, emplacing it in a new way that functions to bridge the gap between “the homeland and the new

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land.” 41 In Pontiac, the goddess of Thiruverkadu becomes the Divine, Protective Mother who comes to transcend all boundaries. NOTES 1. www.parashakthitemple.org/shakthi_worship.aspx (accessed 9/12/13). 2. Joanne Punzo Waghorne, Diaspora of the Gods: Modern Hindu Temples in an Urban Middle-Class World (New York: Oxford, 2004), 172. 3. Waghorne, Diaspora of the Gods, 173. 4. Perundevi Srinivasan has produced a robust bibliography of works on Mariyamman. See her “Māriyammaṉ,” in Oxford Bibliographies: Hinduism, edited by Alf Hiltebeitel (New York: Oxford University Press, last edited 06/26/2012), www.oxfordbibliographies.com/view/document/obo-9780195399318/obo-9780195399318-0067.xml. 5. Perundevi Srinivasan, “Stories of the Flesh: Colonial and Anthropological Discourses on the South Indian Goddess Mariyamman” (PhD diss., George Washington University, 2009), 4. 6. Elaine Craddock, “Reconstructing the Split Goddess as Śakti in a Tamil Village,” in Seeking Mahādevī: Constructing the Identities of Hindu Great Goddess,” edited by Tracy Pintchman (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2001), 146. 7. For more on this, see Ibid. 8. Margaret Trawick Egnor has argued that since the eradication of smallpox, tuberculosis has come to be a symbol of the goddess’s affliction. See Egnor’s “The Changed Mother, or What the Smallpox Goddess Did When There Was No More Smallpox,” Contributions to Asian Studies 18 (1984): 24–45. William Harman also notes that she has come to be associated with tuberculosis, cholera, and typhoid, all of which continue to afflict people living in South India. See his “Possession as Protection and Affliction: The Goddess Mariyamman’s Fierce Grace,” in Health and Religious Rituals in South Asia: Disease, Possession, and Healing, edited by Fabrizio Ferrari (Hoboken: Taylor and Francis, 2010), 189. 9. Harman, “Possession as Protection and Affliction,” 189. 10. Ibid., 190. 11. Srinivasan, “Stories of the Flesh,” 4. 12. Ibid., 146. 13. Craddock, “Reconstructing the Split Goddess,” 160–61. 14. Ibid., 160, citing J. C. Heesterman, “The Case of the Severed Head,” Wiener Zeitschrift zur Kunde des Sud- und Ostasiens 11 (1967): 22–43. 15. Ibid., 161. 16. Ibid., 159; see also Srinivasan, “Stories of the Flesh.” 17. Ibid., 150. 18. Harman, “Possession as Protection and Affliction,” 285. 19. Craddock, “Reconstructing the Split Goddess,” 147. 20. William Harman, “Taming the Fever Goddess: Transforming a Tradition in Southern India,” Manushi 140 (2004): 3. 21. Waghorne, Diaspora of the Gods, 133–34. 22. Ibid., 146, 173. 23. Ibid., 227. 24. Srinivasan, “Stories of the Flesh,” 159. 25. Ibid., 159–60. 26. Srinivasan reports that the main priest of the Thiruverkadu Temple, Nagaraja Gurukkal, told her that until the 1950s, an earthen pot filled with water and adorned with turmeric paste and Margosa leaves was kept upon an anthill and was the major object of regular worship. See Srinivasan, “Stories of the Flesh,” 215. 27. Ibid., 160–61. 28. See Corinne Dempsey, The Goddess Lives in Upstate New York: Breaking Convention and Making Home at a North American Hindu Temple (New York: Oxford University Press,

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2006). For an overview analysis of Hindu temples in the United States, see Prema A. Kurien, A Place at the Multicultural Table: The Development of an American Hinduism (New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2007), 86–116. 29. For a list of the members of the Temple Committee, see www.parashakthitemple.org/ committee.aspx (accessed 9/12/13). 30. Vasudha Narayanan, “Creating South Indian Hindu Experience in the United Stages,” in A Sacred Thread: Modern Transmission of Hindu Traditions in India and Abroad, edited by R. B. Williams (Chambersburg, PA: Anima Publications, 1992), 175. 31. The account summarized here of Kumar's life leading up to the founding of the temple is based on interviews I conducted with him in 2008–2009. 32. Kurien notes that the initial impetus for the building of a Hindu temple, whether in India or abroad, is often an injunction, sent through a dream or religious medium, sent by a deity demanding a home (Kurien, A Place at the Multicultural Table, 88). In this case, the injunction came independently to two different actors who perceived the Mother’s direct appearance to them in a form with which neither of them was familiar as a clear sign that they now had no choice but to do the Mother’s bidding. 33. The way that the land was obtained is also described in the temple’s first newsletter, Om Shakthi, as a miracle. See G. Krishna Kumar, “Personal Note from Dr. G. Krishna Kumar,” Om Shakthi 1:1 (January–March): 4. 34. For more on this temple, see Paul Younger, The Home of Dancing Sivan: The Traditions of the Hindu Temple in Citamparam (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995). 35. Personal interview, 2008. 36. For example, a column that a temple devotee wrote for the first newsletter on the temple’s origins notes, “Local Native American Indians were drawn to the power of the land and selected it for their sacred worship site. Several devotees have commented on feeling the presence of these ancient spirits.” See Pamela Costa, “Mystical Origins,” Om Shakthi 1:1 (January–March): 12. 37. Costa, “Mystical Origins,” 4. 38. Waghorne, “Diaspora of the Gods,” 177. 39. Ibid., 181. 40. Thomas Tweed, Our Lady of the Exile: Diasporic Religion at a Cuban Catholic Shrine in Miami (New York: Oxford, 1997), 94–95, 139. 41. Ibid., 140.

Chapter Four

An Indentured Tamil Goddess Mariyamman’s Migration to Ceylon’s Plantations as a Worker Sasikumar Balasundaram

From the 1820s to 1950s, tens of thousands of ethnic Tamils left the povertystricken rural Madras Presidency of colonial India to work as indentured servant-laborers in Ceylon’s plantations (map 0.2 on the affiliated website). This group of migrant workers, who now identify themselves as the Upcountry or Malaiyaha Tamils in Sri Lanka, initially believed that the popular Tamil deity Mariyamman was left behind in the Madras Presidency during the migration. But soon they discovered that this was not the case. A later migration story about Mariyamman arriving in the Up-country of Sri Lanka is the core concern of this chapter. In this chapter I will make several key points. First, that the myth of Mariyamman’s migration is a subaltern account of plantation life in colonial Ceylon, and a counternarrative to the dominant narrative of the life of plantation workers. Second, Mariyamman, who was known as a goddess of rain and smallpox in India, became a goddess of tea work in Sri Lanka, and transformed from a village deity to a deity of the capitalist plantation system. Third, the Mariyamman story reflects the feminized political economy of colonial plantations. Fourth, as Karen Brown argues about Voodoo religious tradition in Haiti, Mariyamman worship on Ceylon’s plantations was also a religion of afflictions that helped workers deal with their dislocation from their native land and the hardships of plantation life. 1 Finally, it is also a story of resistance against (colonial planters) and an accommodation to (plantation overseer) power.

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THE MYTH OF MARIYAMMAN MIGRATION According to the Malaiyaha people, the story of Mariyamman begins with how she was worried about her children, the Tamil people, being left alone with no protection in the new desam (country) of Ceylon and how she became determined to migrate there to protect them. At the time, according to this oral history account, Mariyamman lived at her birthplace, Samayapuram, in a temple located near Thiruchirapalli in southern Tamilnadu, India. Today, it is considered that the temple at Samayapuram is the second richest in Tamilnadu and the largest in the world for Mariyamman (see map 0.2 on the affiliated website). At Samayapuram, Mariyamman transformed into a thirteen-year-old kanni (girl) named “Angayee.” Along with other migrant workers, Angayee walked from Samayapuram to join a periya kangani (chief labor recruiter) and other indentured migrants in Tutricorn. Tutricorn was a major port during the time when indentured laborers were being recruited in the colonial Madras Presidency. From there, along with others, Angayee travelled in a small thoni (boat) to Ceylon’s plantations. When Angayee arrived at the plantation, like the other laborers, it is said that she was given a ten-by-ten-foot mudroom to live in. The rooms are arranged in a line and are known as a layam or row of colonial labor housing, or “linerooms.” Angayee was a kontharappu worker. The word “kontharappu” was derived from the English word for “contract.” According to oral history, kontharappu was a labor system in which each worker was given a certain number of acres of land to be cleared and prepared prior to planning tea (or weeding). Laborers were paid when they completed the work. As time passed, the kangani (overseer) and other workers of the plantation found out that Angayee had not been working and the plots of land allocated to her were never cleared. One day, the angry kangani went to Angayee’s line home and found that she was lying down on a mat with her eyes half-closed. The room was full of burning sambirani (incense) and Veppilai (neem leaves), which are symbols closely associated with Mariyamman. The kangani threatened Angayee with sending her back to her native village in colonial India for her failure to fulfill the contract (kontharappu). Angayee closed her eyes for a few seconds and opened them. Then she pleaded with the kangani to visit her plots of land, arguing that the land had already been cleared. When the kangani visited Angayee’s plots again, he was completely shocked because the land had been thoroughly cleared. Every time the kangani complained about Angayee for not working in her land, she would close her eyes a moment and when she opened them the work was done. The kangani then realized that it was Mariyamman who had come to Ceylon as Angayee to protect her children from toiling in the plantations. The kangani informed the British planter a few times about the power of Angayee; however, the white planter (Velaikara Dorai) ignored the kanga-

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ni’s story. One day (1) the white planter planned to cut a large banyan tree near the riverbank of the estate because he believed it was negatively affecting the estate. The very night before he cut the tree, Angayee appeared in the planter’s dream and asked him to halt his plan to cut down the tree. The white planter did not listen to her and cut down the tree the next day. According to locals, within hours after he cut the tree, Mariyamman, who, in her traditional South Indian role as the goddess of smallpox, “threw pearls on his face and entire body” and he immediately became sick with smallpox. The same night, Angayee appeared in the white planter’s dream and said his illness was a retribution for destroying her “home” (the banyan tree) from which she governed and protected the people of the plantation. Now, the planter himself realized that Angayee was Mariyamman as the kangani and others in the estate believed. The next morning, the planter rushed into Angayee’s house in the layam but discovered she had disappeared. As a parikaram (compensation), the planter decided to build a temple for Mariyamman in the middle of the estate. This story of Mariyamman has been passed from generation to generation among the Malaiyaha people in Sri Lanka. UNDERSTANDING MARIYAMMAN IN MALAIAYAHA CULTURE My research on Mariyamman was rather accidental. As a Malaiyaha Tamil who was born and raised on a Sri Lankan tea plantation, all my research has focused on how the plantation system shaped the economic, social, cultural, and political life of Up-country Tamils. As an anthropologist, I am also interested in analyzing how people organize, govern, and create meanings in plantations. Like most of the people who were raised on the estates, my family practiced Mariyamman worship for generations. In 2007, while I was doing research on the role of poosari (shaman) in plantation-based medical treatment, my respondents repeatedly talked about Mariyamman’s role in healing and other aspects of estate life. This was the first time I became interested in exploring the meaning of Mariyamman’s migration to Ceylon. As I began to investigate Mariyamman worship through an oral history project, I became convinced that the story of her migration and of the rise and fall of Mariyamman worship in plantation life was being used by migrants not only to explain the historical, social, economic, and political processes affecting the Up-country Tamils’ life, but also to create an alternative history in a country where histories of communities have always been contested. Ethnic communities have often used their scared mythical stories as a means to legitimize their historical existence in postcolonial Sri Lanka. Colonial construction of nation states contributed to the production and legitimization of homogenized histories of postcolonial nations in which identities,

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stories, voices, and cultures of “others” (often minorities) were purposefully manipulated, excluded, silenced, and erased. However, studies show that the marginalized often use stories to challenge, reconstruct, and recreate alternative or counter histories and a new national order. 2 In postcolonial nationalist debates in Sri Lanka, for example, the Sinhalese Buddhists have used the myths or stories in the Mahavamsa to argue that the Sinhalese arrived on the island first; Sri Lankan Tamils use the same and similar texts and other myths to produce a counternarrative to argue that they existed on the island before the Sinhalese. 3 Other anthropological works in Sri Lanka signify the importance of myth in Sri Lankan culture. 4 Similarly, Muslims, another large ethnic group on the island, use their own myths to trace their origin to the arrival of Arabs in the eighth century. The study of myths is, therefore, necessary in understanding the history and politics of the island. Mariyamman’s myth becomes important as the Up-country Tamils construct a new historical counternarrative to tell their own history on the island. Based on an oral history project I conducted on Up-country religiosity, I discuss here the mythical story of Mariyamman’s migration from the colonial Madras Presidency to Ceylon. This story has been largely shared and preserved in oral tradition among the plantation workers in Sri Lanka. Having studied the folk deities of the Up-country Tamils in Sri Lanka in detail, I find the story of Mariyamman’s migration and her worship tradition on the plantation reflects the capitalist plantation system created in colonial times. In this chapter, I briefly explore how the indentured plantation workers construct and interpret the origin and life of Mariyamman as a way of describing their collective identity in Sri Lanka. In other words, the Mariyamman story captures the life of indentured workers in a particular moment and place in Sri Lankan history. My primary thesis is that the indentured workers who were uprooted both voluntarily and involuntarily from Tamilnadu used myths to help create a new social space, culture, and religious tradition in their new country. They created myths that mirrored their sociopolitical circumstance to both preserve the Tamil traditions from their homeland and help explain the life, struggles, and survival of early indentured laborers in a new world. Because the workers were confined within plantations, their history, culture, beliefs, politics, and religion were heavily shaped by the capitalist economic plantation system. Finally, in the myth that is considered in this chapter, as Angayee embodies the divine and human, it becomes the story of indentured workers rather than that of the myth of goddess Mariyamman. In order to understand and interpret the myth one must historically situate it within the political economy of plantations.

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MARIYAMMAN IN THE UP-COUNTRY SRI LANKA Historically, Sri Lanka has been a multi-religious country. Until the Muslim traders arrived in the 1400s, “Hinduism” and Buddhism were the two dominant religions in Ceylon. Catholicism and Protestant Christianity were introduced in the period between 1600s and 1800s. Some mythical stories and historical sources indicate that aspects of what later became Hinduism may have been in practice in Sri Lanka even before the introduction of Buddhism in the third century BCE. 5 According to the colloquial version of the epic Ramayana prevalent among the indentured Tamils, the famous mythical Hindu King Ravana ruled the city now known as Nuwara-Eliya; this city is presently the political and cultural capital of Malaiyaha Tamils. According to oral tradition the Iyyakars and Nagar, tribes who are believed to have lived in northern Sri Lanka and are mentioned in the Mahavamsa, are also believed to have practiced forms of religion similar to later Hindu practices. Vijaya, the first Sinhalese ancestor, is said to have arrived on the island with his seven hundred men and married Kuveni, the Naga queen who ruled the north at that time. In Tamil nationalist myth, Kuveni is portrayed as a Hindu, even though the nationalist Sinhalese Buddhists reject the claim saying that Kuveni was neither a human nor Hindu. Anthropological studies indicate that the worship of female deities Kannagi Amman (northeast Sri Lanka), Pattini Amma (southern and central Sri Lanka), and Valli and Theivanai (southern Sri Lanka) was very common in pre-colonial Sri Lanka. 6 Though worship of female deities has been common in Sri Lanka, I argue Mariyamman worship in Sri Lanka was popularized only with the arrival of indentured Tamil workers from the Madras Presidency. Thus, Mariyamman is a migrant goddess in Sri Lanka. Mariyamman also fits into Harman Williams’s characterization of “diaspora goddess.” 7 When slavery was abolished in the early 1800s in Europe and the Americas, the British used the indentured labor system as a way to recruit workers for colonial plantations. The majority of the indentured laborers were brought from colonial India. The Madras Presidency in colonial India, in particular, played a key role in supplying labor to the other British colonies. Tamil-speaking people of colonial India became one of the largest labor forces who migrated to plantations in countries including Burma, Malaysia, Fiji, Guyana, South Africa, Mauritius, Trinidad, and Ceylon. The Malaiyaha Tamil ethnicity and the Up-country religious tradition in Sri Lanka, therefore, is not a relationship between Ceylon and India alone but part of global political economic processes. 8 Eric Wolf argues that English colonialism erased the histories of many different groups of people in the effort to establish the British Empire; however, these groups including the Up-country Tamils recreated their own histories in the new lands. Myths, beliefs, rituals, and stories played an important role in making their subaltern histories. 9

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DISPLACED RELIGIONS IN EXILE Valentine Daniel estimates that the capitalist plantation system transformed over 30 million human beings into indentured servants from Africa to Asia. 10 The plantation economy shaped the history, politics, culture, and identity of these migrants. 11 In Sri Lanka, economic deprivation, illiteracy, statelessness, landlessness, and the political exclusion of Up-country Tamils from postcolonial Sri Lanka are also linked to the minority migrant ethnicity and plantation system. Up-country Tamils of Sri Lanka still carry stigmatized identities as thotta kattan (estate jungle beings) or kalla thoni (illicit boat people) or vadakthayan (northerners) in reference to their migration to the plantation industry from India. 12 Even though indentured laborers came from diverse backgrounds, the shared space, occupation, and other forms of marginalization created a sense of “communitas” in a liminal world. 13 Turner writes that the homogeneity and comradeship of “communitas” is a “moment in and out of time,” and in and out of secular social structure, which reveals, however fleetingly, some recognition (in symbol if not always in language) of a generalized social bond that has ceased to be and has simultaneously yet to be fragmented into a multiplicity of structural ties. These are the ties organized in terms either of caste, class, or rank hierarchies or of segmentary oppositions in the stateless societies. 14

Bass, who writes on the Up-country Tamil ethnicity, argues similarly that the development of collective Malaiyaha ethnicity in Sri Lanka is shaped by their marginality; elsewhere I have written that Malaiyaha identity is shaped by young people’s responses to their marginalization. 15 The distinctive religious traditions that emerged on plantations signify the struggles for survival in a highly constrained society. For instance, the Gullah culture on South Carolina plantations developed from a subtle resistance to slavery, survival in dire circumstances, and an effort to create a sense of belonging and home in exile. 16 Something similar clearly happened in Upcountry colonial Sri Lanka as well. In order to better understand how colonialism and the plantation system shaped the Mariyamman religious traditions of the Up-country Tamils in Sri Lanka, it is important to compare them with other plantation religiosities in other localities. I use two examples: Santeria and Voudun. Santeria originated in American plantations and is a syncretic tradition with roots in Catholicism, African, and Native American religions. Voudun, on the other hand, emerged as a form of resistance to slavery in French plantations in Haiti. 17 Both of these traditions include belief systems that the migrants brought with them from their homeland and the influence of socioeconomic, political, and cultural elements of their new places. People use religious beliefs as individ-

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uals as well as collective coping mechanisms in everyday life. In other words, a religious belief aids in surviving in an uncertain world. People create gods, rituals, and practice to facilitate their struggles for survival. The Up-country religious tradition including Mariyamman worship is as Durkheim might put it: the elementary form of everyday life in plantations. Even though Marxists argue that religion is used to preserve the power of the bourgeoisie, I see it as that proletarians use of religion as a tool for survival in a highly constrained society. 18 My theory, based on living in particular marginalized communities in Sri Lanka, India, and the United States, is that economically marginalized members of a society are more likely to be religious than the bourgeoisie because religion provides the marginalized a space to organize, cope with, and resist the power structure. People seem to become more religious and participate in rituals when they feel destabilized. Resistance (Voudun) and cooperation (Santeria) are to me both survival strategies in a highly constrained society. Like Voudun and Santeria, the Up-country religiosity of Sri Lanka’s plantation workers is also an outcome of struggle for survival in a highly controlled plantation society. MARIYAMMAN IN INDIA Mariyamman has always been one of the most popular deities in south India, particularly among the Tamils. Thus, prior to their arrival in Ceylon, the majority of the workers worshiped Mariyamman. Mariyamman, however, was one of the many deities worshiped in Tamil villages in India. In Tamilnadu, Mariyamman as a goddess of subsistence economy was not the center of village life. Mariyamman worship was significant during drought seasons because people sought rain for rice fields and a cure for heat-related illnesses. Unlike tea, rice fields did not require rainwater throughout the year; thus, she remained a seasonal goddess. For the Tamil people who arrived to work in the plantations, Mariyamman became the primary deity. In the Up-country of Sri Lanka, Mariyamman can be considered a goddess of the capitalist production system. Workers in the plantation had to fight for economic survival and safety on a daily basis because of the low daily wages and dangerous workplaces. Thus, Mariyamman became an everyday goddess of plantation workers. Kolunthu Sami (tea leaf goddess worshiped by tea pluckers), Marunthu Sami (chemical god worshiped by those who spray pesticides), Kavathu Sami (pruning god worshiped by those who prune tea bushes), Pilluvettu Sami (weeding god worshiped by those who weed), Istore Sami (factory god worshiped by factory workers), and Kambi Sami (cable god worshiped by those who transfer tea leaf through cable) are other everyday gods and goddesses that are believed to help with the everyday survival and safety of workers in the plantation.

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Mariyamman is the head of this new pantheon of deities in the Up-country. Picking tea is the primary employment in plantations, which is a woman’s job. Men perform all other tasks including pruning, weeding, spraying chemicals, and transportation. Thus, both the horizontal and vertical organization of deities reflects the division of labor in the plantation system. The indentured workers represented diverse caste groups of south India. Elsewhere, I have argued that one of the reasons for British planters recruiting laborers from diverse caste groups was to prevent any solidarity among workers to stop revolts against the plantation raj. It is evident that prior to their arrival on colonial plantations, each caste group and clan also worshiped particular gods and goddesses specific to their castes and clans in India. Dislocation, work, control over labor, and shared spaces and experiences, however, contributed to weakening of caste solidarity and promoted the creation of collective belonging on the basis of shared space and work. MARIYAMMAN’S ARRIVAL: A STORY OF INDENTURED WORKERS I argue that the Mariyamman counternarrative is presented against the dominant narrative we find in colonial records about plantation workers. While the colonial records tell a story from the viewpoint of planters, the story of Angayee’s arrival is the only subaltern account available for us to understand the early days of life among indentured workers in Ceylon. The first question to be asked is why Up-country Tamils believed Mariyamman came to Sri Lankan plantations. Unlike West African slaves in the Americas, the indentured workers had a little more agency in terms of making choices in migration, labor participation, and withdrawal from work. During the time of recruitment, kanganis, the local labor recruiters, promised the workers that they could return home after saving enough money at the end of their contract period in Ceylon plantations. Thus, workers left everything, including relatives (mother, father, husband, wife, children, siblings, and in-laws) and material possessions, in India with the hope that they would come back to their native homelands. As recounted to me in oral histories, workers made their journeys by foot and boat. On their way some workers died of starvation, others sank in the Indian Ocean, and some others became ill and died on roads in thick jungles and were attacked by animals. Along the way, from the seashores to the Up-country hills, the migrant workers worshiped triangular stones and neem trees that signified Mariyamman. As the workers did not know their way other than following the workers walking before them, according to one of my respondents, they murmured “aatha kaividamatal” (Mariyamman would not forsake us) and carried on their journey to planta-

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tions. They continued to take solace in Mariyamman even after they arrived in the new land. Angayee’s name, age (thirteen), and her place of origin in Samayapuram are important in the story of Mariyamman’s migration. According to my research the vast majority of the migrant workers came from the southern parts of present-day Tamilnadu. Southern Tamilnadu (including the city of Thiruchirapalli and its suberb Samayapuram) was one of the key regions supplying labor to colonial Ceylon. The belief that Angayee came from Samayapuram signifies subaltern recognition of the important role that the region played in supplying the vast majority of the laborers to Sri Lanka. Angayamma is one of the many known names for Mariyamman. Angayee is a lower-caste name equivalent to the upper-caste name Angayamma. In Tamil, “angam” means body and “Amma” or “Ayee” is mother. Angayee or Angayamma also means the one who governs the body. As Mariyamman is believed to spread and cure smallpox and chickenpox which were then life threatening diseases, people believed it was Mariyamman who controlled the life and body of humans. Almost 80 percent of the workers migrating to Sri Lanka were from lower-caste villages. Thus, the name Angayee is a representation of the caste status that I will discuss in a later part of this chapter. Finally, in the Tamil world, the life cycle of a woman is divided into eellu paruvam (seven stages). Of these, kanni is almost the liminal stage in between childhood and adulthood; a woman can transform into a divine body only while in the kanni stage. Therefore, the kanni stage is a transition between human and divine status. The majority of the female workers were between ages twelve to seventeen when they were recruited by the kanganis. That Angayee is believed to be a thirteen-year-old is not a coincidence when taking into consideration that this age represents the workers’ age at that time. Despite Angayee’s power, she was obedient to the kangani. The British planters hired kanganis to manage labor due to their language proficiency in Tamil and their higher-caste identity so that they could easily control lowcaste workers using the authority of their status in the caste hierarchy. The kanganis were in charge of recruiting, dismissing, and determining wages and providing food and, as such, to a large extent, controlled the fate of workers. Even though the following story is not directly associated with Angayee’s arrival (because this occurred later in the nineteenth century), it reveals the power of kanganis in the everyday life of the workers. There is a temple named Mookuthi Amma Kovil (“Nose Ring Mother Temple”) in one of the tea plantations in the Nuwara-Eliya district of Sri Lanka. The story behind the name of the goddess goes like this. According to the local people, the wife of periya kangani (chief overseer) lost her diamond nose ring and the entire people of the estate searched for it for a whole day but could not find

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it. The laborers of the tea estate pleaded to Mariyamman to help them in finding the nose ring. Finally, when the nose ring was found, the local goddess was named after mookuthi (nose ring) and she came to be known as Mookuthi Mariyamman. This story also shows how much a kangani is regarded and feared by tea workers. Traditionally, unmarried Tamil women do not live in a single house. However, Angayee’s story describes the experience of tens of thousands of young female indentured workers who for the first time in their lives lived in line houses by themselves without any male family member supervising. This indicates how migration and the plantation economy also shaped the gender dynamic of Tamil households in the Up-country. Robin Blackburn writes about the conditions of early indentured workers in British colonies of the Americas that were similar to those found in Sri Lanka: The work was extremely hard, conditions appalling and life expectancy was short. Escaped servants were made to serve double time for their master. A repeated escape could lead to branding. Like slaves, the servant was regarded as a piece of property and was valued according to the amount of tobacco or sugar, which could be expected to be produced before the indenture expired. 19

In Angayee’s myth, she showed a mild resistance to the kangani, yet her reaction toward the planter’s arrogance took the form of vengeance. This might be because of the shared background with the kangani, who approached Angayee with a benefit of doubt, as against the white planter who displayed a real dismissive attitude toward her by cutting the tree in which she resided. However, Angayee’s resistance against the colonial planter is significant for two reasons: first, Angayee won, and second, her struggle reveals that workers did not remain as passive subjects but put up several forms of resistance. There have been a number of ways that the tea workers have struggled with the colonial planters to protect their culture. Storytelling traditions among the plantation workers reveal that on many occasions workers revolted against the colonial plantation owners. At times their struggle took the form of counter-culture rituals. Further, the story reveals how much workload has been assigned to women who performed a double role in the family and at the workplace. Angayee’s act of refusal to work reveals workers’ resistance at a time when there was no organized labor; on the other hand, it signifies the active role of women in fighting for workers’ rights on the plantation. It is important to note that Meenakshi Ammai, a plantation trade unionist, was the first female labor organizer in Sri Lanka. The plantation sector is one of world’s oldest feminized capitalist economies. As in many other feminized economies, even though women play an active role in terms of labor participation and income

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generation, because they have been placed within a patriarchal capitalist system they face barriers to exercising power in the workplace. But the female labor force was crucial in plantations because of their numerical majority, on the one hand, and on the other, their specialized skills in picking tea. There is also a cultural assumption that women, not men, possess the delicacy to pick tea. This might have forced the planters to meet the demands of female workers in order to prevent them from returning to India. The planter’s response in the myth is important because it portrays him as understanding Angayee’s power, which also represents the power of female workers, without whom he cannot run the industry at all. Tea workers’ association with Mariyamman is so important to their existence and, as such, the goddess’s disappearance raises a fear for the planter as it threatens the existence of the plantation system and the colonial economy itself. MARIYAMMAN’S HUSBAND: NEW PLACE AND NEW STRUGGLES IN EXILE In traditional Tamil culture a husband is portrayed as dominant and powerful and a wife as passive and weak. The husband is the breadwinner because of his control over land and labor; however, the gender role and family dynamic changed in colonial plantations. Both the wife and husband worked. No one owned anything. The wife brought home more income than her husband. Her participation in the economy gave her more power within the household but not socially because the plantation structure is still highly patriarchal. This might be why Mariyamman is positioned the way she is in her temples. Mariyamman is dressed in a colorful sari, adorned with gold and jasmine flowers and sitting in the sanctum sanctorum known as the sami arai (god/ goddess room) or karuvarai (womb room), while Munnadiyan, her husband, is sitting outside of the temple facing toward Mariyamman. According to a local belief, when Mariyamman experienced iddupu vali (hip pain) or vaithu vali (stomach pain) for her first baby, she sent Munnadiyan to the nearest town to bring marunthu sillavu (expensive medicine), the medicinal food given to mothers after delivery. Marunthu sillavu is referred to as a bundle of more than a hundred different types of herbs from the marunthu kadai (medicine store). Traditionally, marunthu sillavu is prepared by pounding all the roasted herbs together and rolling them into small balls with jaggery (brown sugar). Occasionally, it is given with alcohol or spicy chicken rasam (soup). It is believed that marunthu sillavu would help mothers find relief from pain and recover from postpartum health problems. Munnadiyan, who did not have prior knowledge in purchasing medicinal food, spent several days looking for all the required herbs. In the meantime, Mariyamman cured herself with the support of others in the estate. As Munnadiyan

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arrived home, the angry Mariyammnan declared, “Do not step into the house,” and she locked the door. Since then, Munnadiyan has been waiting outside with a hope that one day Mariyamman would let him back in the house. Another story describes how Munnadiyan came home late one night from town and his wife, Mariyamman, refused to open the door. Channa, in her work with Dalit women in India, argues that low-caste women have traditionally been more autonomous, aggressive, and powerful in decision making at the household level than women of higher castes primarily because of their active engagement in economic activities. 20 I see a similar logic here in Mariyamman ousting her husband. Munnadiyan’s story reflects the power possessed by the female gender, but also describes the challenges estate workers experienced in a new place far away from home and relatives. In Tamil culture, the mother or mother-inlaw of the husband prepares medicinal food for newly delivered mothers. Men do not participate in the process. In Tamilnadu, the most common practice is for a newly married pregnant woman to go to her mother’s house to deliver the first baby and return after three months. However, the first generation of indentured workers could not go to their mother’s home (in India) for delivery because of indebtedness to the planter. Under indentured service, workers were allowed to go to India only after paying all debts to the planters. Geographical remoteness could have delayed Munnadiyan’s trip to collect herbal medicine. Plantations were established in remote areas with no transportation. Institutionalized discrimination, geographical remoteness, language differences, and the low literacy rate were all major causes for the higher maternal and child mortality rate in plantations in comparison to other areas of Sri Lanka. The plantation sector still has the highest infant and maternal mortality rates in Sri Lanka. It is very significant to the Up-country people that Mariyamman ousted her husband from the house for being late. In general, Up-country women expect their husbands to be back from town before it gets dark for several reasons including safety, but also to prevent alcohol consumption, and to ensure that men did not get involved in extramarital affairs. In households with pregnant women, young children, and girls experiencing puberty, no person was allowed back home after 6 p.m. in order to prevent the attack of kaathu and karuppu (wind and black) demons and evils. Men who come home after dark will not be allowed in without washing their hands and feet. This custom may also be about hygiene. The myth also refers to how the first generation of indentured workers were completely cut off from their extended kin groups in India and lived in the absence of institutions to resolve family disputes. There were not any traditional or modern authorities to resolve domestic disputes in workers’

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families; therefore, the local estate leaders and neighbors on the plantation played a key role in resolving family disputes. THIRUVIZA The annual thiruviza (festival) is one of the busiest times in tea plantations. Thirivizas have two components: Mariyamman’s wedding or her reunion with Munnadiyan, and seeking rain for prosperity. The Mariyamman thiriviza in the Up-country coincides with the well-known wedding of Meenakshi Amman in Madurai, India; however, in the Up-country it is a reunion of a separated couple rather than a wedding. Mariyamman is invited from the riverbank and reunited with Munnadiyan for a few days and then she is taken back to the riverbank. The day for the thiruviza is fixed with the permission of Mariyamman, which occurs after an event called gramathu kelvi (village questioning). Gramathu kelvi is a public religious ritual in which Mariyamman will answer the questions of villagers. She also warns against immoral behavior and the necessary steps to be taken before and after thiruviza. Mariyamman’s thiruviza reveals conflict, reconciliation, and renewal of relationships. Even though each plantation has a temple, Mariyamman is believed to be protecting the estate from aatham karai (river bank). Rivers and streams serve as the boundaries of each plantation and they separate estates from native Sinhalese villages in Sri Lanka. In order to handle constant threats from the outside, workers often placed Mariyamman’s statue (a triangular stone) at the entrance of their estates. On a Friday morning, women lay the foundation stone for the wedding panthal (ritualistic stage) and men will complete it. The entire estate engages in a purification of homes, roads, and the temple to welcome Mariyamman from the riverbank. On Friday night, the entire estate population goes to the riverbank to invite Mariyamman. She is welcomed with aarathi (a red liquid used to invite) and kumbam (a ritual pot). The entire village follows Mariyamman’s procession to the temple with singing and dancing. Mariyamman is brought in the form of water in a karagam (a special clay pot). Then she is given a bath and decorated with new clothes, gold, and flowers. She wears the tali, a symbol of marriage and a sign of her reunion with Munnadiyan. The entire estate celebrates Mariyamman’s presence and reunion by making special foods including kanchi, pongal, and mavilakku. Later on that night, Mariyamman will visit every household of the estate to purify homes and bless workers. Each household invites her with special food, flowers, and clothes. Mariyamman thiruviza is primarily a ritual seeking the blessing of Mariyamman for rain. As Mariyamman enters the temple the next morning, she will be taken to show and bless every field of the estate. Water from the

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karagam will be sprinkled on tea bushes symbolically asking for more rain. Unlike other crops, tea requires rain throughout the year for a good yield. Since the drought season in the Up-country begins in January and continues until May, the workers engage in performing various rituals to please Mariyamman so she will bless them with rain. Without rain, workers in tea plantations face extreme economic hardship and health problems. During the drought season, six or seven days of weekly work is reduced to three to four days. So a lack of rain results in a low income, food insecurity, water contamination, and heat-related illnesses. Usually, the thiruviza is held in April. As the northeast monsoon usually begins in May–June, the workers believe the monsoon is an answer to the celebration of the festival. The plantation management also supports thiruviza by declaring holidays. In most communities, Mariyamman receives a special puja at the teaweighing station by female workers, and then she visits the planter’s bungalow, staff, and workers respectively. Mariyamman’s visit reflects the power hierarchy of people and places in the plantation system. On Sunday evening, Mariyamman will participate in manjal neeratam (the celebration of yellow water) in which people renew their relationship by throwing water on others in the village. GODDESS OF TEA Mariyamman was traditionally known in south India as the goddess of fertility and chickenpox. On Sri Lanka’s plantations, she is worshiped as the goddess of tea leaves instead. Typically, every morning upon arrival at the workplace, female workers bow down to the tea bushes before they begin plucking kolunthu (tea). The first handful of tender leaves picked is sacrificed to the goddess of kolunthu. The workers sprinkle the second and third handfuls of tea leaves into the tea basket, saying, “poli, poli, poli, poli, poli poli, poli . . . poli” (rise, rise, rise) asking the goddess to fill the basket. It is a collective worship for economic security. Plantation workers have to pick required amounts of tea leaves to get a full day’s wage. If they pick a little less than the required amount, they will receive only half a day’s wage. Every day, therefore, begins with uncertainty for workers, as they do not know whether they will receive a half a day or full day’s wage for eight to ten hours of toiling in the sun and rain. Interestingly, male workers worship all other occupational deities in the estates and they seek protection rather than productivity because their work is considered more dangerous than the women’s. The deities worshiped also reflect the sexual division of labor in plantations.

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MARIYAMMAN’S CASTE: CLAIMING NEW STATUS As R. Jayaraman says, the institution of caste still continues on Sri Lankan tea plantations; however, the plantation produced a caste hierarchy entirely different from that found in the Indian Tamil or Sri Lankan Tamil caste systems. 21 The Up-country plantation workers were placed in the hierarchical caste order listed here from most prestigious to least prestigious: kudiyanavar, pallar, parayar, and sakiliar. The order, however, has been contested in local communities. The upper-caste kudiyanavar is a numerical minority; however, for a long time they dominated the leadership of estate communities. They continue to hold significant power in trade unions and political parties outside of the plantation. As a large number of kudiyanvar migrated back to India or to urban areas in Sri Lanka after independence, other castes dominated the leadership within estates. Even though there has been a caste difference among the workers, the notion of untouchability disappeared due to low-caste domination, and the structure of the plantation system itself. Shared space, occupations, and resources created an egalitarian culture in estates. While I was doing research on caste-based discrimination in the Upcountry tea plantations, I asked many people the caste identity of Mariyamman. Interestingly, each caste group claims Mariyamman is from their own caste. A sakiliar woman who claimed Mariyamman is of her caste used her tali as evidence to prove it. In the Up-country a tali usually (though not always) indicates the caste status of people; however, an agamudayar, one of the eighteen kudiyanavar sub-castes’ women, used her pottu (auspicious mark on the forehead), and tali as evidence to claim Mariyamman’s caste status. Sakiliar and agamudayar tali are largely identical to a great extent. These claims reveal the ambiguous caste identity of Up-country people. When workers migrated from India to Ceylon, some altered their caste identities. This is an example of the “liminality” of Up-country Tamils as they defined their identity in the new place. In some ways migration created a more egalitarian status among the Up-country Tamils and gave them an opportunity to negotiate and reinvent a new social system. RISE AND FALL OF MARIYAMMAN WORSHIP Marxist and Weberian theories of religion both discuss the relationship between religion and economy. While Marxists argue that the economic system alone shapes religion, Weberian scholars argue that religious ideas can also shape economic systems. Anthropological studies of Sri Lankan religions document how colonialism, modernity, and globalization impacted religious and cultural ideologies and practices in modern Sri Lanka. In their work

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titled Buddhism Transformed, Gombrich and Obeyesekere, 22 for example, inspired by Weber, examine how so-called Protestant Christianity influenced Buddhism. Whitaker 23 has documented the influence of legal modernity on east coast Hindu temples, and Tennakoon 24 and Tambiah 25 have shown how the liberalization of Sri Lanka’s economy influenced the Buddhist rituals that were shaping development discourse. Similarly, with regard to the religiosity found in colonial and postcolonial Up-country plantations, I argue that the plantation system helped shape the workers’ folk religiosity illustrated by their Mariyamman worship. As in all other aspects of life, including dress, food, arts, and so on, so religiosity is also shaped by colonialism and the plantation economy. The myths about Mariyamman’s arrival, her life on a plantation, and rituals that celebrate her all reveal how colonialism and capitalism together impacted folk worship in the Up-country. The goddess of peasants in India in this way became the goddess of plantation laborers in Ceylon. NOTES My sincere gratitude to Drs. Mark Whitaker and Sree Padma for their help in preparing this chapter. 1. Karen K. Brown, Mama Lola: A Vodou Priestess in Brooklyn (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1991), 5. 2. Lisa Malkki, “National Geographic: The Rooting of Peoples and the Territorialization of National Identity among Scholars and Refugees,” Cultural Anthropology 7 (1992): 34. 3. Gananath Obeyesekere, The Cult of the Goddess Pattini (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 7. 4. Ibid., 7. 5. Veddas, “Colonial Histories and Vädda Primitivism: An Unorthodox Reading of Kandy Period,” http://vedda.org/obeyesekere4.htm (accessed October, 20, 2013). 6. Sunil Goonasekara, Walking to Kataragama (Colombo: International Center for Ethnic Studies, 2007), 15. 7. William Harman, “Taming the Fever Goddess: Transforming a Tradition in South India,” Manushi 140 (2003): 3. 8. Eric Wolf, Europe and the People without History (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1981), 3. 9. Sasikumar Balasundaram, “Malaiyaha People: A Study on Changing Ethnic Idenity Formation among the Up-country Tamils.” Thesis, University of Peradeniya, Sri Lanka, 2005. 10. Valentine E. Daniel, “Coolie,” Cultural Anthropology 23, no. 2 (2008): 254. 11. William S. Pollitzer, Gullah People and their African Heritage (Atlanta, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2004), 3. 12. Daniel, 255. 13. Victor Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-structure (New York: Aldine de Gruyter, 1969), 97. 14. Ibid., 98. 15. Balasundaram, 6. 16. Pollitzer, 13. 17. Alfred Metraux, Voodoo in Haiti (London: Pantheon, 1989), 23. 18. Emile Durkeim, The Elementary Forms of Religious Life (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), 2.

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19. Socialism Today, “The Making of New World Slavery: From the Baroque to the Modern 1492–1800,” www.socialismtoday.org/33/slavery33.html (accessed October 21, 2013). 20. Subhadra M. Channa, “Right to Self-hood: The Paradox of Being a Dalit Woman,” Social Action 51, no. 4 (2001): 337. 21. R. Jayaraman, Caste Continuities in Ceylon: A Study of the Social Structure of Three Tea Plantations (Bombay: Popular Prakashan, 1975), 21. 22. Richard Gombrich and Gananath Obesekere, Buddhism Transformed (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 12. 23. Mark Whitaker, Amiable Incoherence: Manipulating Histories and Modern Histories in a Batticaloa Temple (Amsterdam: VU University of Amsterdam, 1999), 5. 24. Serena Tennekoon, “Newspaper Nationalism: Sinhala Identity as Historical Discourse,” in Sri Lanka: History and the Roots of Conflict, ed. by Jonathan Spencer (New York: Routledge, 1990), 206. 25. Stanley J. Tambiah, Buddhism Betrayed: Religion, Politics, and Violence in Sri Lanka (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 11.

Chapter Five

Creating Realities, Communicating Dreams, Constructing Temple Lore Anklets for the Goddess’s Feet at Thirumeeyachur Vasudha Narayanan

Children’s stories of western European origin used to begin with the classic lines, “Once upon a time . . .” Traditional stories for children in Tamilnadu, on the other hand, start with the phrase: “In a certain town (oru oorile), there lived . . .” Almost every village, every town in India is sacred and associated with a hierophany. This chapter is about a certain town, Thirumeeyachur, 1 its presiding Goddess, Lalithambika, and the dynamic process of accretion in the creation of “traditional lore” (sthala purana) about a place. The sthala purana—the official accounts of the temple from mythic time to the twenty-first century—for Thirumeeyachur, is remarkably succinct and has been reissued in 2011. Mythic time and historic time merge seamlessly in this document, but the importance of the place and the Goddess is central. In retelling the narratives within a sthala purana, we see (a) the creation and re-creation of narratives of a certain place, placing it in a timeless history as well as historical time; (b) narratives relevant to devotee demands and shifting pilgrim needs; (c) a reiteration of the place’s sacrality by weaving together classical-vernacular and Sanskrit traditions; and (d) an affirmation of its immediate local and cosmic importance. Thirumeeyachur is a small village, about a kilometer from Peralam, Tamilnadu; 10 km from Mayiladuturai; and about 300 km south of Chennai (map 0.2 on the affiliated website). The official name of the temple is Sri Lalithambika sameta Sri Meghanatha thirukovil—the Sacred Temple of Sri Meghanatha (Shiva) who is accompanied by (the goddess) Sri Lalithambika. 121

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Although the Shaiva poets Appar and Thirujnanasambandhar sang about Shiva, in this temple, it is now Lalithambika, the goddess, who reigns supreme over this land and over her devotees, not just in the town or Tamilnadu, but wherever they are in the world (figure 5.1). Since the late 1990s, Lalithambika’s popularity has soared. About that time, there were about two to three hundred visitors a year, most of them in buses going on a tour of sacred Shiva places in Tamilnadu, stopping very briefly en route to a larger, more famous shrine. Now, more than a hundred thousand (“one lakh”) visitors come to this temple every year. 2 Revenues have increased; the train station in Peralam nearby is being expanded. 3 A discussion of the Thirumeeyachur temple will make explicit a feature that is typical of many temples in south India—that the local temple is local both in its vernacular and Sanskritic forms. With the identification of the deities with the pan-Hindu ones, the temple is also part of a broader spectrum of Hindu traditions and discourses. Further, while the male deity is said to be the officiating one in inscriptions and architecturally has the central shrine, it is the so-called “consort” who is the main deity—at least in the recent past— as far as the pilgrims and local population are concerned, and the temple is popularly known by her name. This is similar to many other Shaiva temples

Figure 5.1. Sri Lalithambika sameta Sri Meghanatha Thirukovil

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in the south, like the Meenakshi Amman temple in Madurai and the Kamakshi Amman temple in Kanchipuram—but very unlike other Vaishnava temples in Tamilnadu where, by and large, it is the local form of Vishnu who is dominant. In the smaller Shaiva temples in rural areas, however, one sees one more feature that one encounters only in a much slower measure in the larger, very Sanskritized temples. This is the very fluid and dynamic nature of the sthala purana. With a fairly swift turn-around time when necessary, new stories are added on to the structure and other details omitted in local temples, whereas changes are slower in the large, better-known, more “Sanskritized” temples. This results in more than just giving a facelift to the sthala purana of the smaller village temples—it actually increases not just the cultural, but the material capital of the temple, with more pilgrims coming in, having heard of the temple through a magazine or a TV feature. Blog sites now repeat stories which are like urban legends and sthala puranas are made of this lore. CONTEXT: GENERAL LOCATION OF TIRUMEEYACHUR AND THE PRE-EMINENT GODDESS TEMPLES IN THE AREA Thirumeeyachur is located not far from the Kaveri river, in the midst of green fields in the fertile area near Thanjavur, Kumbakonam, and Mayiladuthurai (map 0.2 on the affiliated website), but in the middle of what one may call a veritable jungle of temples. It is not an exaggeration to say that there are hundreds of old and new temples within a few square kilometers, all close to the Kaveri river. Vishnu, Shiva, the goddess, Murugan, Pillaiyar (Ganesha), and personifications of the navagraha (“nine planets”), very popular in the pilgrimage circuit now, all reside next to each other, and every one of these deities has a distinct, local name and identity. More recently, as we will see soon, they have become well known for having very specialized functions. Tamil poets, who lived in the latter part of the first millennium, sang about many of these temples. These temples are popularly known as “patal pettra sthalankal,” or places which have been sung by the Vaishnava poets (alvars) or the Shaiva poets (nayanmar). Among the scores of temples in this neck of the woods, we find a few dozen very important ones in the immediate Kumbakonam and Nagapattinam area (map 0.2 on the affiliated website). Close to Thirumeeyachur are the temples for Vishnu (known here as “Devadiraja” and “Gosaka” Perumal) in Terazhundur, the Goddess Saraswati in Koothanur, and the large ones in Thiruvarur. Hundreds of websites plot these temples on maps with nearby temples and the distances between them. Thus, the “Holy India” site with maps lists and plots the location of about twenty-two temples close to Thiru-

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meeyachur, and about half of them are within 4 kilometers (2.5 miles) of the temple; the others are within 7 km (about 4.5 miles) from it. 4 Vishnu and Shiva temples in the Kumbakonam area are both prolific in number and ancient in age. And, as though these temples to Shiva, Vishnu, multiple goddesses, Murugan, and Pillaiyar in their hybrid, Tamil-Sanskritized identities were not enough, there are dozens of other local temples and wayside shrines with deities who are not yet engaged in the process of getting identified with pan-Hindu divinities. To add to this list and to the complexity of the devotional universe, hundreds of thousands of Hindus also go to nearby dargahs (where Muslim pirs/“saints” are enshrined) and to a Catholic institution in Velankanni (Vailankanni), which hosts a gracious manifestation of Mother Mary. Thus, the dargah at Nagore (near Nagapattinam), where the Shahul Hamid (circa fifteenth to sixteenth centuries) and his family are enshrined, is only about 22 miles from Thirumeeyachur; the “Shrine Basilica of Our Lady of Health Vailankanni,” famous for reports on the three Marian apparitions in the sixteenth century, is only 32 miles away. Given these hundreds of choices, local people go to the temple they are accustomed to regularly, and occasionally try out new ones for specific purposes on the recommendation of family or friends. Thus, someone may be told that a planet is in an adverse house in his/her horoscope, and that is indicative (and perhaps even the cause) of one’s travails. Actions to stop such unfortunate events from recurring are suggested and these remedial actions frequently involve a visit to a specific temple. Alternatively, someone may recommend a visit to a dargah to cure an illness. In recent years, many of these temples are on the pilgrimage circuit for devotees from all over South India, and some of the larger ones are on the national and international maps. Popular “thematic” itineraries include temples sung about by the alvars (Vaishnava poet-saints who lived between the seventh and ninth centuries CE), temples sung by Shaiva saints, Devi/Goddess temples, and most important in the last few decades, tours to the navagraha (“nine planets”) temples, all in the Kumbakonam area. It is not just that most Tamil- and Telugusspeaking people believe in astrology; many of them are familiar enough with their horoscopes to be conscious of the transits of various planets, and during these periods when major planets such as Saturn or Jupiter transit from one zodiac sign to another, scores of buses filled with pilgrims ply these routes so they can venerate and placate the powers that be. The Lalithambika temple in Thirumeeyachur is just hitting its stride in popularity; the specific appeal and functions of many other old Sakti temples west of Kumbakonam began to be popularized by temple authorities and media around the 1970s and became increasingly famous among pilgrims who wanted fulfillment of specific needs. These include the old Durga temple at Patteeswaram (an ancient capital of the Chola empire), where the goddess is supposed to have killed the demon Mahisha; the Garbha Rak-

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shambika (“she who guards the fetus in the womb”) temple in Tirukkarugavur; Sakti Mutram (where Parvati is said to have embraced Shiva); and Thirumanancheri, where Shiva is said to have married Parvati. Many of these temples owe their recent popularity, to some extent, to finding a “niche” market. The Garbha Rakshambika Temple, which is about 15 km from Kumbakonam, is a popular site of pilgrimage and mail-order worship rituals (puja/archana) for devotees from many parts of the world. Parvati, who is known as “the Goddess who protects the fetus in the womb,” presides over this temple, and devotees have made a silver cradle in front of her. Couples who want to conceive a child or those who are praying for a safe pregnancy or delivery come personally or send money to sponsor special prayers here. While more than a thousand years old, this temple, too, became famous only since the last two decades of the twentieth century. Sakti Mutram, where Parvati embraced Shiva, and Thirumanancheri, where the divine couple married, are among the popular destinations for people who want to get married (Vishnu temple called Tiruvidavendai, near Chennai, is also a center for votive prayers for weddings). Pilgrims frequently go to Thirumanancheri to pray that they find a suitable spouse, and then later on they go back to fulfill their vow wearing their wedding garlands. But those who want to pass special examinations or excel in academic pursuits go to Saraswati’s temple—this is one of the few temples for Saraswati in India—in Kuthanur, hardly 5 km from Thirumeeyachur, and make offerings of notebooks, pens, and pencils. Busloads of pilgrims have hard choices to make between all these temples, and some sacred sites get neglected over time. Thirumeeyachur was one such temple; as Hari Rajagopalachari, an executive who divides his time between Bangalore and Toronto, remarked after his visit to this temple in 1999, “There were trees growing on the high walls surrounding the temple, the courtyard was overgrown with weeds.” The temple, he says, had fallen into “disrepair and was forgotten.” 5 Thirumeeyachur was under benign neglect for centuries, with the only visitors being those staunchly devoted pilgrims who are on a mission to visit every last Shiva temple sung about by the nayanmars. Thus, while several other temples also rose to popularity in the latter part of the twentieth century by getting niche “markets” with specific appeal to devotees who wanted success in education or careers, to get married, or have children, Thirumeeyachur was not known and fell off the map. Even now, websites which give long lists of temples in clusters—either geographic or sectarian—frequently skip Thirumeeyachur. For instance, the large temple of Thiruvarur, made extremely popular because of its connection with the three major figures of classical south Indian Carnatic Music in the nineteenth century, is only 25 km/15 miles away. An elaborate website which lists thirteen sites and all the important temples near Thiruvarur, going as far as

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Kumbakonam and Thanjavur, does not even mention Thirumeeyachur (map 0.2 on the affiliated website). It does, however, include the Velankanni church and the Nagore dargah in this list. 6 But even this feature of benign neglect and the recent popularity of the temple is cast in mythic language. Hari Rajagopalachari was told by the local people a story about this and writes: Around the year 1950, the great sage of Kanchi, Paramacharya Chandrasekara Saraswathi, walked through the village and stopped at the temple door. He stepped across the threshold of the main temple door and then paused, closed his eyes and drew back with the remark, “The goddess is deep in meditation and does not want to be disturbed now. She will invite her true devotees after another fifty years.” 7

And it was right around the beginning of the new millennium that the goddess woke up from her meditation. The increasing numbers of pilgrims, donations, and eventually, renovations to the local train station and the temple itself began then; and, now, plans are underway to procure a gold-plated chariot for the goddess. We will now see how this transformation took place by getting several perspectives on a single event which proved to be a catalyst for this change. This incident has taken a life of its own and is now part of the sthala purana of Thirumeeyachur. STHALA PURANAS There are many kinds of sthala puranas. Though not necessarily the oldest, some of the more formal and fixed varieties are embedded in Sanskrit puranas, and even now, this is the desired locus where many of the local sthala puranas situate themselves in a reconstructed literary context. There are also recorded, vernacular kinds of sthala puranas, quite local, yet quite Sanskritized and hauntingly beautiful like the Telugu Bhagavatamu of Potana. 8 There are also folk mythologies—and, as Ramanujan says, “[W]hen these folk mythologies are related to a local cult, caste, with its own origin myths, sacred calendar, and sacred geography, they tend to crystallize around a godfigure into long narratives which may be called ‘folk puranas.’” The ones that Ramanujan has studied in Karnataka, however, have more formal, identifiable characteristics. The folk puranas, he says, “are sung, maintained, and learned according to certain ritual prescriptions by a group of specialists devoted to a specific god and initiated by, and raised to perform, special observances.” Moreover, a “musical instrument symbolic (or iconic or indexical) of the God is used in the singing/chanting/reciting of the Purana, usually in a group with foreground (mummela) and background (himmela) perform-

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ers. These puranas are also performed on special days (pilgrimages and occasions) and in places sacred to the god.” 9 The Thirumeeyachur sthala purana, as we will soon see, is a folk purana only in a general manner of speaking, in that it is a work that is fluid and rewritten regularly by a local scholar, but not a folk purana in Ramanujan’s specialized sense of the term. This is not a bardic work that is sung regularly with musical instruments and as entertainment for the gods in the night on special occasions. It is, like most other sthala puranas of the region, composed by local scholars or devotees in the local language. In the past, in these rural areas, a few hundred copies of a small pamphlet with the local lore would be published and kept in the home of the priest or a local family, close to the temple. It would be rewritten and republished if there was a major temple ritual, once in a decade, or if a person who hailed from the village wanted to sponsor the publication. There have been two versions of the Thirumeeyachur sthala purana in the last few decades. One, completely in Tamil, was published as a free insert with a Tamil magazine in 1997. The other was published in three languages, Tamil, Telugu, and English in January 2011, speaking to the increasing popularity of the temple among non-local, non-Tamil-speaking crowds. The Thirumeeyachur temple, along with its twin temple, the Thirumeeyachur Secondary Temple (ilankoyil), which is contained within its precincts, and those at Thirupugalur and Tiruchengattankudi, is governed by an adheenam or matha—that is, a religious institution, sometimes loosely translated as “monastery.” The Velakurichi Adheenam, located in an eponymous village on the banks of the Porunai (popularly known as the Tamaraparani) river, is near the town of Ambasamudram, Tirunelveli district, in the deep south of Tamilnadu. The current head of this adheenam, which is said to have been founded in the fifteenth century CE, is Sri-la-Sri Sathyagnana Mahadeva Desika Paramacharya Swamigal. The 1997 sthala purana lists the head “pontiff” of the adheenam as Ajappa Nateswara Pandara Sannadhikal. 10 Most sthala puranas give us some sense of the architecture and the physical layout of the temple itself. From the 1997 sthala purana, we see that what we call “Thirumeeyachur” is actually a place with not one, but two temples; the title of the pamphlet says it is the lore about both the Thirumeeyachur Sacred Temple (thirukoyil) and that of the Thirumeeyachur “secondary” temple (ilankoyil). On a casual visit, it is hard to distinguish that these are technically two separate temples; but they are, and lists of Shaiva temples sung about by the nayamars count them as two distinct entities. The general explanation given is that sometimes an initial, preliminary temple is built, and then a main one is constructed. After the main temple is built, the preliminary shrine is ordinarily taken down. For reasons we do not know, this did not happen in Thirumeeyachur, and we are left with twin temples; and both

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have been celebrated by the Shaiva poets. One of the most detailed websites devoted to temples in South India explains this phenomenon thus: Seen next to this [i.e., the goddess’s temple] is the Sakala Bhuvaneswarar temple, referred to as Meeyachur Ilamkoyil (Balalayam) housing the image preliminarily consecrated before the temple came to function. It is common practice to demolish the Ilamkoyil after the consecration. Only in rare cases is the Ilamkoyil is preserved, a suitable structure built. At Tirumeeyachur, both these shrines are preserved and worship is carried out at both. Appar [also known as Thirunavakkarasu, a Tamil poet who lived around the seventh to eighth centuries CE] refers to Meeyachur Ilamkoyil as Totrum Koyil or the main temple to be, and Tonriya Koyil, or the Ilamkoyil already in existence. 11

Both temples have shrines for different forms of Shiva and the goddess, and each manifestation of the deity has a different name. The goddess in what is now the “main” temple is Lalithambika; the Tamil name of the goddess in the secondary temple is Minnum Megalaiyaal—she with a glittering waist belt or, more interpretively, she whose waist is as thin as lightning. The 1997 sthala purana makes it abundantly clear right in the beginning that it is about “the Sacred Temple (thirukkoyil) of the Gracious Meghanatha, who is accompanied by Lalithamiba, Thirumeeyachur and the Second Temple (ilankoyil), Thirumiyachur, which are the property of Velakkurichi Adhinam (monastery).” 12 By the time the 2011 sthala purana is written and Lalithambika’s power has been felt, the title of the book has become more narrow; the focus is only on the temple of the goddess “Lalithambiga, who is with Lord Meganatha.” We will now focus on the traditional lore of this town, and its perception of its own past. STHALA PURANA—LEGENDS OLD, LEGENDS NEW To understand the various elements that come together in the creation of a new version of a sthala purana, let us look at parts of the first page of the English version of this account, published in 2011. As mentioned earlier, this 2011 book is in Tamil, Telugu, and English. The English version is not a translation of the Tamil one but roughly covers the same material. However, the English version includes an important addition not seen in the Tamil account of the lore which appears earlier in the book. The English version begins thus: Thirumiyachur[,] the Sacred Abode of the Mother and the Lord. Bharatha Kanda [i.e., the land of India] is not only an ancient land but also one that has let the entire world partake of its spiritual wealth . . . countless are the

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saints, Siddhas, Nayanmars and Alwars, who have . . . [lived here and] sang ecstatically the praise of the Divine and attained salvation. The foremost of them is Thirumiyachur, [of] which Thirunavukarasar [also known as Appar] has sung. . . . Appar goes on to extol this temple as one that transforms the minds of devotees. Thirugnanasambandar [another Tamil saint, said to be a junior contemporary of Appar] exhorts us to visit the temple to absolve ourselves of our sins. This sacred and much sung Thirumiyachur lies in the midst of fields and gardens watered by the river Cauvery. It was here that Surya became free of his curse and Saneeswara and Yama were born to him. Vali, Sugriva, Arunan and Garuda were also born here. . . . This is where Lalitha Sahasranama, which resounds across all temples in the world came into being. It was here that Mother Lalitha appeared to Sage Agasthya personifying the Navarathnas [nine gems]. Mother Lalithambika of this temple appeared in the dream of a devotee and expressed the desire to wear anklets and got the devotee to adorn her with it. Let us now proceed to this mighty and wondrous temple. According to Puranas Surya created this pond and did penance and worshiped Lord Shiva here every day for six month to be rid of his curse. This sacred pond is graced further by a shrine for Surya in the east and a shrine for Vinayaka in the west. 13 (italics mine)

The many features we can note in the account quoted above include: 1. A “historical” strata which includes the composition of Tamil verses on this temple by two poets who lived circa the seventh to eighth centuries CE. The sthala purana also goes on in later pages to talk about the endowments of Rajendra Chola (eleventh century CE) and the dowager queen, Sembiyan Mahadevi (tenth century CE). 2. A strata purporting to go back to a hazy distant, puranic time—and this may or may not be older than the historical data given above. It notes the birth of many characters from the puranas and epics and specially mentions that this is the place where the very famous south Indian Sanskrit prayer, the Lalitha Sahasranama (the thousand names of the goddess Lalitha), was revealed. This is of significance when we discuss the point below in a little while. 3. A strata that combines recent events with “miracle making”—expressed in the lines: “It was here Lalithambika of this temple appeared in the dream of a devotee and expressed the desire to wear anklets and got the devotee to adorn her with it.” The author of the sthala purana has woven many threads into this account. The author and the other devotees do know the difference between legend and history; but in a sense of kaleidoscopic reality, each is believable in its own context. Orsi notices a similar structure when he writes about New Yorkers going to a grotto in the Roman Catholic church of St. Lucy, at the

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corner of Broxwood and Mace Avenues in North Bronx. Here, in 1939, American Catholics built a replica of the holy site of Lourdes in New York. About the time the grotto was built and the water pipes were being fitted, there was a rumor that in a manner similar to Bernadette miraculously finding a spring in Lourdes in 1858, the builders had miraculously found a freshwater spring under the Bronx pavement. The water in the Bronx grotto, says Orsi, “is treated by those who come for it as Lourdes water, and it is also believed to be miraculously efficacious.” 14 People even fill their car radiators with this blessed Bronx Lourdes water for protection on the road. However, when Orsi curiously asked one of the visitors in Bronx where the water here comes from, thinking she may mention the miraculous pool story, she said, “It is city water, it comes from the reservoir I guess.” On the one hand, the visitors identify this as blessed Lourdes water, fill up bottles, and take them home. They fill their car radiators with this Bronx Lourdes water to protect themselves, thus reiterating its sacrality; on the other hand, when Orsi asks them where the water comes from, they look at him incredulously and name the local water source. 15 Many scholars have noted that mythic time moves into historical time “without a dividing line” in recollections of the past. Narayana Rao has given several examples of this phenomenon and says that this continuity is what the Puranic worldview promotes. 16 We should only add to this observation by noting what is obvious—the cut between “mythic” and “historical” is our distinction, not that of the author of the sthala purana or some of the devotees; the line of teachers, performers, traditions flow smoothly, without chopped compartmentalization in their minds. Reality is not fragmented but experienced in an integrated manner. After briefly looking at the puranic legends of Surya as well as the rise of the Lalitha Saharanama prayer (point 2 above) connected with this locale of the goddess, we will focus on the propagation of recent lore indicated in point 3. Both versions of the sthala puranas (1997 and 2011) give the “puranic” legends connected with this place. Many of them are stories which are not found in any other source. What is important to this paper is that despite the tangential issues in the story, it depicts the goddess Parvati as closely connected with Shiva and having to be placated by him at one point. In recent lore (the devotee and the dream), however, it is Lalithambika who is dominant, and there is no mention of Shiva at all. The sthala purana narrates a story about the sun god, Surya and Thirumeeyachur; and, like most other local sthala puranas, assumes vaguely that it is found in a Sanskrit purana. This is done frequently, but there are not too many elements in the following story that appear in other narratives involving the same character. The one common thread is actually one that is not relevant to Thirumeeyachur or our discussion—it is that Vinata and Kadru

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are given an egg each and that Garuda is born of Vinata. Many Sanskrit sources also affirm that Indra and Surya are the fathers of Vali and Sugriva— but there are many versions of the mother’s name. Everything else is unique to this place. The story begins with the rishi Kashyapa’s two wives, Vinata and Kadru. They were given an egg each and told to guard them safely and that they would hatch in due time. Vinata’s egg broke, and the celestial bird Garuda emerged. Jealous that the other wife had progeny, Kadru got impatient, broke open the egg she had, and saw a half-formed child. This child, Arunan, did not have legs. (In better-known versions of this story, Kadru is the mother not of Arunan but of the nagas or snakes). He became the charioteer of Surya, and when he asked permission to go to Kailasa to see Shiva and Parvati, apparently Surya denied it. Arunan transformed himself into an enchanting woman (“Mohini”) and went to see Shiva. Indra saw this beautiful woman and seduced her; Vali, the monkey king who is seen in the Ramayana, is said to be born of this episode. Vishnu cursed Indra and also told Vali he would give him salvation later. Surya heard of this and wished to see Arunan in the Mohini form; Arunan refused but was apparently pressured into doing so. Seeing “her” (that is, Arunan in a female form), Surya ravished this enchanting woman, and “she” gave birth to Sugriva, the half-brother of Vali in the Ramayana. 17 Arunan, in desperation, cried to Shiva for help. Shiva cursed Surya to lose his light and color, and the world was plunged into darkness. He was promised redemption in Thirumeeyachur; but when, after seven months of intense meditation, he was still not cured, he screamed aloud. The wailing disturbed Parvati in the shrine, and she was about to curse Surya. Shiva pacified Parvati and told her she should be the peaceful goddess (shanta nayaki). The act of Shiva pacifying Parvati (she is not called Lalithambika in the oral narratives depicting this story) is depicted in a famous and exquisite sculpture on the walls of the temple. The sculpture shows the couple in a tender moment—Parvati is looking away, and Shiva’s hand is under Parvati’s chin. It is claimed that if one looks at the sculpture from the left, Parvati seems angry; but viewed from the right side, she seems to be in a happy mood. Surya is cured and regains his luster. Celestial beings called vasini-s, it is said, flew out of the goddess’s mouth and recited the “thousand names of Lalita” (Lalitha Sahasranama), a prayer of considerable renown in South India. In a variation or addition to this story, it is said that the sage Agastya narrated the Lalitha Sahasranama to Hayagriva, the horse-headed manifestation of Vishnu in the Brahmanda Purana. To reconcile both versions, that is, the local one about the vasini-s and Agastya, we are told in the sthala purana that the vasini-s said it first and then Agastya recounted it to Hayagriva.

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THE LALITHA SAHASRANAMA The goddess Lalitha is glorified in detail in the Brahmanda Purana. At the center of the Sri Vidya worship traditions, which are both distinct from but understood by orthoprax devotees to be continuous with the Vedic traditions, the prayer known as the “Thousand Names of Lalitha” is very popular in South India. It is said to be part of the Brahmanda Purana, which, like most puranas, is of uncertain date. Brooks says: The earliest Sanskrit sources devoted specifically to Srividya—sources linking the figure of Lalitha to the sricakra and/or fifteen or sixteen syllable mantra— cannot be realistically dated before the eighth or ninth centuries. . . . Texts such as the Lalitasahasranama and the Nityasodasikarnava, the first part of the Vamakesvaratantra, may be much older than their written forms but neither textual nor historical evidence can verify traditionalist claims. The notion that a systematic theology erupted in a flurry of literary activity, as it has been suggested, seems unlikely considering the precedents of oral transmission elsewhere in Tantrism and the epigraphical evidence linking comparable materials before the emergence of the first written sources. 18

While we do not know when this prayer was composed, we do know that the famous commentary on it, the Saubhagyabhaskara, was written by a Lalithadevotee and towering scholar, Bhaskrarayan (1690–1785) in 1728. We also know that the last section of the Brahmanda Purana is eloquent on the benefactions of Lalitha worship. Brooks remarks that “for Srividya practitioners Lalitha’s thousand names, unlike her tale, is a liturgical and theological resource for worshiping and understanding the goddess in her most accessible and physically recognizable aspect (sthularupa).” 19 However, in almost all popular accounts, the Lalitha Sahasranama manifests itself in the supreme “other world,” where the goddess Lalitha resides in resplendent grandeur, not on this earthly realm: Once the Great Universal Mother Sri Lalithambika at her abode of Sripura in a delighted mood with all compassion and grace of motherly love called Vasini and other Vag devis and ordered them to compose one thousand hymens propitiating the powers and secret philosophy of Sri Vidya and concerned to bless the souls who recite the same. The Vag Devis accepted the divine order of the mother and composed Sri Lalitha Sahasranama which contains one thousand sacred names of Sri Lalitha. The text was presented at a wonderful moment in the august presence of thirty corers devas, Brahma, Vishnu, Rudra, Maheswara and SadhaShiva while Sri Lalithambika appeared dynamically over her throne supported on carved figures of lions. The divine mother was delighted to listen in the hymens and said, “Oh! Vag Devi . . . you have perfectly completed the divine order assigned to you and I am very much pleased. Let this holy text be initiated to my devotees and I assure to sanction all boons who chant these one thousand names.” 20

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The Sanskrit texts, therefore, despite being written in South India, do not associate the revelation of the Lalitha Sahasranama with Thirumeeyachur or any other local place. However, the physical form of the goddess Lalitha is connected with many large and important temples—for instance, with the Kamakshi in Kanchipuram, Shivakamasundari in Chidambaram, Akilandeswari in Tirucchi, and Minakshi in Madurai. 21 Thus, Brooks notes that “Bhaskararaya seems especially keen to identify Lalitha with regional goddesses both in north and south India”—identifying the goddess with not just some of the places named above, but also with the deities in Varanasi, Badari, and Nepalapitha. 22 It is striking that Bhaskararaya, who has written so extensively on the Lalitha Sahasranamam, and who lived a few kilometers down the road from Thirumeeyachur, did not mention that the goddess Lalitha is present in the nearby town, nor does he mention the connection between the Lalitha Sahasranama and Thirumeeyachur. So the connection between the goddess Lalitha, the Lalitha Sahasranama, and Thirumeeyachur seems to be derived from very immediate local oral traditions, and at probably a later date. The Thirumeeyachur temple can certainly make a case for the temple to be a “healing site,” based on the Surya story, but this did not happen, and if anyone knew it, it does not seem to have made any impact in increasing its popularity. As noted earlier, this site seems to have had between two to three hundred pilgrims a year with hardly any revenues. This was to change around the beginning of the millennium, and the rest of this essay will look at the events that catalyzed this popularity. Parvati rises as the powerful Lalithambika. LEGENDS NEW The 2011 sthala purana gives us one version of the story which has led to the popularity of this place. It mentions it briefly on the first page, even before it gets around to recounting the stories of Arunan and Surya. The brief introduction to the story comes this way: “Mother Lalithambika of this temple appeared in the dream of a devotee and expressed the desire to wear anklets and got the devotee to adorn her with it.” Blog sites talk about this story: an entry by a Viji Ganesh on May 12, 2012, says: “All the jewelry is actually wearable by the goddess here . . . including the “kolusu’ [anklets]! amazing and there is a story to this too . . .” to which another blogger, Pratima Chandrasekhar, responds with a fuller version of the story on August 12, 2012: That is true Viji! The Kovil Shaastrigal [temple priest] very vividly narrated the incident of the lady from Bangalore who visited this temple after Lalithambigai came in her dream and told her to give her Kolusu to wear. On reaching

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Vasudha Narayanan the temple she informed the authorities and they were surprised as the idol there did not sport anklets and also there was no “gap” in the idol to actually latch the anklets around the ankle. Imagine their surprise when they investigated and actually found a niche through which they could insert and latch the two ends of the anklet—apparently years of abhishekam [ritual anointing and bathing] with Chandan [sandalwood paste] had clogged up the hole! Since then it has become an accepted practice for devotees to offer Anklets to the deity. 23

What is stated briefly in these blog sites is given in some detail in the 2011 sthala purana. Blog sites are like the classical Tamil love poetry—they do not have names or times—and the stories are legend before they hit the hyperlink. The sthala purana, however, does give these details. It says that a Mythili Rajagopalachary (sic) of Bangalore had a dream in which a goddess appeared saying she had all other jewels but wanted anklets. Since Mythili was an Iyengar (that is, a Vaishnava), the story continues, she went to the Vaishnavaite holy places but could not see this goddess. Three months later (very specific on the time), it says, she went to a friend’s house, and there she saw a magazine in which the goddess was the cover picture. She recognized her as the Mother who asked for the anklets and “her joy knew no bounds.” The author says that “She realized this was the Mother who had asked her for the anklet, and as a reward for her having chanted the Lalitha Sahasranama in the thirty-five years gone by, was granting her this rare privilege.” The account continues, saying she got in touch with the priest in the temple, asking if she could send the anklets and got a reply saying that this was not possible because there were no holes near the feet. But Mrs. Rajagopalachari, convinced the dream was real, got anklets made to measurements and took it to the temple. There, “she pleaded with the Archaka [ritual specialist-priest who performs the worship] to check thoroughly because she thought it was possible to tie the anklet.” The Archaka, it says, ran his fingers around the leg of the goddess and found a soft spot; he put in a wire and found the hole for the anklet. The sthala purana concludes this narrative by saying: “This happened in 1999. Even today devotees carry out their supplications by offering anklets made out of gold or silver to Mother.” 24 It is, in fact, after this narrative that the author goes on to talk about the story of Surya, Garuda, Vali, Sugriva, et al.—in other words, the puranic layer appears after the happenings in the last two decades. It is important at this juncture to recap some of the important issues from this narrative to compare it with other ones. First, the concluding sentence of this episode makes it clear that it is after this event in 1999 that the devotees began to flood the goddess with anklets. In other words, the popularity and prosperity began with the dedication of the anklets, and this incident was a most significant one in recent years. We can also note the sequence of events:

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1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Lalithambika appears in a woman’s dream asking for anklet. The devotee does not know the identity of this goddess. Devotee searches temples to see who is the goddess. Sees magazine on friend’s table and realizes it is Lalithambika. Writes to priest at Thirumeeyachur and hears it is not possible to put on anklet. 6. Goes to Thirumeeyachur anyway, with anklet in hand, and pleads with priest. 7. Priest finds the hole on the goddess’s legs. 8. Anklets start flowing to the temple. It is also obvious that between #7 and #8 above, there must have been considerable publicity given to the story locally and through various media. There are minor variations on this story on blog sites. To quote the beginning of just one such blog: “There is something interesting that happened as recently as 1999. A devout woman from Bangalore had recurring dreams of an Ambal asking her for a gold anklet (Golusu). This woman went in search of the goddess and visited various temples. She chanced upon the issue of Alayam magazine in which Lalithambiga Temple appeared as the cover story and immediately recognized the Ambal as the one from her dreams.” 25 This story is similar to the earlier ones, except for the devotee having multiple dreams. We shall now turn to a different source for the story to hear how the goddess got the anklets. The story was told to me by the devotee, Mrs. Mythili Rajagopalachari, who offered the first anklets to the goddess. I had the privilege of going to Thirumeeyachur with her in December 2011 and seeing firsthand the reaction people had when they saw her. Mrs. Mythili Rajagopalachari was calm, smiled gently, finished her worship, and walked around with us, and we all got into the car to go to the next temple. During that trip, she narrated her account of how she got around to offering the anklets for the goddess. Since this is a crucial perspective, I have reproduced the whole story. It is at this point that I should speak a little about Mrs. Rajagopalachari. Born in 1936, she is a younger sibling of my mother, born three years after her. She is my aunt and known to be extremely straightforward, matter of fact, and direct. Family lore says that with her, you get it as you see it. She is what many of us would call a person of considerable devotion, and keeps up a strong regimen of prayers, including the recitation of the Thousand Names of Lalitha (Lalitha Sahasranama)—but is also a person with a lot of common sense and a terrific sense of humor. Her husband was the general manager of the Indian Railways—a very high-ranking post—and her three grown children are all high-ranking executives in multinational companies. Hari Rajag-

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opalachari, who has recorded the narratives of their visit to Thirumeeyachur, is her son. I was traveling with her and several of her siblings in a van on a tour of many south Indian temples when she narrated how it all came to be to the passengers. The narrative was in a colloquial mixture of English and Tamil that is common in Tamilnadu. This is her story, transcribed and translated. Some key words which she used in English (she is a fluent speaker of the language) are in italics. From the time I was young, I had a lot of imagination. So when I thought of Ambal [the goddess] in my mind, I thought of her wearing all the jewels, and I would mentally make them for her—a crown and so on. Every day I would change these—after all, we don’t need money to do this, all this is in one’s imagination. I changed these jewels around a lot. And I thought, I would love to put anklets in her feet. And so I asked him [the priest in the temple] . . . well I read [about Lalithambika] in the [magazine] Jnanabhumi, 26 found out where the town was and [wrote and] told Mani Iyer [the priest] that I very much wish to put anklets [on the goddess’s feet]—can you see if it can be done? He did not send any reply for over a month. Apparently, he had kept the letter at the goddess’s feet and had told her that someone had written thus—you [goddess] should yourself tell this lady what to do. A month later he had performed abhishekam, and as he was scrubbing and washing near the feet, he felt a soft spot; he scraped it out and put a wire through it; it went in one side and came out the other side. At once, he tried it on the other side, scraped and dug out all the dirt. He then wrote to me immediately, saying, “come soon and bring the anklets with you,” he said, 10½ or 11½ inches—a large size. Angamma [a nickname for her older sister] and I went to Raja Market, bought them, and then I went to the temple. Hari [her son] and others had come too, and that’s it. We put them on [the narrator enthusiastically beamed and smiled]. Oh, it was so beautiful, the anklets, it curved like this and like this—oh, so very beautiful. We got the sari [for the goddess], did abhishekam, and came back. And then the next month Mani Iyer gave [an account of this story to the magazine] Kamakoti. I came away to America [for an extended visit with her daughter in Chicago]. Then Jayanthi [her daughter-in-law] called and said: “Your name has come in Kamakoti—this is about your giving the anklets.” I said, “Why should it matter that I gave the anklets?” Mani Iyer then wrote: “you

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should come to the temple now; we can’t handle the crowds coming here.” That is it. Look, I just felt I wanted to put [the anklets], that is all. I wanted to do it. The Jnanabhumi [article] said that Thirumeeyachur is the place where the Lalitha Sahasranama started. I thought, Amma [the narrator’s mother] had been in Thanjavur [a town close by] and other places for so long and did not know this. Even Amma used to say the Lalitha Sahasranama, right? Had she known of it, Amma herself could have gone [to Thirumeeyachur] then itself! That was the kind of thing I was thinking. Now each magazine is saying a different story. They say, “The Goddess came to that lady in her dream and told her, ‘I have all jewels except anklets—only you can get them for me.’” This is one [story]. The other one—the Tiruchi [Tirucchirapalli, a large city nearby] story goes— “There is this lady who was very poor, and the Goddess told her, ‘Get me anklets, and I will make you rich!’ [She chuckles—Mrs. Rajagopalachari is comfortably off; not ‘poor’ as this story claims]. And this lady got her anklets and got very rich.” And this story even says that they were golden anklets! This is the Tirucchi story. [I asked at this point: What is the source of this Tirucchi story?] Well, this is something Usha [a family member in Tirucchi] told me. One time, Usha and her devotional music class went to Thirumeeyachur to sing, and she heard this story. They told her that a lady came and gave anklets. Then, later on, [my sister, also known as] Usha and I went to Tirucchi and met the Usha [from Tirucchi]. Tirucchi Usha said, “Periamma, Periamma (‘aunt’), there is a temple not far off, I will take you there. The Goddess there has a lot of Sakti. Apparently she came to a lady in her dream and asked for anklets for her feet. The lady did as instructed.” [Mrs. Mythili Rajagopalachari laughs while recounting this]. [My sister] Usha told [Tirucchi] Usha: “Who do you think that lady is? It is Mythili Periamma (aunt).” “Well, another person said this lady was very poor and yet she had anklets made of five sovereigns of gold,” said Tirucchi Usha. [My sister] Usha said, “Oh no, as you know Mythili Periamma is hardly poor, she has not had any financial problems!” Another story is this: Apparently, as soon as the goddess (Ambal) came to me in a dream and asked for the anklets, I am supposed to have searched

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for her in temple after temple, wandering and wondering which temple she was in. They say I went to Tiruchanur and that I went to Srirangam, and I am supposed to have said, “This is not the Ambal, this is not the Ambal.” Then, after seeing the cover photo of Thirumeeyachur Ambal in Jnana Alaya, I am supposed to have said, “Aha! This is the Ambal who came to me in my dream,” found out where the place was, and apparently gone and given the anklets there. These are the different stories. Look, this is the latest now, that I am supposed to have gone, anklets in hand, searching for Ambal and found her here. [A uncle interjects]: “And this is where, like Cinderella, they fit her feet!” The differences between this story and those in the blogs and sthala puranas are immediately apparent. They agree in that Mrs. Rajagopalachari is a devotee of Lalitha, in that she recites the Thousand Names regularly. In Mrs. Rajagopalachari’s account, however, she mentally visualizes the goddess often; she reads about the temple in the magazine, desires to offer anklets—one may call it a moment of intuitive reality—and writes to the priest. She goes with her family, offers the anklets, and the rest is history. No dream(s) or wandering around in search of the goddess, no golden anklets— and certainly, no romanticized poverty. CONCLUSION How then are we to understand the phenomenon of Thirumeeyachur? Even Bhaskararaya, writing in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, does not seem to connect this temple with the Lalitha Sahasranama. We know that this town was not known outside the local area; we have the evidence of Hari Rajagopalachari, who says the temple was in a run-down condition in 1999. We also hear from Mrs. Rajagopalachari that her mother did not know about this temple. More recently, Sri Thyagu, son of Sri Mani Iyer (the priest who originally found the holes), also said that there were hardly two to three hundred pilgrims a year coming to this temple. It is clear that this temple was not well known—nor was the Garbha Rakshambika in the temple near Kumbakonam, for that matter—but in time, some of these local temples, through various forms of publicity, became famous. Many of them became famous for specific purposes (marriage, childbearing, jobs, etc.), and devotees came in large numbers. The specialized function of various deities has been noted by a number of lay people. One blog observes quite correctly:

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The gods and goddesses have become extremely specialised (like academic departments); if you want good marks in the examination, the goddess you want to visit is not the same as the one that you should visit if you want children, for example. If an [sic]young couple visit any temple, it is almost always for asking for children—at least, that is what people assume. 27

Thirumeeyachur had not received any publicity for a niche market. That is, at least, until the late 1990s when the temple trustees and Sri Mani Iyer, the chief priest, issued a sthala purana as a free insert in a relatively small magazine called jotitam (jyodidam, Tamil for jyotisha or “astrology”) in 1997. This was part of trying to promote the sacred place and a particular aspect of it which was unique to it. This uniqueness came in two interconnected layers to the temple. The first was to publicize that this was the place where the Lalitha Sahasranama was revealed—this information, as we noted earlier, is not found anywhere else, but comes up as local lore and has not been known earlier. Eventually comes another feature, written by Manjula Ramesh on this temple in the Tamil magazine Jnana Alayam (also spelled Gnana aalayam), which Mrs. Mythili Rajagopalachari read and acted upon. These articles by themselves do not seem to have brought in the crowds— while certainly helpful, we must know there are dozens of these magazines, and each has dozens of articles featuring the thousands of south Indian temples. But the Jnana Alayam article was important in that it was the catalyst to Mrs. Rajagopalachari’s wish to offer anklets to the goddess. The process of publicity, therefore, began a little before this Mrs. R’s visit. The issues of “dreams” were explained by a local resident as a way in which the main point of the story can be emphasized, and the greatness (mahatvam) of the goddess can be underscored to pilgrims who are total strangers to this place to impress upon them the power of this goddess. In conversations, it seemed apparent that this is seen as a literary strategy, a way of conveying the material in a popular template. In popular parlance, deities do grace dreams, and do make demands of devotees. This figure of speech— that the goddess appeared in X’s dream—is more compelling than talking about a devotee’s wish to do something for the goddess—that is commonplace. To help this situation, we have an instance where (a) the devotee, Mrs. Rajagopalachari, seems to have instinctively, and with uncanny focus (interpreted loosely as “miraculous” or “wondrous” in later accounts), desired to offer anklets to this goddess—who did not have a pair, and (b) a priest, who apparently unexpectedly found the right holes in the goddess’s legs, and informs the devotees and various media about it. This, again, falls into a commonly accepted way devotees understand the ways of the deities—remarkable coincidences are seen as the will of the goddess, the way of the universe.

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In the last few decades, some other subtle changes are also evident. While the first sthala purana focused on both the main temple and the secondary temples, the 2011 sthala purana focuses primarily on the main temple, and then on the goddess herself. Even here, the Tamil sthala purana in the first part of the book does not include the latest story about the anklets, but the English version does. It is possible that this is because they don’t want repetition; it is also possible that since English is a more “modern” language, dynamic interventions are more easily incorporated into the lore through this medium. And finally, this is Lalithambika’s temple now—and the popularity is hers, and not necessarily shared with a secondary shrine or, for that matter, with any other deity. TV programs have also put the spotlight on this temple; there were two different shows in March 2012 alone focusing on this temple in the “Your Choice” program of the Sri Sankara TV channel. 28 Certainly, this “niche” market of the goddess delighting in her anklets has been successful. What can be more alluring than adorning the goddess’s feet with something that almost anyone can afford? Anklets range from inexpensive metal ones to gold jewelry. The goddess, in many parts of India, is not simply the progenitor of the universe; she is a radiant young girl, the cherished daughter of the house, the auspicious wife. And just as one adorns a daughter’s feet with anklets, the Divine Mother, too, is dressed up. The devotees now have something specific to do for the goddess so she can fulfill their desires a hundredfold over. Since this story has spread, the goddess has been receiving hundreds of anklets a year. In December 2011, Mani Iyer, the priest who initially found the holes and publicized the story, told us that plans were underway to get a large size (about eighteen feet tall) silver chariot (ratha) for Lalithambika. Sri Mani Iyer passed away in May 2012, and as of October 2012, the circumstances had changed favorably enough to plan for a gold-plated chariot, instead of a silver-plated one for the goddess. Within the first few days of the navaratri festival in October 2012—the most sacred time for the Goddess—a few dozen anklets had already come in. Revenues are soaring; over a hundred thousand visitors now visit the temple in any year. In the past, there were hardly any visitors on the western New Year (January 1), and now they are said to get about 5,000 visitors that day alone. The train station in Peralam, one kilometer away, was expanded; according to the priest, there are plans to make it a major train station now, to accommodate the surge of pilgrims. If we were to end this essay with the idioms of traditional narratives with which we began, we would say: “In a certain place, Thirumeeyachur, there lived a Goddess who was the most beautiful and powerful being. She was in deep meditation for many, many years, until she woke up. She said: I have all jewels to adorn myself, except anklets! Who will give some? And her devo-

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tee, who had been thinking about her every day, brought her a pair. And then others did, and others did—and her fame grew far and wide.” The story of Lalithambika in Thirumeeyachur, then, is just beginning. And there are many more goddesses who are in meditation in temples nearby, waiting to wake up. NOTES 1. Thirumeeyachur is spelled in multiple ways and I am using a popular version found in the latest sthala purana (2011) and in many websites. Variations include Thirumaichur and Tirumiyachur. The website www.velakurichiadheenam.org of the controlling body, the Velakurichi Adheenam, spells it as Tirumeichyur. Other places in Tamilnadu are also spelled in different ways; church officials in Velankanni, for instance, spell it as “Vailankanni.” 2. Approximate numbers given by Sri Thiyagarajan “Thyagu” of Thirumeeyachur in a conversation on October 18, 2012. 3. “The Story of Thirumayichur.” Written by Hari Rajagopalachari, son of Mythili Rajagopalachari, March 1998. Updated, April 2012. Unpublished document compiled by Hari Rajagopalachari, Toronto, on the events in Thirumeeyachur. 4. http://templetamilnadu.blogspot.in/2008/06/blog-post.html, accessed October 5, 2012. 5. Hari Rajagopalachari, “Story of Thirumayichur.” 6. http://templetamilnadu.blogspot.in/2008/06/blog-post.html, accessed October 5, 2012. 7. Hari Rajagopalachari, “Story of Thirumaiyichur.” 8. David Shulman, “Remaking a Purana: The Rescue of Gajendra in Potana’s Mahabhagavatamu.” Purana Perennis, edited by Wendy Doniger (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1993), 121–153. 9. Ramanujan, “Folk Mythologies and Puranas,” in Purana Perennis, edited by Wendy Doniger (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1993), 106. 10. Preface, Mu. Ganthinathan, Temple History of Velakurichi Adheenam’s Sri Lalithambiga Sametha Sri Meganatha Sami Temple (Thirumeyachur: Sri Lalitha Pathippagam, 2011). www.velakurichiadheenam.org/adheenam.html, accessed October 6, 2012. The Velakurichi adheenam is a matha (Anglicized as “mutt” in India) and one of several Shaiva mathas under the leadership of a male head. Desikars or Pandarams hail from a wellknown land-owning community in South India, are devotees in the Shaiva Siddhanta tradition, and have been celebrated heads of many religious institutions which oversee many temples. The ritual specialists of the Thirumeeyachur temple who perform the worship liturgies, on the other hand, are Brahmins. 11. www.templenet.com/Tamilnadu/s234.html, accessed October 15, 2012. 12. Jotitacutar alikkum arulmiku lalitampika cameta sri mekanata cuvami tirukkoyil tirumiyachur marrum tirumiyacur ilankoyil, tala varalarum cirappukalum. No author, 2. 13. Mu. Ganthinathan, Temple History, p. 1 of the English section. 14. Robert Orsi, “Everyday Miracles: The Study of Lived Religion” in Lived Religion in America, edited by David Hall (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 3. 15. Orsi, “Everyday Miracles: The Study of Lived Religion” in Lived Religion in America, edited by David Hall (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 3–5. 16. V. Narayana Rao, “Purana as Brahmanic Ideology” in Purana Perennis, edited by Wendy Doniger (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1993), 85–87. 17. A version of this story is found under the entry “Sugriva” in Swami Parameshwaranand, Encyclopedia Dictionary of Puranas, vol. 5 (Delhi: Sarup and Sons, 2001), 1272. There are other versions in which Vali and Sugriva are indeed fathered by Indra and Surya respectively, but the other parent is a male monkey called Rishyaraja who temporarily becomes a woman. William Buck, Ramayana (New Delhi: University of California Press [Indian edition], 2000), 185.

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18. Douglas Renfrew Brooks, Auspicious Wisdom: The Texts and Traditions of Srividya Sakta Tantrism in South India, 29. 19. Ibid., 60. 20. www.spiritualmindpower.com/files/Sri_Lalitha_Sahasra_Nama.pdf. 21. Brooks, Auspicious Wisdom, 71–72. 22. Ibid., 72. 23. http://drlsravi.blogspot.in/2010/08/sree-lalithambigai-temple-thirumeeyachur.html. 24. Ganthinathan, 6–7. 25. http://shanthiraju.wordpress.com/mayiladuthurai-south/, accessed October 9, 2012. 26. The magazine apparently is Jnana Alayam, popularly known as Aalayam (temple). Sri Thyagu from the Thirumeeyachur temple supplied me with the correct name. There is also another popular magazine called Jnana Bhoomi which is similar in scope and which is read a lot in my mother’s family, so it is understandable that Mrs. Rajagopalachari gave this name here. She did use the correct name, Jnana Aalayam, a little later in her talk. 27. Blogger at http://mogadalai.wordpress.com/2006/03/02/diary-from-a-pilgrimage/, March 2, 2006, accessed Oct. 1, 2012. 28. “Sri Lalithambigai Temple, Thirumeeyachur,” in Your Choice program of Sri Sankara TV, March 3, 2012, and March 19, 2012, archived in www.istream.com/tv/watch/57416/SriLalithambigai-Temple-Thirumeeyachur and www.istream.com/tv/watch/65477/Sri-Lalithambigai-Temple-Thirumeeyachur.

Chapter Six

Daughter of the House Uppalamma’s Journey from Traditional Home to New Lands Sree Padma

“Uppalamma appeared in our house and since then our lives have changed,” reports a new enthusiastic devotee. The goddess Uppalamma, who was unknown to this devotee and to most others across many villages and towns of coastal Andhra, has not only gained very significant notoriety with the turn of the twenty-first century but has also become the focus of a new wave of fervent religious devotion. According to devotees, the goddess typically appears in peoples’ homes unexpectedly and demands to be treated as the daughter of their households. These demands sometimes culminate in holding a wedding ceremony for her. Neither her sudden appearances, nor her seemingly insistent demands deter householders from adopting her not only as their “daughter,” but as their household patron goddess as well. My first introduction to Uppalamma occurred one late winter night in 2000 in my native village in Andhra’s Krishna District when I heard the drum beating of a passing procession in the road. On inquiry I found out that this was a kolupu or kalyanam (wedding) held in the honor of the goddess by a poor Christian family in the madiga colony. 1 I grew curious. In our village for the past several decades, most of the madiga caste families have embraced Protestant Christianity of one evangelical sect or another. While some of the families of this caste still accept food prepared for the festivals of nonChristian gods, all converts have stopped taking active part in celebrating non-Christian festivals. In a village-wide ritual held only once every few years to a gramadevata (“village goddess”) called Mutyalamma, a few madiga men still play their traditional roles, but only on a cash-payment basis. So, 143

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it was intriguing that a Christian family was celebrating a goddess that is thoroughly indigenous and non-Christian. In subsequent visits to various parts of Andhra, I learned that worship of Uppalamma is not limited to one caste, or just to my village, but has spread through a large geographical area, at times drawing in many Christian and some Muslim devotees as well. By 2011, when I decided to study this phenomenon systematically, the popularity of this goddess had “fast tracked” further, making inroads into many villages of Krishna, Khammam, and West Godavari districts (see figures 6.1 and 6.2) to locate this area in Indian subcontinent and within the state of Andhra). What is atypical about this is that a decade or so ago, the goddess Uppalamma was relatively unknown in these villages and towns. Yet the goddess has now become so popular that in one village in West Godavari district, it was reported in 2010 by a TV channel that 60 percent of households have constructed shrines for her. 2 Analyzing what causes this wave of religiosity constitutes the central focus of this chapter. For this, I investigate the nature and origins of Uppalamma’s cult, the ways of her worship, the prevalence of her mythology and the kinds of families involved in this worship. My intention in this exercise is to interrogate the socioeconomic, ecological, and religious factors that have contributed not only to the sustenance of the Uppalamma cult for generations in her traditional hold, but also to her introduction into relatively new venues. As such my inquiry takes three different angles: tracing the origins of the Uppalamma cult, finding the reasons for its continued veneration over many generations, and finally, looking into the factors that have contributed to its recent and rapid rise in popularity. To make matters clear, I categorize Uppalamma’s worship in the area comprising the districts of Krishna, Khammam, and West Godavari as “new ground.” I compare this phenomenon in the “new ground” with material I have collected from the districts of Rangareddy, Warangal, Nalgonda, and Mahaboobnagar, where Uppalamma has been known for many generations. I refer to this latter area as “traditional ground.” Most of the data from these two areas was collected through interviews with devotees, conversations with outside observers and visits to home shrines of Uppalamma. 3 Considering the large number of villages and towns in these districts, my study is by no means exhaustive. Given this scenario, my attempt here is to capture the profiles of Uppalamma’s devotees by noting their castes, religious orientations, and economic means. While caste and religious persuasion are clearly identifiable, economic status is more difficult to assess. Although most of my interviewees are middle class, their earnings vary widely from each other. Therefore, I have used a recent research analysis that has identified the global middle class as those who own an automobile. I have taken this as a basis to identify subcategories existing among the middle class so that they fit the economic situations specific to my research area. 4 The sub-

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Figure 6.1. Andhra Pradesh state with district boundaries

categories and the vehicles they can afford are as follows: 1) upper middle class—car; 2) middle class—scooter/motor-bike; 3) lower middle class— moped; and 4) low-income group—bicycle. I am aware that measuring families’ wealth by the vehicles they own is not always accurate or as nuanced as I and others would like it to be. But by and large the scale provides some idea to the readers. In keeping up with standard scholarly practice, the real names of interviewed individuals are not used in the study. PART I: THE CULT OF UPPALAMMA IN THE “NEW GROUND” Uppalamma’s Arrival My interviews in the villages and towns in the districts of Krishna and Khammam (the “new ground”) reveal that usually worship of Uppalamma starts with her arrival in one’s house premises in the form of a mushroom. This arrival of the goddess in the form of a mushroom is described as velisindi, a term used in Telugu language only in relation to the appearance of the divine in some concrete manifest form, such as a natural rock or a svarupa

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(“self-manifested”) sculpted image, or in this particular context, as a mushroom. These appearances are believed to occur without any human intervention and only as an expression of the grace of the goddess. However, the mushrooms that devotees assume is Uppalamma are not of one type. Most devotees mention mushrooms appearing in the color of carrot and in the shape of a hand with its fingers facing the sky. Some have noticed the existence of mushrooms only when their yard was filled with sweet scented fragrances attracting bugs and ants. With some hesitance, a few others divulged that they have smelled rotten flesh probably because, they surmise, they waited too long to notice the mushroom as a manifestation of the goddess. A good number of devotees observed a milky-white mushroom in a conical shape with milky sap and distinguished this type as Pala (“milky”) Uppalamma. Reactions to Upplamma’s Appearance People respond to Uppalamma’s presence in different ways, as their knowledge of the goddess initially is moderate to nonexistent. I have grouped respondents into six categories. 1. There are those who did not know about Uppalamma, but had heard a rumor that it is inauspicious to neglect the presence of mushrooms in one’s home. 2. Others have understood intuitively that the appearance of mushrooms was some sort of divine sign, but needed to know the name of the goddess and the reason for her appearance. 3. A few others knew that that the mushroom was the goddess Uppalamma but were not quite certain about how to receive her appropriately. 4. Some were unconvinced in their first encounter that a mushroom would really represent a goddess called Uppalamma, but changed their minds later when more mushrooms appeared. 5. Some remained unconvinced that the mushroom indeed was a goddess until they started experiencing difficulties in their lives. 6. A few acquired prior knowledge through their neighbors and relatives to know the name of the goddess and the “proper procedure” to receive her. The householders of the first three types I interviewed are from agricultural castes, such as reddy, kapu, or kamma, all of whom can be categorized as low-middle and low-income families. These people sought advice either from their neighbors or relatives, or went to consult a nearby ganachari (a medium who is possessed by a gramadevata). 5 The instruction from these ganacharis was considered as a “proper procedure” and it consisted of three

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steps: 1) offering turmeric and vermilion to the mushroom in reverence; 2) making a pledge to worship Uppalamma in the above manner once a week until the householders find a convenient day to hold kolupu in her honor; and then 3) covering the mushroom with a bamboo basket. Among the unconvinced group or fourth category, specific mention should be made of a woman of low-middle class of the kapu caste from a village called Chandragudem (Krishna District). One early morning, she found a mushroom by the fence in her backyard, and swept it away without much thought. A few mornings later, the same kind of mushroom sprouted, giving off strong scent of sweet exuberance. This time, she hesitated to remove it only to discover that the next day the scent was replaced by the smell of rotten meat. This change of smell made her uneasy, as she feared that this might be a sign of some future calamity to her family. In an attempt to prevent a possible family disaster, she sent her husband to consult the ganachari of their village. The ganachari told her husband that the mushroom is the goddess Uppalamma and that she could prevent any evils coming to her family and secure blessings if he and his wife worship the goddess in the manner prescribed. The couple followed his advice, the “proper procedure” with a promise of kolupu as mentioned above. An exceptional example of the fourth category is a poor old woman of the kamma caste from Anantharam (Krishna District) who noticed tiny white mushrooms sprouting through the cement floor of her house. Although she had some sense that this was Uppalamma, she did not believe that the goddess would demand anything from a woman like her without any resources. So, she swept them away. But new sprouts showed up. After a few recurrences, she felt obligated to see the ganachari of the village, a female from the gavundla (toddy tappers by tradition) caste, who delivered the news that Uppalamma would be pleased to receive kolupu. When the old woman expressed her inability to do so, the ganachari told her that it is not she who should be performing kolupu, but her older daughter-in-law who had moved in with her a few weeks ago. The older daughter-in-law had performed kolupu to Uppalamma a year ago when mushrooms had sprouted in the floor of her own house. A few months later, the roof of her rickety house collapsed and as a result she had moved in with her mother-in-law. According to the ganachari, it was the daughter-in-law who brought the goddess with her and it was her responsibility to perform kolupu once again. An example from the fifth category is a housewife from Chandragudem of low-middle class and kapu caste who heard talk of Uppalamma’s presence in her neighbors’ houses but doubted her existence as a mushroom though she and her husband witnessed similar mushrooms growing in their house premises. After the couple started experiencing difficulties in their family in the form of sickness to their grown up children and a death of a baby water buffalo, they regretted harboring doubts about Uppalamma’s presence in

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their house. These events prompted them to consult a ganachari, who advised them to go into their backyard where mushrooms had appeared (by which time the mushrooms had dissipated) to conduct an initial ritual and to take an oath that they would hold kolupu for Uppalamma soon. Variations of the Norm There are a few cases where people took initiatives to worship Uppalamma without her appearance in their homes. One of these was a married couple from Wyra, a good-size town in the Khammam district. 6 They are a kamma caste family of the low-middle class with the husband pursuing a variety of small businesses. The wife had been seeking respite from some health problems and had visited many doctors without any satisfying results. Her neighbors and friends advised her to see a female ganachari of the chakali (washerman) caste. When the wife visited her, the ganachari identified her health troubles and prescribed the worship of Uppalamma. The wife along with her husband followed the ganachari’s advice by enshrining Uppalamma in their home and conducting kolupu. The wife’s health improved and the couple found happiness. This inspired the husband so much that since then he has become a priest for Uppalamma and has started helping others to perform kolupu. In this case, by worshiping Uppalamma, the wife found solace from her ill health while the husband found a new vocation of his liking. Ganachari and the goddess. I have discussed how various people, after observing mushrooms in their houses, turned to ganacharis for consultation Who is qualified ganachari? Generally, a ganachari cam be either a male or a female from non-brahmin castes. Until a few decades ago in coastal Andhra villages, a ganachari most often was a woman from the mala or madiga castes. 7 With an increasing number of these caste members adopting Christianity, ganacharis in the last few decades are coming from other castes as well. On the other hand, during village-wide celebrations for gramadevatas, whether or not the ganachari’s profession is hereditary, there are always other people from various non-brahmin castes who go into trance and who then act as ganacharis. 8 However, consulting ganacharis about the presence of a goddess is a new phenomenon that arisen in concert with Uppalamma’s new found popularity. It is a common knowledge in rural areas that a ganachari is a person who goes into trance on special occasions. Only when in trance does a ganachari represent the voice of the goddess who makes demands on villagers. In the case of the Uppalamma cult, those who observe the goddess’s presence in the form of mushroom rush to the ganachari to find out what the goddess commands. The connection they make between the mushroom and the ganachari makes it clear that they are identifying the goddess as a form of the gramadevata. This raises the question of what characteristics of Uppalamma are

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obvious to the villagers for them to assume that she is a form of the gramadevata. Uppalamma as the Gramadevata It is common knowledge among villagers that the gramadevata is intrinsically associated with the soil and vegetation. 9 Uppalamma’s appearance as a mushroom sprouting out of the soil might be an obvious sign for villagers revealing her connection with the gramadevata. For even those who are mystified and confused by Uppalamma’s presence seem to be aware that the goddess is some kind of gramadevata. And so, many householders turn to the ganachari who is normally regarded as a voice of the gramadevata. My interviews show that not only are the ganacharis prospering in their new roles, but also are becoming increasingly professional in assuming priestly duties. For the consultation does not stop with initial ritual advice but continues with the priestly officiating of Uppalamma’s kolupu, the marriage ritual that is held in honor of the “daughter goddess.” The most popular and prosperous of the ganacharis I interviewed is from Morusumilli (Krishna District). Although male, this particular ganachari wears female attire when participating in Uppalamma’s kolupu. Wearing a colorful sari, necklaces, bangles in both hands and flowers in his single braided hair, he represents the goddess in her kolupu. While conducting the ritual proceedings of kolupu, he sings the praises of goddess and dances in ecstasy to the beat of a drum. It is this dramatic performance clubbed with his attire that seems to have increased his demand. His priestly role in the rite as delineated below is what I found typical in the “new ground.” What is kolupu or kalyanam? When I posed this question, a consistent response that I got from the devotees of Uppalamma was that kolupu is a wedding held for the goddess in the exact way in which it is held for the daughters of their houses. 10 This is true for the most part. However, there are some significant differences separating the wedding of the goddess from that of human daughters. Kolupu or Kalyanam A kolupu for Uppalamma typically starts on the previous evening and continues into the early morning hours of the next day. Once the auspicious day is fixed, the arrangements are made: a chicken and a goat are lined up for the sacrifice, masons are contacted to build a small shrine room in the premises to enshrine Uppalamma, and musicians for sannai melam (music used for all auspicious occasions consisting of drums and nadaswaram) are asked to accompany the ganachari. Those who cannot afford an elaborate melam

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(orchestra) invite only the drummers. All the paraphernalia needed for the occasion are bought. Close relatives are invited. A feast is prepared. Usually the festival starts on the late evening of the previous day with the arrival of the ganachari. The ganachari brings two or three or more gurigis (small clay pots holding half a liter of liquid) ceremoniously representing Uppalamma. Accompanied by music, the ganachari holding these gurigis goes to the spot where the mushroom is covered by a bamboo basket. There, s/he lifts the basket and offers turmeric and vermilion followed by the sacrifice of a chicken. S/he then transfers the shriveled mushroom along with the surrounding soil and places it into one of the gurigis, which then is treated as the bride. S/he fills other gurigis with turmeric and vermilion. Accompanied by music, s/he walks through the streets of the village holding these gurigis to get blessings from the boddurai (the village naval stone, a form of the gramadevata (figure 6.2) and any other shrines for the gramadevata and other deities that are present in the village. By the time the procession returns to the house, a stage for the wedding is prepared. The couple of the house sit on low stools with legs folded, representing the parents of Uppalamma, the bride. The ganachari places the gurigis by their side. The bride’s parents then give away their “daughter” in marriage following the ganachari’s guid-

Figure 6.2. Boddurai representing the gramadevata

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ance by performing a series of ceremonies treating the gurigi with its shriveled mushroom as the bride: first, an oil lamp is lit; vadiganti biyyam (a measure of rice usually tied to the lap of the bride) is poured into the gurigi; toranam (turmeric applied to threads knitted with leaves and flowers usually tied to the wrist of the bride) is attached to the neck of the gurigi. The ganachari (who is substituting for the brahmin priest in a human wedding), now temporarily assumes also the role of a husband by tying a tali (sixteen cords of thread with a wedding locket of gold or some other metal) followed by nallapusalu (black bead necklace) to the neck of the gurigi. In the wedding of a human couple these acts of tying are performed by the groom. The parents of the bride then offer a sari, a blouse piece, bangles, toe rings, flower garlands, toiletries, toys, turmeric, vermilion, incense and camphor to the gurigi as though it is their daughter. Additionally, the host parent couple breaks coconuts and offers them to the goddess. This gesture of breaking coconuts ritually is not made to the bride or the groom, but only reserved for the gods and goddesses as part of worship. The ganachari also brings another set of smaller gurigis (that hold one-eighth or one-fourth of a liter) to place them in front of the original gurigis. The smaller gurigis hold bangles and other paraphernalia offered by the couple to the heavenly bride. After these proceedings, the stage of the ceremony moves to the one room shrine constructed for this occasion in the premises of the host couple’s household. The proceedings at the shrine are particular only to Uppalamma’s kolupu and not to any human wedding. The construction of the shrine for Uppalamma is done in a particular manner as is described below. Home Shrines. The kolupu holders contact masons who have previous experience in building Uppalamma shrines. Ahead of kolupu, the masons build a square shrine of about 3x3x3 feet with bricks using cement and sand as mortar. The shape of the roof is usually a step pyramidal shape topped by a coiled snake raising its hood over a lime (figure 6.3). In some places such as in villages of the West Godavari district, the association of a snake with Uppalamma is acknowledged by adding the prefix Nagula (snakes) to Uppalamma’s name. As with the gurigi, the snake and the lime serve as Uppalamma’s insignia. 11 Those who cannot afford putting up a brick shrine, get four slate stone slabs and erect three sides as walls with a fourth slab as the ceiling of the shrine. This is an open shrine. In the case of a brick shrine, a front entrance is made with two small wooden doors attached to equally small size doorjambs. The doors of the shrine are closed and locked after the worship is done (as shown in figure 6.3). In either kind of shrine, within the walls, a low platform is made on the floor to enshrine the gurigis and other paraphernalia along with a trident, yet another insignia of the goddess (figure 6.4). For the occasion of kolupu, flower garlands and garlands of fresh limes are placed on the roof of the shrine and a new sari bought for the goddess is unfolded and tied to the roof, treating the shrine as a form of goddess. In some instances,

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Figure 6.3. Uppalamma shrine with gundam

the sari in its folded form is placed within the shrine with bangles on top as an offering to the goddess (figure 6.4). Later, the sari is worn by the wife of the house as the gift from the goddess. A second sari of cheaper material and a blouse are also bought to offer to the ganachari (even if he is a male). After enshrining the gurigis, a goat is sacrificed in front of the shrine. The procedure of this sacrifice is similar to the rituals for the gramadevata. 12 Before sacrificing, the goat is taken to a village well or a public water pump and washed thoroughly. During the wash, the goat is monitored to make sure it shivers when the water is poured. This shivering is an important sign that the goddess has accepted the goat. This is also a sign that the goat possesses the spirit of the goddess. This is when turmeric and vermilion are applied to the goat, after which it is brought to the Uppalamma shrine. Previously, a huge hole has been dug in front of the shrine in which the blood of the goat is collected and into which its head is thrown after the sacrifice. This pit is called gundam, and it is covered by a slab when it is not used (figure 6.3). Later, a feast is prepared with the sacrificial goat meat and all the invitees are fed with the food served either on fresh banana leaves or other dry leaves made into flat plates. At the end of the feast, all remnants of the feast, along with the plates on which the food is eaten, are thrown into the gundam. All

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Figure 6.4. Gurigis and Trisul with offerings

those who have finished eating (food is eaten with right hands) also wash their hands with water poured into the gundam. Only after making sure that all the leftovers are thrown into the gundam, it is closed with a slab. This act shows that all the food remnants are part and parcel of Uppalamma. The gundam is reopened subsequently only to offer further sacrifices and feasts to Uppalamma. All the remnants of the feast are thrown into the gundam to ensure that the merit acquired by the host couple will not leave the house. The guests, on their part, are afraid that Uppalamma may follow them to their houses if they carry home any leftovers of the feast. Therefore, not only do they thoroughly wash their hands, but they also wipe them diligently on a cloth tied close to the gundam before heading back to their homes. It appears that this fear that goddess might follow them to their homes is caused because of the expenses involved in arranging kolupu. I will discuss expenses of conducting kolupu later in this chapter to give an idea of who can afford performing this rite.

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Kolupu Aftermath On the sixteenth day after the wedding, the vadibiyyam (the rice given to the bride) is taken out to prepare milk rice and to offer it to the goddess. At this point, unlike in the celebration of the human daughter’s wedding, a chicken is sacrificed in front of the opened gundam. Its head, along the flow of the blood, falls, into the gundam. Thus, the chicken, like other sacrifices to the goddess, becomes part of the goddess. Following this, some families of means celebrate festivals to the goddess at the completion of one month, three months, five months, and nine months. At the completion of one year, it is propitious, though optional, for the householders to acquire more blessings by performing a second and third annual wedding similar to the first. Alternatively, they may just worship the goddess twice a week on Tuesdays and Sundays for three years. This worship of Uppalamma in the shrine is conducted by lighting an oil lamp and offering her turmeric, vermilion, and some food that is specially prepared for her, which later will be eaten by the household as a form of her blessing, like prasadam offered in a temple context. Partaking food that is offered to the goddess is a matter of sharing of the grace of the goddess. After three years, the goddess is worshiped whenever there is a function in the household. However, there are variations to the above practice. The belief in the town of Kanchikacherla (Krishna District) is that the family who makes Uppalamma a daughter needs to perform kolupu consecutively at least for five years. According to this, it is essential for the family to offer a goat in the annual kolupu for the first three years, after which a chicken can be substituted. Interestingly, they also believe that if nothing good happens to the family within these five years, worship of the goddess should be stopped. Two couples of the kamma caste who are low-middle class in this town explained that the reason for them to conduct the kolupu to the goddess for seven consecutive years is that she would be satisfied with them and would not revisit their homes again. Their reasoning was at odds with their enthusiasm of conducting kolupu for seven years. In spite of their remarks, after seven years, they still continue their worship of the goddess whenever there is a function in their houses. There might be variations to the worship of Uppalamma in other nearby towns. Brenda Beck, in her chapter “Goddesses Who Dwell on Earth” in this book notices variations in performing rituals to goddesses in the Kongu region of Tamilnadu and states that “the residents of one village or town will deliberately develop a tradition that states (in some symbolic fashion) that we are different from the people ‘over there.’” 13

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Kolupu Compared The kolupu rite for the goddess Uppalamma does share many features with how south Indian weddings are held among agricultural castes: bringing two gurigis from the potter to the accompaniment of music, securing talis and black beads for the bride, tying rice to the bride’s lap, etc. Toys are not offered these days, but prior to the 1930s when the weddings were held for pre-puberty girls, toys were given to them to play with so that they would sit through the wedding proceedings. However, sacrificing animals at weddings is quite uncommon, except for traditional weddings held among the madiga caste. I will analyze the association of Uppalamma with this caste later in the chapter. But conducting a festival on the sixteenth day after the wedding in honor of the bride and groom is still a common tradition throughout south India. What is conspicuously absent in the above account of kolupu, however, is the presence of a groom! However, this does not seem to be of any concern to devotees, as my inquiries about the absence of the groom was mostly ignored. Only in one case, one of the housewives answered that the groom was Shiva. Her attribution might have derived from the fact that in human weddings, two gurigis are used to represent the bride and groom. While the function of these gurigis is to hold the paraphernalia offered to the goddess, they all represent the goddess just in the same way as many pots in village wide rituals are used to represent the gramadevata. 14 Even if Shiva is assumed to be the groom, it is clear that his role or his presence in any form is not important. Instead, the occasion is to celebrate the perpetual married status of the goddess. In fact, the goddess, in this instance, is not even an adult but imagined as a young girl who loves toys. Imagining or dreaming of a gramadevata as a young girl or a deified young girl as the gramadevata is not uncommon in Andhra, as I have explained elsewhere. 15 Like a gramadevata, the devotees understand Uppalamma as needing cooling fruits like lime. In the same way in which annual rituals are held in honor of the gramadevata at the village level, the kolupu is held for Uppalamma at a household level. In both cases, the groom is absent but the sacrifices of birds and animals are present. All of these details support the suggestion that Uppalamma’s weddings are inspired by the cult of the gramadevata. On the other hand, the kolupu shares some similarities with the worship of Puranic gods, such as the special domestic ritual called Satyanarayana Vratam, which is held for one of the incarnations of Vishnu to acquire blessings for the family. In that vratam, the couple of the house performs the ritual with the mediation of a brahmin priest. Here, in the “new ground,” the brahmin priest is replaced by the ganachari. Unlike kolupu, the feast in the vratam is purely vegetarian as Stayanarayana, a form of Vishnu, like other Puranic gods, is regarded as a vegetarian. In sum, Uppalamma’s worship merges the two

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popular but distinctly separate forms of gramadevata and Puranic gods of worship. Economics of Kolupu The description of kolupus for Uppalamma makes it clear that the whole affair demands a lot of time, effort, and most importantly, money. A number of worshipers told me that a kolupu has cost them around Rs. 40,000 (around US $900). In some instances, when the hosts want to make it more elaborate, the costs are even higher. I found that payments to ganacharis ranged anywhere between Rs. 2,000 and Rs. 10,000. With the increased number of devotees performing kolupu for Uppalamma, ganacharis are so much in demand that some of them have set their prices very high. There are some charitable ganacharis who charge whatever the devotees can afford. Since only the masons who are experienced in constructing these shrines are gainfully employed, they also charge a special price beyond what an ordinary mason would demand. As the number of kolupus has increased, so has the demand for chickens and goats, in turn inflating their prices as well. There are those who cannot afford such costs for a kolupu as I have described. They will bring rice, coconuts, and a chicken to the ganachari to offer to the goddess in his or her temple. But this is not considered as equally meritorious or as efficacious as providing a kolupu in which people are fed with the meat of a goat that has been sacrificed to the goddess. However, on the other side of the spectrum of these considerations, the growing popularity of the goddess Uppalamma also provides means to some sections of the society. As a result of multiplied number of devotees wanting to hold kolupu, many ganacharis are finding priestly services lucrative. The local musicians who provide music to these festivals also get a boost. The masons and the potters are able to find some extra income in providing services for kolupu. Even the cults of gods and goddesses in villages where Uppalamma is worshiped receive more attention. I will elaborate this last statement further in the context of how Uppalamma’s popularity fits into the recent religious activity appearing in small towns and villages. Exceptional Kolupus Usually, Uppalamma’s worship is done with animal sacrifices. But when the goddess is worshiped by brahmin caste families, amendments are made. In Mylavaram, a brahmin family observed a mushroom in their compound attracting ants and other insects. The family did not go to a ganachari for consultation as their neighbors did when this phenomenon occurred. Instead, they offered turmeric and vermilion and covered the mushroom with a basket praying that they would offer Uppalamma a kolupu. Later, they celebrated

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her kolupu by preparing a vegetarian feast quietly in the house without a ganachari. Although hereditary functions are not followed by many castes including brahmins, still the notion that brahmins are knowledgeable in religious matters is very strong in society-at-large. For this reason, it is unthinkable for a brahmin family to invite a non-brahmin to officiate any religious ritual in their house. These factors must have played role in when the ritual for Uppalamma was performed in this family in the way they saw fit for their situation. A second exceptional circumstance involves Muslim devotees performing Uppalamma worship. Although Muslims in general are averse to performing religious rituals to any other deity than to Allah, there are some sects in India who are an exception to this. A couple of low-income Muslim families in Chandragudem encountered mushrooms and sought a ganachari’s help to perform the kolupu. The ganachari made amendments to the kolupu so that it would suit their sensibilities. They put up a temporary structure in their premises to enshrine the goddess with an offering of a sari and a sacrifice of goats. They also boiled rice in milk, which they later shared with their relatives. What they did not do, however, was the elaborate wedding ceremony involving the couple of the house sitting and performing the detailed rites described above. Knowing their religious persuasion, ganacharis when consulted make amendments of the ritual proceedings that Muslims follow. The implication here is that the goddess also makes these amendments and accepts these variations in worship patterns as long as the devotees are willing to make an effort to acknowledge her presence. Uppalamma’s Forms and Affiliations Some devotees in these “new grounds” understand Uppalamma as intrinsically connected with Ellamma, a goddess of the gramadevata type who has gained a trans-regional and even brahmanical following. 16 This is exemplified by the following incident. A devotee of the kapu caste of a lowincome family from Chandragudem dreamed of a goddess showing up in his backyard both in the form of an anthill as well as in the form of a carrot color mushroom resembling a human hand. This dream occurred when he was extremely sick and had to be hospitalized. Following this dream, he recovered his health. When he returned home, he consulted a ganachari, who confirmed that both Ellamma and Uppalamma had come to visit him and that he should perform kolupulu (plural of kolupu used here to indicate that the rite would be held in the honor of more than one goddess). In the kolupulu, the two gurigis that were brought by the ganachari were identified as Ellamma and Uppalamma. During the kolupulu, the devotee was possessed by both of these goddesses. The devotee took this as a sign that not only was the

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kolupulu accepted by both of the goddesses but also they blessed him in this special way by appearing together. By appearing with Ellamma, the presence of Uppalamma influenced the worship pattern of Ellamma. In the same village as mentioned above, a woman of kapu caste and a low-income family noticed a growing anthill on the beams of her thatch-roof house. She prayed to the goddess of anthills that she could not afford her presence and that the goddess should take up residence in other people’s homes. In spite of her prayers, the anthill continued to grow, whereupon her husband consulted a ganachari in the nearby village of Penugollu. The ganachari identified Ellamma, here regarded as a sister of Uppalamma, who was demanding a kolupu to be performed in the same way as Uppalamma is feted. The couple decided to perform kolupu on an appointed day along with their older son and his wife, who lived in a different house. The two gurigis were filled with turmeric rice, on top of which tali and other paraphernalia were placed in just the same way as in Uppalamma’s kolupu. The proceedings were the same as that of Uppalamma’s except for one detail. After sacrificing a chicken, the ganachari took the anthill from the beam and added sea-shells to it to prepare a stage inside the newly built shrine in the yard on which he placed two big gurigis, one topped by a toy

Figure 6.5. Ellamma and Uppalamma in the shrine

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box and another topped by a brass pot with a hood to represent Uppalamma and Ellamma respectively (figure 6.5). A brass pot with a hood is a common representation of Ellamma as she is symbolized in public shrines. In front of Ellamma’s pot a trident was placed, another familiar insignia for both goddesses. In the front of these two gurigis, four small gurigis held other paraphernalia. The sea-shells are favorites of the goddess Ellamma and using them to build her stage with the presence of other insignia reflects a due recognition of Ellamma’s identity. 17 Even so, both Uppalamma and Ellamma share the fundamental feature, that is, the fecundity of the soil, Ellamma by dwelling in anthills and Uppalamma by flourishing as a mushroom in the moist soil. However fertile the soil is, it will not contribute to growth unless there is water, which again is another favorite dwelling for Uppalamma and her sisters like Ellamma. This understanding is persistently acknowledged by those who have come to worship Uppalamma in this “new ground.” However, it is not unusual to conflate Uppalamma’s identity with that of Ellamma, as I have noted elsewhere when interpreting a myth in which a mushroom is identified as Ellamma. 18 There are other identities given to Uppalamma as well. In addition to the name Naguala Uppalamma, she is also known as Lakshmi Uppalamma in West Godavari District. While the snake (nagu/nagula) is an essential form of Ellamma that connects Uppalamma with this goddess, her identity with Lakshmi is somewhat of a new trend. But this new trend has a reason. Whether or not Uppalamma is named with the prefix Lakshmi, the endearing name given to this goddess as the “daughter of the house” implicitly connects her to the goddess Lakshmi. In Andhra, as elsewhere in India, a daughter is the “Lakshmi of the house.” Especially if the daughter is born during an auspicious time, she is believed to bring prosperity to the house. The question is whether or not the devotees of this new region believe that the goddess has arrived in their homes during an auspicious time. Uppalamma Flowing with Water New devotees have learned from ganacharis how Uppalamma has traveled to their houses. The conventional explanation now making the rounds is something like this. Uppalamma and her sisters are the daughters of a Harijan couple (a Gandhian name for untouchables known traditionally as mala and madiga castes in this region). The couple abandoned their daughters in the Krishna River so that they could fend for themselves. Uppalamma decided to follow the Sagar waters (which I will define shortly) with the mission to visit peoples’ houses either in her many forms (as Pala Uppalamma) or together with her sisters (such as Ellamma). Although the story is short, it does provide some essential clues. It points to the origins of the goddess in the mala and madiga communities. It also

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mentions the way the goddess traveled to the new regions. Sagar, as mentioned in the story, is a short name for the waters stored and released from a massive dam called Nagarjuna Sagar. The dam draws waters from the two major rivers, Krishna and Godavari, and releases them through its canals to many regions in Andhra Pradesh. Since the construction of the dam in 1967 over the Krishna River near Nandikonda village in the Nalgonda District, the project has been developed in various stages for over half a century to extend the length of its two main (right and left) canals. 19 The major extension of this irrigation occurred at the turn of the last century providing an opportunity for farmers in various parts of Andhra to grow two crops a year. By 2004, the right and left Sagar canals had the potential to irrigate six districts: Nalgonda (397,000 acres), Khammam (275,000 acres), Krishna (368,305 acres), West Godavary (6,734 acres), Guntur (701,999 acres), and Prakasam (471,999). 20 Thus, as the waters have flowed into new drier regions in the last decade or so, many changes have occurred. The flowing of water enabled the farmers to grow two crops a year rather than one, thereby improving their economic conditions. The economic status of agricultural labor, such as the madiga families in my village, has been relatively improved in recent years with the rise of daily wages and the introduction of various schemes and projects by the government to ensure regular work. The relative economic prosperity has been reflected in collective religious expression. Almost every village in the districts of Krishna and Khammam has either constructed a new Hindu temple or has restored the existing one for regular worship. Christians in my village built two modest churches of different denominations. The introduction of the cult of Uppalamma can be seen as yet another religious activity, with the difference being that she is a household deity cutting across caste and religious identities. It can be argued that the sudden appearance of mushrooms in people’s homes is due to the ecological changes that Sagar waters brought. While no scientific evidence or explanation for this phenomenon has been advanced yet by biologists, it seems evident that mushrooms that were confined earlier to western Andhra are now carried by these waters and have spread to new areas into further inland by wind. For example, the Krishna River waters from western Andhra flow downstream to irrigate lands in the districts of Khammam, Krishna, and West Godavari. 21 The mere appearance of mushrooms would not spread Uppalamma’s cult. Knowledge of Uppalamma is no doubt spread by the word of mouth and traced to people’s movement from one region to another, such as the permanent migration of farmers within the state, temporary or seasonal migrations by day laborers, nomadic groups roaming from one region to the other and inter-regional marriage alliances. Again, the mere understanding of mushrooms as a form of the goddess would not help the cultic spread unless there are devotees who can afford the expenses of the associated marriage rite. The timing of Uppalamma’s arrival was perfect because it coincided with the

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relative affluence of families who had a taste of prosperity. In this sense, the goddess as their daughter arrived in auspicious times and hence she either substitutes or becomes the goddess Lakshmi to bless their houses. If she demands kolupu, they are happy to be able to perform it. While this may explain why Uppalamma is treated as the daughter of the house in her “new ground,” the question remains whether the goddess is understood the same way in her “traditional ground.” If not, what identities has she brought to the “new ground” and what has been left behind? PART II: “TRADITIONAL GROUND” FOR UPPALAMMA Arrival of Uppalamma As far as the vegetative forms of Uppalamma are concerned, these remain pretty much same in the “traditional ground.” A website contributor who is from a family of devotees of Uppalamma for many years substantiates this with the following list of mushrooms representing her 22: 1) shape of a human hand and when pinched sticky or blood red sap oozes; 2) shape of a carrot garland with the smell of flesh; 3) shape of an egg with black mark on its hard head and when pinching smells badly; and/or 4) gives away the smell of jasmines for the first three days after which it turns into a rotten meat smell. The other features mentioned in the website are also consistent with the information I gathered from observing the traditional worship of Uppalamma. My information from the “traditional ground” comes from many sources. One of these is a central government employee (who will be referred to as CGE) who lived for a few years in the 1980s in each of the two towns and district headquarters of Nalgonda and Mahaboobnagar. CGE belongs to the kamma caste and enjoys a middle-class life. CGE’s introduction to Uppalamma actually started in 1987 in the garden of his rented house in Nalgonda when he noticed a strong foul smell. The smell led him to what looked like a red bloody hand sprouted in one corner of his garden. As he was examining this, his gardener, who was a golla (cowherd caste) of a low-income group, came and shared his knowledge that this was the goddess Uppalamma and that she needed some placation. Being a native of Krishna district, until that moment, CGE had never heard of the name of this goddess. In any case, skeptic as he is in these matters, he did not believe that the mushroom was a goddess appearing to demand sacrifices. Noticing that the gardener would not dare to touch it, he summarily removed the mushroom from his garden. The gardener, who protested unsuccessfully against CGE’s unceremonious act, expressed his fears regarding the calamity this act might bring upon CGE and his family. Undeterred, CGE noticed that although he removed the mushroom from his garden, Uppalamma remained in his thoughts persistent-

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ly as he began to hear about many incidents of the goddess appearing to the temporary workers in his office. These workers, most of whom belonged to mala caste and who lived on daily wages, feared the wrath of Uppalamma when she appeared in the form of mushroom in their huts. They rushed not only to appease the goddess by offering a chicken, but also by relocating their huts wherever they could find new space. Their appeasement was always accompanied by a plea to the goddess not to follow them to their new dwellings. The above account reveals two divergent perspectives regarding Uppalamma. The first perspective comes from CGE himself, who represents a section of Andhra society who are educated and see themselves as “rational thinkers.” Some of these “rational thinkers” are atheists and consider forms of religion involving gramadevatas and other colloquial versions of religiosity as irrational and naïve. These non-believers are on the opposite end of the spectrum from those native laborers who are fearful of Uppalamma. Many small farmers in Mahaboobnagar District, according to Paul G. Hiebert in his ethnographic work on a village in Mahaboobnagar district, share in the belief of this kind of goddess and her appearance. While noting how the goddess takes not just the form of a bloody hand but other colors and shapes as well, Hiebert identifies this goddess with the local name Maicamma (also spelled as Maisamma). Maisamma is a common name given to gramadevatas in the northern Telengana area of Andhra indicating that in this locale, Uppalamma is identified as a typical gramadevata. However, as Hiebert points out, there are many forms of this goddess and each form is identified with a specific prefix. Maicamma illustrates the nature of Konduru’s goddesses. In the form of Fort Maicamma she was enshrined with proper sacrifices when the village citadels of Konduru, Podur, Maradpur, and Rameshwaram were constructed as protection for these villages against external attack. Occasionally she appears in the early dawn in a field as a pale white hand reaching out of the ground, or as a toadstool. If plucked, her sap may run blood red indicating the presence of Bloody Maicamma, bearer of accidents. Sometimes the sap flows white indicating Milky Maicamma, bearer of diseases, and sometimes it flows clear, a sign of Uppala Maicamma, fiercest of all her apparitions. Most farmers beseech her to move on by offering her food and sacrifices and by placing a basket over her. In the few cases in which she refuses to move on, the hapless farmer is forced to erect a small shelter for her in the field and bring her annual sacrifices of blood. 23

In Hiebert’s account, the name of Uppala (“fiercest”) is used only to identify the fierce form of Uppalamma. The farmers in the Hiebert’s account, just like the poor workers of CGE’s account, try to placate the goddess so that she will leave them. While the laborers pray to the goddess not to follow

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them, the small farmers persuade the goddess to go to some other field. In both instances the intention is clear that they want to satisfy her with an offering with the hope that she would leave them alone. But, if the goddess persists by continually sprouting as a mushroom, unlike the laborers who can afford to abandon their dwellings, farmers who make a living on their land do not have any option except to accept her presence by arranging a place of worship for her. Not all in the western Andhra are afraid of Uppalamma. In fact, there are some groups of families who embrace the goddess as their family deity by setting up her worship in their fields and homes. I encountered wealthy farmers from Warangal, a town and headquarters for the district of the same name, who fall in the middle- and upper-middle-class income groups of the velama caste who worship Uppalamma annually in their fields and also at their homes. 24 These families for generations have worshiped Uppalamma as the deity providing fertility to their fields and family. The representation of Uppalamma in the field, usually by a well, is in the form of a crude stone where a goat is sacrificed and toddy is offered during harvest season. In addition, in their homes, the goddess is worshiped in the form of gurigis enshrined in a low structure built for this purpose. The architecture of this single room shrine is the same as the many new shrines built in the “new ground,” as it is constructed with bricks and cement with a fluted conical roof topped by an ornamental snake spreading its hood over a lemon. Being a goddess of the family for many generations, a kolupu for her is held whenever there is a big family celebration in the house. The procedure for kolupu, including the sacrifice of a goat, is not very different from that being performed in the “new ground.” In the same way as in the “new ground,” the head of the house along with his wife perform worship to the goddess in which a sari, blouse, and toiletries such as a mirror, comb, turmeric, vermillion, and toys are offered, as though the goddess is a little daughter of the house. The custom of throwing all the leftovers of the feast into a gundam dug in front of the shrine with invitees carefully washing their hands serves the same dual purpose as noted in the “new grounds”: it secures the merit for the host family and ensures that the partakers of the feast do not bring the goddess with them into their own houses. So, although the goddess is patronized by the wealthy without any hesitance and with much enthusiasm, there are those who attend the feast harboring that fear that the goddess might follow them to their homes. What is conspicuously absent from this ritual is the role of ganachari acting as priest. The absence of this feature and the offering of toddy make the proceedings of kolupu in this region very close in nature to the rituals performed for gramadevatas. Wealthy farmers are not the only group who worship Uppalamma in the “traditional ground.” There are low-middle-class and middle-class families of different professional castes who worship the goddess as well. Though

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they do not have fields, they worship the goddess for the fertility and wellbeing of their families. However, their worship is not as elaborate as described above, at least, not among the sale (cloth weaver) caste families in the town of Warangal. 25 Although cloth weaving is a traditional occupation for the members of this caste, these families often taken clerical jobs with the government and private companies. Like many in Warangal, they worship Uppalamma in their houses along with a range of other gods and goddesses. Each family worships Uppalamma in the corner of their compounds at their convenience except on Friday when they worship the goddess Lakshmi. In this way, these families separate the goddess from Lakshmi who is known for providing material wealth. The shrine for Uppalamma in these homes is simple, usually set up with a few slabs to create some kind of shelter. This structure houses a couple of tiny gurigis decorated with lime and turmeric. At the time of worship, an oil lamp is lit and a couple of bigger gurigis, one containing toddy and another containing jaggery, curd, and water, are kept at the entrance of the shrine as an offering to the goddess. Bonum (rice cooked in a pot to offer to the goddess) is prepared and brought, and a chicken or a goat, depending on the importance of the occasion and the family’s income, is sacrificed to Uppalamma. The meat is cooked and served to the relatives invited. Throwing leftovers in the gundam is observed strictly. In addition to this periodic worship with a chicken/goat sacrifice, Uppalamma is also approached for any special plea, often a petition for children. When the sons of the family are grown up, are married, and form their own houses, they set up their own shrine for Uppalamma in their yards. But if Uppalamma happens to show up in the new house as a mushroom, she warrants a special worship, which is similar to the kolupu done in the “new ground” except for the presence of the ganachari. However, this special worship involves an initial ritual that is not practiced in the “new ground.” In this initial ritual, the owner of the new house uses a cup made of dried copra (made by cutting the full copra into two halves) to measure the rice into a cloth. The rice is mixed with turmeric and put away in a secure place in the house to cook as bonum and to be offered to the goddess on the auspicious date of worship. This ritual of measuring rice is mentioned in the website I previously quoted. Accordingly, the occasion is used to test the authenticity of Uppalamma and her magical power. 26 After offering four counts of rice using a cup made of dried coconut (copra) into a towel to the goddess in her mushroom shape, the devotees are asked to bring the towel into the house to measure again. If the quantity of rice has increased during the second measure, then it is taken as a sign of Uppalamma’s presence in their house. With this evidence established, the residents of the house are advised to go back to the mushroom to take a vow that they will pray to her on every Sunday until the day kolupu is held. After this vow, the mushroom should be covered by a bamboo basket. Many other minor aspects discussed above leading up to

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kolupu are similar to the “new ground” except for conducting the test. The main difference in the whole proceedings before and during kolupu between the new and the traditional regions, as noted above, is the absence of a ganachari. Uppalamma’s Public Persona So far, the discussion of Uppalamma gives us the impression that she is fond of homes and fields. Though new, there are a few public shrines in western Andhra dedicated to this goddess proving that she also has public persona in a limited manner. Even the idea of Uppalamma as the form of Lakshmi started catching on in urban areas as a kick back effect. For example, there are two shrines in Hyderabad dedicated to Uppalamma. In one of these Uppalamma is worshiped as a form of Lakshmi. This association with Lakshmi provides a better “positive spin” on her otherwise controversial profile in this “traditional ground,” and indicates a general pattern of urbanizing and “brahmanizing” rural folk goddesses I have explored elsewhere. 27 I will further examine this point below. The goddess in the second shrine is referred to only as Uppalamma. In her image in this shrine, she appears as a young girl with two hands, one holding a bowl of food and the other in the abhaya (“fear not”) gesture. The young girl form is what is consistently mentioned by devotees in the “new ground” referring her as the little daughter of the house. Uppalamma’s worship in public space is not unprecedented. In fact, evidence shows that originally she was the kula devata (presiding deity of a caste group) for mala and madiga castes. 28 According to popular belief, mala, madiga, and other related castes originally lived in forests and worshiped goddesses such as Uppalamma whose mythologies are connected to the legends of Parasurama and Renuka, possibly containing remnants of long forgotten history referring to their prowess as fierce fighters and huntergatherers. 29 Their mythology often links their goddess to a mountain king, an indication of their old habitat. Remnants of this mythology are referred to in the performance of kolupu, including its animal sacrifices, and can still be ascertained in contemporary traditional weddings of these castes. 30 However, her association with the goddess Lakshmi needs some further exploration. The background for this is indicated in one of the three mythological versions that I consider below. The other two versions affirm Uppalamma’s complicated affiliation with Ellamma. PART III: MYTHOLOGY In the first two versions, Uppalamma makes her appearance only briefly, as if to show allegiance to Ellamma. The first version is collected from a devo-

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tee of the sale caste of low-middle class in Hyderabad who heard it in the 1970s from bynavandlu (professional singers who come from the mala and madiga castes) of the same city. 31 The bynavandlu sing the stories of the seven sister goddesses over several nights on invitation by each neighborhood in Hyderabad. 32 So, the version I relate here is the substance of one of many episodes. First Version The seven sisters in the story are Ellamma and her six sister goddesses (ammas or “mothers” or “madams”) who are introduced as the daughters of Shiva. Uppalamma, whose presence is miniscule in the story, is identified as one of the seven sisters. The myth starts with a marriage arrangement between Ellamma and Bala Muni Raju (literal “young ascetic king”). Ellamma’s cousins, the rulers of a kingdom called Kartika, were outraged that Ellamma chose a sage like Bala Muni Raju, instead of one of them (in south Indian tradition, cousins born to the sibling of the opposite sex are eligible to marry each other). The cousins get into a fight with Bala Muni Raju and drive a sword into his body. Thinking that they accomplished their mission of ruining the wedding, they leave the scene jubilant. Bala Muni Raju is still alive, but severely wounded. Ellamma arrives at the scene and is told by her husband that for him to survive he would need a special kind of bonum. This has to be prepared by Ellamma meeting the following restrictions: the bonum has to be cooked in a pot made out of sand by Ellamma herself who should collect water that is not touched by a crow; the food has to be cooked on a fire placing the pot on two stones and using one of her knees as a third stone. Ellamma, through her devotion to her husband, succeeds in making a pot from sand, collecting water not touched by a crow, and cooking food on a fire by using her knee as one of the three stones. Thus cooked, she carries the bonum on her head to Bala Muni Raju. On the way, her cousins accost her and attempt to rape her. While Shiva tries to rescue Ellamma from their clutches, some of the cousins get their hands on the bonum and pollute the food. Unaware of this, Ellamma brings the bonum to her husband. Knowing the bonum is contaminated, Bala Muni Raju asks her to take the sword from his body and drink the blood that comes out of his body. Ellamma does this and, as a result, gets pregnant with three children, namely, Parasurama, Chitikanathudu, and Gauramma (two sons and one daughter). After losing blood, the dying Bala Muni Raju asks her to cremate his body, collect his bones, and hang them in a pot on a tree. He also instructs Ellamma not to tell the children about his identity until they become adults. Ellamma raises her sons. As Parasurama, the older one, grows into a teenager, he wonders about his father’s whereabouts and constantly harasses his mother to reveal details. Ellamma uses all her tricks to evade his ques-

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tions and to distract him. But once when she has exhausted of all her devices, she finds no other way except hiding herself in a hole in a madiga colony where buffalo hides are saturated before the leather is made. Parasurama searches for her and gets help from his grandfather Shiva to find her in hiding. He retrieves her from the hole by pulling her by the hair out of the tanning water. Ellamma is so outraged by this that she curses her son, saying that the hand would become a form of Uppalamma that would appear in everybody’s house. The story of goddess Uppalamma ends here while a repenting Ellamma restores her son’s hand. Eventually learning the whereabouts of his father, Parasurama goes first to defeat and kill those cousins of Ellamma who were responsible for his father’s fate. Then he brings the bones of his father and submerges them in the river. Having accomplished her mission, Ellamma dives into a well and dwells there peacefully along with her sister goddesses. This well, according to the byndlavandlu, is located in Balakampeta next to where Ellamma is worshiped in a stone form within a temple that lies ten feet beneath ground level. In the above brief recounting, Uppalamma’s appearance is not only short, but abrupt and dramatic as well. She finds her sister Ellamma’s curse as an excuse to sprout in people’s homes as the hand of a hero-nephew. Second Version The myth comes from the Ballary district, which was part of western Andhra until 1956 after which it merged with the state of Karnataka. In the Ballary district, the goddess is known as Uppala Maisamma, a name also mentioned by Hiebert but only as one of the several forms of Uppalamma. 33 In this area, the professional priestly group (asadis from the mala caste) sing the story of the goddess during her worship. The focus of this version again is Ellamma who is also referred to here as Renuka Ellamma, the daughter of a mountain king and his wife, Jamilika Parvati. When the mountain king was attacked by rakshasas (demons), he hid himself in a cave. Knowing this, Renuka went to her sage husband, Jamadagni, placing seven pots on her head containing rice and water, with the idea of asking his permission to go to war. To test her deep devotion to her husband, Narada (a divine sage) and Vishnu came to her as beggars and got some of the cooked rice as alms. In a fit of anger that somebody had eaten a portion of his food first and thus contaminated it, Jamadagni ordered his son, Parasurama, to cut off his mother’s head. Parasurama fulfilled his father’s order, but afterward cut his own hand off out of remorse for killing his own mother. The hand of Parasurama became a mushroom, while the head of Renuka took the form of a cobra’s hood. Later, Renuka came alive and asked her husband’s permission to go to the war with the rakshasas (demons) only then to be heckled by him. She then asked her husband to look at her again, by which time she had assumed the form of

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sakti with a thousand hands holding thousands of sulas (spears), each piercing an animal. Each of the flayed animals was accompanied by a sakti (goddess) holding a khatvanga (curved sword) and a khadga (sword). When the frightened Jamadagni tried to escape to the underground, Renuka stopped him by holding his garment and retreated back into her human form. And so she won his consent to go to the war. During the war, when she killed each of the rakshasas, the spilled blood gave rise to the appearance of 6,000 more, upon which she ordered her brother, Poturaju, to spread out his tongue on the ground to prevent the blood from falling on the ground. This is how it is said that Renuka won the war with the rakshasas. Renuka’s head becoming cobra hood and her son’s hand a mushroom is not elaborated or explained further in the story. What is implicit, however, is the intricate connection between the mushroom and its protective cobra hood. The cobra hood, in fact, is also understood by devotees as a form of Uppalamma. And, this is the reason why her shrine is topped by a cobra hood. In both versions of the myth, however, the goddess Uppalamma comes alive as the fallen hand of Parasurama, a hand that abuses Ellamma. Thus, the victimization of Ellamma at her own son’s hand is what causes the birth of Uppalamma. It could be said that Uppalamma, in these two instances, represents the alter-ego of Ellamma. While Ellamma’s powers are dormant, Uppalamma springs to life to make up for this. While patriarchal order and male domination are clearly shown in both versions, the second version establishes the ultimate superiority of the goddess as she fights the demons and rescues Shiva. Thus, in this second version of the story, the goddess shows that she can play both roles successfully as a submissive female to her male relations on the one hand and as a mighty warrior protecting those same male relations on the other. In this latter role, the goddess exhibits the same character as the goddess of the fifth century CE text, Devi Mahatmya, a text that must have taken popular mythologies such as these into account. The second version of the myth also introduces Poturaju, whose role is to drink the blood of the demons in just the same way as he accepts the blood of the sacrificial animals in gramadevata rituals. 34 Third Version Uppalamma plays a more significant role in this myth. Even so, it shares many moments with Ellamma, so much so that the story might have originated in the Ellamma cult. This version is also preserved in song form sung by pamblavandlu in the Warangal district. Like byndlavandlu, this group also comes from either mala or madiga castes. Their familiarity with the mythology of Uppalamma and their worship of her as their caste deity point her cultic origins in this group. Each group of pamblavandlu sings the story with some variations. The version I collected from an acquaintance hailing from Waran-

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gal shares similarities with a story posted on the website. 35 This story, unlike the previous versions, possesses more Sanskrit elements with the three important Puranic gods, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva as well as their consorts playing prominent roles. Power tensions between genders in the divine order in this version reach a climax. The story starts typically in a Puranic fashion with a disaster caused by the sins accumulated by people in the form of a long drawn drought, which leads to pleas for divine intervention. The suffering pray to the three popular Hindu deities, Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, and to their wives respectively, Saraswati, Lakshmi, and Parvati, upon which all of these deities decide to show up in human forms. Like the social workers of the present day, the gods and goddesses in their ordinary human forms visit village after village attending to people’s physical and emotional sufferings. At this point, the story switches gears from suffering people to a gambit of Shiva to test the generosity of the three goddesses. Acting as a beggar in disguise, he visits the thatched homes of each of the three goddesses who are living as poor women. Saraswati, who is busy plastering the walls of her house with mud, has nothing to spare except mud. Angered by this, Shiva curses her to live in mud. She quietly accepts this. Unlike Saraswati, Lakshmi finds a mushroom by her home and offers it to the beggar only to be cursed to become a mushroom with an offensive smell. On praying, Shiva changes his curse slightly so that she would give away different smells as well. Parvati, being the wife of Shiva, recognizes him and laughs. Contented by her recognition, Shiva grants her a boon. Grabbing the opportunity, Parvati asks for a thousand children without experiencing birthing pains. Shiva grants her wish only on the condition that Parvati worships him with flowers that are not touched by anything, including insects, and water that has not been sipped by any creature. Parvati happily sets about finding special flowers and water. But having no luck in securing either, she decides to do penance to get Shiva’s grace. The penance lasts eleven years before Shiva decides not only to grant Parvati’s wish but also to revoke the curses he swore on Lakshmi and Saraswati. He converts his former curses and boon together into a blessed fruit on a plant close to Parvati. Parvati sees the fruit, eats it, and falls into long sleep that lasts for three months. When she awakens, she is pregnant and she runs in such a hurry to announce the news to her husband that she falls on the ground, aborting the baby into the bowels of the earth. Shiva tells her that the baby is the product of all three goddesses and, as such, contains infinite powers to rule the universe. The earth where the baby falls grows into an anthill. The baby grows up in the company of snakes. As the baby grows into a teenager, the anthill grows bigger. As the baby becomes aware of her plight in the dark layers of the earth, she grows increasingly upset. This angry teenager starts causing destruction to the universe and takes the name Uppalamma (the goddess who is “fierce” and causes destruction). Then Brahma,

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Vishnu, and Shiva devise a solution: she will visit house to house in the form of a mushroom, spreading different scents in each house when people provide her with what she missed in her childhood and adulthood. Assuaged by their care, Uppalamma would provide them protection and happiness. What connects the three versions is Uppalamma appearing in the form of mushroom. And this indicates either an explicit or implicit connection with Ellamma. I discussed how this relationship between the two functioned in the first two versions. In contrast to these two versions, the third version does not even mention the name of Ellamma. Yet the birth and development of Uppalamma shows its unmistakable resemblance to that of Ellamma. These include the birth of the goddess in an anthill, her dwelling in the bowels of the earth, her association with snakes, her growing anger, and her destructive ways as her popular mythology elsewhere mentions. 36 They both share their association with the earth as well as water. Their association with water is mentioned in the first version where Ellamma and her sisters reside in a well. It is also mentioned in the story told in the “new ground” that Uppalamma and her sisters travel by water. Here it is worth mentioning how the wealthy farmers worship Uppalamma in the fields by their wells. By associating with Ellamma and sharing her characteristics, Uppalamma shows her nature not just as the deity of households but also her capability of representing the whole village. The gramadevata is often represented in the form of a pot. Uppalamma is not an exception. In fact, using a number of gurigis to represent Uppalamma and her multiple forms is similar to the way the gramadevata is worshiped ritually as three, seven, or multiple numbers of pots or stones. The mythology of Uppalamma that intricately links her identity with Ellamma also depicts her as the gramadevata. This is why, in a traditional set-up where village-wide rituals are held for Uppalamma, Poturaju, as the brother of Uppalamma, is given due significance. 37 This traditional set up is found in the mala and madiga colonies, pointing once again to her origins within these castes. Ellamma, who is closely connected to Uppalamma, is identified as the major popular goddess cult of these castes. The acts of bringing chicken, coconuts, and other ingredients to ganacharis as an offering to Uppalamma are actually offered to the gramadevata of village. This shows that Uppalamma is understood not just as the form of gramadevata, but that she is an integral part of it. Yet, Uppalamma in many ways separates herself from a typical gramadevata for those who approach her as the daughter of their house. While the gramadevata protects the common interests of the village, Uppalamma protects the interests of the members of the house in which she resides. In the same way that some villages protect the sacrificial remains kept within the borders of the village, each household in which Uppalamma is worshiped protects their unconsumed offerings from passing from the premises of their

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house to ensure that the blessings of the goddess remain within the confines of their house. In the third myth, the gods such as Shiva, Vishnu, and Brahma are introduced to show that the goddess, though an infinite force of the universe, needs their validation. The three gods are also depicted as bringing positive force by preventing the goddess from being destructive. In spite of these attempts in the story to establish the superiority of the Puranic gods over the goddess, it is apparent that the goddess with her close association with the earth and water remains as a focus of worship to those whose lives are bound to the fertility of the piece of earth they own. This goddess, according to the third myth, is Uppalamma. While in the first two myths, Ellamma becomes the reason for the form of Uppalamma, the third myth asserts that not just Ellamma but other goddesses are also a part of Uppalamma. For example, Shiva’s curses of Saraswati and Lakshmi to become mud and mushrooms show their association as well as their future daughter’s association with the earth. Particularly, Lakshmi in her cursed form represents Uppalamma more precisely. This must be the reason why in some areas Uppalamma is known as Lakshmi Uppalamma. Although not in the same way, Parvati also shares this identification by storing her own energy through penance, which is used to produce a child. In other words, if Uppalamma is the goddess of the universe, as identified in this version of mythology, the three consort goddesses are her forms. Unlike in the second version, in this final version, the fighting of the goddess is not to kill demons but to restore what rightfully belongs to her, that is, her control over the universe. This aspect is what makes her tangible and appealing to her devotees. In this way, she establishes her hold on the universe. This universe changes from context to context. If it is the whole village that is involved in the worship of their collective goddess, she represents the village. But if it is a family that worships the goddess for their well-being, then each household is her universe. CONCLUSIONS From the above discussion, the following points emerge. In the first two versions of the mythology, the nature and appearance of Uppalamma show her as the extension of the Ellamma cult. This is how her “career” appears to have started. As shown in the third version of the mythology, the goddess then begins to make her own career first in the “traditional ground” and later in the “new ground” as a goddess of preeminence. These myths, the caste of professional singers who preserve the story of the goddess Uppalamma and her intricate links to Ellamma who is said to have hid herself in the hole used to soak hides for tanning, the surviving tradition of her continued veneration among mala and madiga castes, all

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point to the origins of these goddesses within the religious culture of these castes. While the goddess Ellamma becomes a popular village deity for many villages throughout south India, Uppalamma’s popularity was limited for a long time to western Andhra and its neighboring area of Karnataka. Even within this region the goddess never has been worshiped at the village-wide level. For this reason, the goddess was relatively unknown until recently in the “new ground.” The manner in which her presence in the form of a mushroom is reacted to upon discovery illustrates this clearly. Although she was a caste deity for mala and madiga for a long time, the poor families of these castes feared her presence, whereas the well-to-do farmers of the western Andhra domesticated Uppalamma in such a way that she became their fertility deity both in the fields as well as in their households. This fertility aspect is what seemed to have resonated with the middle and low-middleclass families belonging to professional castes such as the sale who worshiped Uppalamma to beget off-spring. However, when the goddess traveled to the “new ground,” with the waters, the goddess became less ambivalent. Unlike in the “traditional ground” where middle- and low-middle-class groups worship Uppalamma in a modest way, the new middle and low-middle and low income groups in Andhra are more willing to share a little of their extra income to celebrate the kolupu of Uppalamma on par with the wealthy families in Warangal. This is depicted in the way that they construct their shrines, the expensive procedures they follow and the commitment to celebrate weddings for three or seven consecutive years. In the same way, the new low-income families, including castes like the madiga, perform kolupu generously at the same level as the low-middle-class families in the “traditional ground.” This includes showing gratitude to Uppalamma who they believe came through the water to improve their lot. They want their homes to be blessed by Uppalamma so that their families will flourish. Unlike their poor counterparts in western Andhra who did not experience any affluence, the families in the new ground embrace Uppalamma as a goddess who holds the promise for a better future in this world and merit in the following world, as the daughter of their house. This is the same with the families of the brahmin caste and Muslim religion. Not only do the rituals held for Uppalamma allow these new devotees to show their gratitude to the goddess and their religiosity and generosity to others, but it also guarantees them to acquire merit for rebirth in the other world. It is within the context of Uppalamma representing fertility and prosperity and granting merit that her character conflates with brahmanic Lakshmi. In this way, the “new ground,” unlike the “traditional ground,” has proved to be a greener pasture not just for Uppalamma but also for ganacharis. Ganacharis who have helped in interpreting the goddess to new devotees have reinforced her positive qualities by introducing the element of merit

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into the worship. Yet, some negative undertones such as the fear by those who partake in the kolupu that any remnants of the feast might bring the goddess to their homes, although subdued, continues to resonate in the “new ground.” While this shows that not everybody in the “new ground” has enough means to conduct kolupu for Uppalamma, it also reflects the hope that the poor do not try to escape from her presence as in the “traditional ground” but instead, bring their modest offerings to the ganachari to be blessed for a better future. In this way, in the “new ground,” Uppalamma improves her own character by improving the lot of others. The improved Uppalamma becomes not only the precious daughter of the houses in the “new ground,” but also assumes the character of Lakshmi to go back to the “traditional ground” to be worshiped in the public context. NOTES The author is grateful to her friends and family in India who facilitated a number of interviews with devotees of Uppalamma across the state of Andhra. 1. People belonging to madiga caste traditionally worked with leather by preparing the skin of dead cows and water buffalos. For more details about traditions of the madiga caste and its origins, refer to: Edgar Thurston, Castes and Tribes of Southern India, Vol. 4 (Madras: Government of Madras, 1909). For the present status of the madiga caste, refer to the following sites: “The Madiga Community of Andhra Pradesh,” accessed April 8, 2012, http://indculture0.tripod.com/madiga.htm; “Life Reflections of Madigas in Telugu Literature,” accessed April 8, 2012, http://vrdarla.blogspot.com/2008/07/life-reflections-of-madigas-in-telugu.html. 2. The growing popularity of Uppalamma caught the attention of the media. One TV channel called “TV 9” reported that within a small village (hamlet) named Ramakrishnanagar near Chintalapudi town in West Godavari district, three-fourths of the households were worshiping Uppalamma in their home shrines. This television report was uploaded to youtube on November 15, 2010: “Temple in Every House,” accessed November 9, 2011, www.youtube. com/watch?v=4vw2EVjY9Q0. 3. I have interviewed a total of thirty devotees of different castes and income groups from ten villages/towns/cities of the districts of Krishna (Anantharam, Chandragudem, Mylavaram, and Utukuru), Khammam (Lingala, Madhira, Wyrah, and Sathupalli), Rangareddy (Hyderabad), and Warangal (Warangal). 4. A research analysis published in June 2012 on the global middle-class identifies that in developing countries like India only the middle class can afford to own cars. For details, refer to: “A New Measure of the Global Middle Class,” accessed November 9, 2011: www.voxeu.org/article/new-measure-global-middle-class. 5. Unless otherwise noted, agricultural caste groups mentioned here pursue farming as their living. They also keep buffalos, cows, goats, and chicken as a supplement to their income. 6. Interview with the householder from Wyrah town took place on February 27, 2012. 7. Some of the professional ganacharis are females belonging to matangi tradition. For details, see W. T. Elmore, Dravidian Gods in Modern Hinduism (New Delhi: Educational Services, 1984), 22–26; Richard Brubaker, “The Ambivalent Mistress: A Study of South Indian Village Goddesses Their Religious Meaning” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 1978), 267; Gustav Oppert, On the Original Inhabitants of Bharatavarsa or India (Westminister: A Constable & Co: 1893), 465–66. 8. These varied castes could be professional such as chakali (washer man), mangali (barber), gavundla (toddy tapper) or pursuing agriculture such as reddy, kamma, kapu, and velama.

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However, it is rare that a ganachari will be from the castes who wear sacred thread and whose traditional diet is vegetarian food. 9. To understand the characteristics of a typical gramadevata, refer to David Kinsley, Hindu Goddesses (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1987), 197–200. 10. The word “kolupu” in general is understood as the festival for the gramadevata but in this context it is used as the wedding for the goddess. 11. The gramadevata is often identified with a pot. Here, the miniature pot called gurigi is used to represent the goddess in the kolupu. The snake is also a symbol of gramadevata. Lemon is offered in the rituals of many gramadevatas as her favorite fruit, as a cooling agent. Even offerings like lemon become the symbols of the goddess. For further details see, Sree Padma. Vicissitudes of the Village Goddess: Reconstruction of the Gramadevata through India’s Religious Traditions (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 51–69. 12. Padma, Vicissitudes, 51–59. 13. See Brenda Beck’s chapter in this book, “Goddesses Who Dwell on Earth.” 14. To understand ritual contexts in which the pot is used and to understand the significance of the pot see Padma, Vicissitudes, 53 and 84–97. 15. Padma, Vicissitudes, 205–15. 16. Padma, Vicissitudes, 148–49. 17. Padma, Vicissitudes, 135–36 and 150–52. 18. Padma, Vicissitudes, 165–66. 19. “Nagarjuna Sagar Project,” accessed October 10, 2012, http://irrigation.cgg.gov.in/ CompMaj/NagarjunaSagarProjectDetail.htm. 20. “Nagarjuna Sagar Project: Brief Profile,” accessed October 10, 2012, http://irrigation.cgg.gov.in/CompMaj/NagarjunaSagarBrief.htm. 21. “Some Maine Canals of Andhra that helps in Irrigation,” accessed October 15, 2012, www.preservearticles.com/2012020422756/some-main-canals-of-andhra-pradesh-that-helpsin-irrigation.html. 22. “Story of Uppalamma,” accessed February 5, 2012, https://sites.google.com/site/sammakkasaralamma/renuka-yellamma. 23. Paul G. Hiebert, Konduru: Structure and Integration in a South Indian Village (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1971), 136. 24. Personal correspondence with a resident in Warangal (between February and March, 2012), whose natal and agnatic families have worshiped Uppalamma for generations as a deity protecting both fields and households. 25. The source of this information is from a widow of the sale caste who is in her sixties and who presently lives with one of her sons in Hyderabad. 26. “Story of Uppalamma.” 27. Sree Padma, “From Village to City: Transforming Goddesses in Urban Andhra,” in Tracy Pintchman, ed., Seeking Mahadevi (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2001), 115–44. 28. Nayani Krishnakumari, Telugu Janapanda Geya Gathalu [Telugu] (Hyderabad: Telugu Academy, 1990), 196–98; Uppalamma is worshiped collectively by madiga caste group in Nalgonda district: “Free Thinking,” accessed March 15, 2012, www.frei-denken.ch/en/2012/ 03/adopt-a-dalit-village-help-to-self-help/. 29. “Mala Caste,” accessed February 12, 2012, http://dictionary.sensagent.com/mala+ %28caste%29/en-en. 30. Emma Rauschenbusch-Clough, While Sewing Sandals: Or Tales of a Telugu Pariah Tribe (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1899). 31. Bynavandlu, Pamabala Vandlu, Asadis, and Kommas are various regional names for professional singers who sing the stories of gramadevatas. These groups belong to madiga and mala castes. In the same way that the gollas (yadava is the other name for cowherd caste) sing the mythology of their goddess Ganga, the Bynavandlu, Pambala Vandlu, and Asadis sing the mythologies of their kula devatas (guardian deities of their castes) who became gramadevatas. Check the following site for details: “Madiga & Dalit,” accessed February 20, 2012, www.simoncharsley.co.uk/roots1.html. 32. Often the gramadevatas are understood as seven sisters.

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33. Krishnakumari, Telugu Janapanda Geya Gathalu [Telugu], 196–98. 34. Usually in gramadevata shrines, Poturaju is represented as a stake or as an image in the front or backside of the shrine where the animal sacrifices are made. Because of this, sometimes the sacrificial animals are understood as representing demon enemies. To understand the symbolism of the Poturaju cult, see George L. Hart, “Ancient Tamil Literature: Its Scholarly Past and Future,” in Burton Stein, ed., Essays on South India (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1975), 41–63. 35. “Story of Uppalamma.” 36. For details about some of the versions of the myth of goddess Ellamma, see Padma Vicissitudes, 51, 135–36, 110–11, and 150–52. 37. Gidee Telangana Cartoon Book,” accessed February 12, 2012, http://gideetelangana. blogspot.com/2010/05/bonalupotharaju-and-uppalamma-festival.html.

Chapter Seven

The Leap of the Limping Goddess Ai Khodiyar of Gujarat Neelima Shukla-Bhatt

Religion, once thought to be on the wane in the wake of modernity, has seen a dynamic resurgence in its localized and trans-regional forms in many parts of the world in recent times. Sociologists explain that this resurgence, often termed “desecularization,” can be attributed to the ability of religion to offer certainty in the midst uncertainties engendered by modernization and to serve as a platform for community building in the globalized postmodern world. 1 In the Indian context, a vital channel for religion’s resurgence is provided by worship of regional goddesses with whom people closely identify and to whom they often turn for aid in all areas of life. This chapter is about a regional goddess of Gujarat in western India who has seen expansion in the geographical area of her veneration and marked changes in her ritual worship in recent times. The change has run parallel to the enhancement in the social status of the communities of the goddess’s worshipers through progress in the secular areas of education, business, and politics since the nineteenth century. Looking closely at a grand ceremony for a planned temple complex dedicated to this goddess, oral and written texts honoring her, and broad outlines of the history of her worship, I will suggest that this goddess’s invigorated worship in recent times provides a distinctively Indian example of de-secularization. The revitalization of her worship is characterized by the heightened appeal of religion in the context of globalization as elsewhere in the world. But it is also marked by simultaneous occurrence of two seemingly opposite processes of “Sanskritization,” (adaptation of the practices of upper castes by those lower in the caste hierarchy) and “vernacularization” (emergence of popular localized cultural forms) often discussed in scholarship on India. 2 177

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THE GRAND EVENT Let us begin with the event related to the temple complex. On January 21, 2012, a team of Guinness World Records landed in the small village called Kagvad, near Rajkot in the peninsular part of Gujarat to record the shilapujan (ritual worship of the foundation stones) for a temple. The number of attendees was more than 2 million who had traveled from eleven states in India and seven foreign countries. These included holy men from various religious sects prevalent in Gujarat, important political leaders, and members of the leuva patel community, a major agrarian caste in the region. 3 The grand ceremony, which included showering of flowers from a helicopter, was performed by more than 24,000 leuva patel couples and seen by attendees on a giant TV screen. The couples performing the puja were asked to shake hands with one another. As they did so, their number was being counted using sophisticated technology designed and operated by software engineers. 4 At the end of counting, the head of the Guinness team congratulated the gathering for setting a world record for the number of people shaking hands simultaneously and presented a certificate to the effect. 5 There was no reference to the goddess in this announcement. But the attendees knew that “people shaking hands” was a euphemism for the number of performers of the ceremony. The gathering was jubilant and soon the news was spreading through newspapers, internet blogs, and Youtube videos. 6 The temple for which the ceremony was performed is planned to be equally grand. It is planned to compete with the most magnificent Hindu temples in the region and the country. Importantly, it is projected to include educational, sports, and community development centers. An agriculture university is also in the vision. The presiding deity of this temple complex will be Ai Khodiyar, the kuldevi or clan goddess of a large majority of leuva patels in Saurashtra. Her name means “the limping mother.” She is affectionately called Khodal and the planned temple complex is called Khodaldham— the abode of Khodal. In the complex, Khodiyar will be flanked by pan-Indian goddesses like Ambika, Kali, Annapurna, and regional goddesses like Randal, and Shihori. Many male divinities of the Hindu pantheon—Shiva, Rama, Krishna, and Hanuman—will also have their shrines. 7 Khodiyar will be the central divine figure in this complex. During the ceremony, an imposing image of Ai Khodiyar on the stage clearly indicated her status as the divine owner and protector of the complex. At the same time, the publicity materials for the puja event and the internet sites dedicated to the temple complex indicate that it is planned as much as an assertion of pride in leuva patel identity as it is for expressing devotion to the goddess. The first stone laid at the temple, speeches made at the ceremony, and the website for the temple complex refer to it as “leuva patel samaj na atma-gaurav nu pratik” (a symbol of the self-esteem of the leuva

The Leap of the Limping Goddess

Figure 7.1. Poster of goddess Khodiyar

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patal community). 8 A video about the event available on a website declares, “it [the temple] will not be just another temple among many, but it will be a center that will express the aspirations of the leuva patel community fulfilling goals of life.” 9 These references stress faith in Ai Khodiyar as a core aspect of the leuva patel identity. The puja ceremony provided an avenue for the expression of pride in this identity and its implications for the future of the community. The event had three types of components—religious and cultural performances, speeches by leaders, and activities related to the world record. In each of them, the honoring of Ai Khodiyar and pride in the leuva patel identity were interlinked in innovative ways. The religious ceremonies performed on January 21, 2012, formed the second phase of rituals for the temple foundation. Exactly one year ago, in January 2011, the shilanyas (placing the first foundation stone) had been performed by seven young girls to the accompaniment of Vedic mantras chanted by another group of girls on a microphone. In the 2012 event, the classical style ceremony was officiated by brahmin priests. In a way they were only completing the ritual begun by the young girls a year earlier. An important part of the event was singing of devotional songs in Gujarati to Khodiyar and other cultural programs. Here too, women figured prominently along with men. Among the political dignitaries, there was female minister from the state cabinet. Besides the priests, the only other male figures of religious authority were sadhus (holy men) from different religious sects in Gujarat who lighted a lamp on the stage as a sign of blessing. The equal participation of women in the religious and cultural performances can be linked to the remarks made by the president of the Khodaldham trust, Naresh Patel, who exhorted his community to be progressive and discard bad customs. Patel did not mention reforms regarding women specifically in his speech. 10 The status of women and their participation in public life, however, have long been seen as areas needing reform in rural agricultural communities of Gujarat, a class to which a number of leuva patels belong. In the larger vision for the temple complex too, women’s progress is given an important place. 11 The Khodaldham event was an auspicious moment to take a step in this direction in a gathering of 2 million members of the community. That the presiding deity of the temple is a goddess only added to the force of the effort. The religio-cultural component of the event thus synthesized classical and popular religious elements as well as articulation of progressive agenda for the community. The speeches of religious and community leaders made references to the qualities and achievements of leuva patels, as well as the need to unite and to adopt social reforms for the development of a strong community. Naresh Patel indicated that the impetus for Khodaldham had initially come from a vision to unite leuva patels scattered in all parts of Gujarat and abroad as a

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community and work for its all-around development through education, social service, and professional training. Yet the leaders did not want their vision to be devoid of religious elements. They wanted a religious/spiritual basis for unity. Devotion to Khodiyar, the kuldevi of a large majority of leuva patels in Saurashtra, provided such a basis. Indeed, the main motto for the event was “bhakti dwara ekta-ni shakti” (“the power of unity through devotion”). The speeches of the leaders were put on the internet soon after the event, drawing attention of the community members around the world. In the activities related to the world record also, leuva patel pride was associated with the unity of the community reflected in such a large gathering without personal invitations. Naresh Patel indicated that no invitations were sent. Only announcements made in newspapers and public media brought leuva patels from all over the country and the world to establish a world record recognized by a reputed international organization—giving evidence of pride in their community identity and faith in the goddess. Thus, forces of Sanskritization (classical ceremonies officiated by brahmin priests), vernacularization (incorporation of folk music and devotional songs), and globalization (use of technology and invitation to Guiness World Record team) were intertwined in the components of the grand event dedicated to Khodiyar, which was integrally linked to the leuva patel identity. The intertwining of the diverse religious and social processes in this event of wide publicity and dazzling grandeur leads us to ask: Who is Ai Khodiyar? How is she related to the Hindu pantheon? What are the history and areas of her worship? What is her special relationship with the agrarian community of leuva patels? And what light does an event such as the one at Kagvad throw on the nature of regionally based goddess worship in the context of globalization? AI KHODIYAR, THE GODDESS AND HER WORSHIP Oral Narratives Ai Khodiyar, the kuldevi of a large number of leuva patels, is not considered a goddess who suddenly self-manifested (svayambhu) on the earth in her full glory. She is not a transcendent and mythical pan-Indian goddess glorified in classical Sanskrit texts fighting battles on the cosmic stage. She is a deified woman who is believed to have lived in the latter half of the first millennium CE. No accurate historical documentation for her life is available; leading to differences of opinion regarding her dates. According to the version of her myth cited by anthropologist Harald Tambs-Lyche, she was a contemporary of king Shiladitya VII of Vallabhi whose city fell in 788 CE to the armies of Sindh. Her curse is believed to have been instrumental in the extinction of that royal dynasty. 12 But Gujarati scholar Mangalsinh Saravaiya places her in

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the first half of the ninth century (between 831 and 847 CE) based on a scrutiny of family trees preserved in records of charans, who are considered expert genealogists. 13 This date places her after the fall of Vallabhi, a major turn in the history of the region. Saravaiya surmises that some decades after the fall of the city of Vallabhi, the population must have returned, reconfigured into a smaller principality, and continued to be ruled by descendents of Shiladitya VII until the dynasty came to an end. Khodiyar’s curse may have been directed to a later king. Even with the disagreements about the dates, various oral versions of Khodiyar’s myth are in agreement with regard to her family, her birth as a result of a boon, and her miracles during and after her life. 14 According to these myths, Khodiyar was born in a family belonging to the charan caste. Found in Gujarat and Rajasthan, charans, are a community following bardic, cattle herding, and agricultural occupations. They are known for their fiercely independent demeanor and readiness to give life through a custom called “tragu” if their demands are not met. Legends of their fearless resistance of oppressive rulers abound in Gujarat. They trace their mythical origins to the servants of Shiva; are goddess worshipers; and identify themselves as “Deviputars” (sons of the goddess). 15 By implication, charan women are potential goddesses who are raised to be confident, fearless, and ready to sacrifice their lives for others. Their curse is considered irrevocable. They are both revered and feared. In Sauashtra, a large majority of folk goddesses are deified charan women. Khodiyar is the earliest and the most popular among them. Khodiyar’s myths say that her father charan Mamadiya lived in Rohishala, a village near the ancient city of Vallabhi. He was the favorite poet of the city’s king. Many courtiers, including the chief merchant of the city, were jealous of him. They employed the greedy priest of the royal family to instigate the queen against Mamadiya. The queen convinced the king not to see Mamadiya because he had no children and was therefore, inauspicious. When the king suddenly stopped seeing the charan, he worshiped Shiva for a long time. As a reward, he was taken to the Naglok or the nether world of serpents where seven daughters and a son of the Nag king promised to be born in his family. Accordingly, the charan had eight children. Khodiyar, named Janbai, was the youngest (some say she was the fourth) daughter. The daughters, because they were the incarnations of joganis, attendants of the great goddess, soon began to show superhuman powers. They, especially Janbai, came to be both respected and feared in their area. Many of their miracles involved things important to agrarian and cattle herding communities, others involved protection for life and progeny. A few tales are about help with cattle. In one, when Khodiyar was still a child, a poor cowherd brought to her a cow that did not give milk. Khodiyar touched the cow and milk began to flow from its udders. The cowherd was

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happy and blessed the child. Khodiyar promised to help him in hour of need. But another tale of the same type relates to a brahmin neighbor who was jealous of Mamadiya’s family and bad-mouthed the daughters. In order to teach him a lesson, Khodiyar caused his healthy cow to fall dead. When people gathered around the wailing brahmin couple, Khodiyar took pity on them and revived the cow. The brahmin, however, was so awestruck by the miracle that he went insane. When his wife piteously asked for forgiveness, Khodiyar brought him back to sanity with a gentle touch. The couple became her devotees then on. In a tale related to cattle products, Khodiyar and her sisters went to sell their ghee (clarified butter) to a local merchant of bania (vaishya) caste who was greedy and cheated the cattle herders in measuring their products. Khodiyar’s ghee turned immeasurable and the merchant had to urge her to make it measurable. In yet another tale about ghee, the seven sisters went to the chief merchant of Vallabhi, who had played a role in instigating the king against Mamadiya wearing fine jewelry. They asked for seven earthen pots of ghee in return for their jewelry. The merchant agreed. He emptied all his stock of ghee in Khodiyar’s pot; but it remained half filled. When he became angry, the tiger drawn on the pot came alive and killed him. A major tale about protection of life and continuation of family line relates to Khodiyar’s own family. At one time, the only brother of the seven sisters was bitten by a snake. While other sisters began to cry, Janbai hurried to the Naglok in deep waters to get ambrosia to save him. As she was returning, she stumbled on a rock and twisted her foot. She was unable to walk but was helped by a crocodile to reach the river bank where the brother was lying. She saved the brother, but she herself became “khodi” or limp. Another tale of this type is about the prince of Vallabhi whom Khodiyar cured from a number of debilitating diseases. Along with these tales of gentle grace and just punishment, there are also tales about Khodiyar and her sisters’ fierce side as joganis who are believed to have a liking for blood and meat. According to such a tale, on a hot summer afternoon a neighbor saw the sisters in a forest sacrificing a male buffalo and feasting on it in a terrifying manner. Even as he screamed, they revived the buffalo. At another time, the soldiers of king of Vallabhi saw the male buffalo belonging to the royal household being driven away in a mysterious manner. They followed it and saw it finally stopping in front of the charan sisters. The buffalo was known to attack people. The sisters tore it open with their nails and offered a feast to their friends (other attendants of the goddess). The king was furious and threw them in boiling oil. But they came out unharmed. Khodiyar cursed the king that his dynasty would end soon. When the king asked for forgiveness, she relented and said that his descendents would bear children only if they married common people from other castes; otherwise they would have no offspring.

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With miracles happening around him consistently, Mamadiya was finally tired. He put them in a basket when they took form of serpents and left them in the forest. But to his surprise, they arrived home even before he did in human form. In the end, they decided to leave on their own when they were young women. Khodiyar is believed to have lived a long life helping people. She performed miracles and often gave specific signs to her devotees who established many sthanaks (places) of her worship in Saurasthra even during her life time. At the end of her life she is believed to have entered a deep pool in the river Shetrunji in the forests of Gir, the same place where Mamadiya had been taken to Naglok. The pool, called Galdhara, is considered one the most important abodes of Khodiyar. She soon began to be worshiped along with her sisters (with her in the middle) as the folk goddess of the region. Khodiyar’s friend crocodile became her vahana or “vehicle.” After Khodiyar’s passing, her fame as a protector of life spread. In the subsequent centuries several royal families became her worshipers. The royal family of Vallabhi or Vala had begun to worship her during her life time. When princesses from this family married into other princely clans, they brought their faith in Khodiyar into their new families. One such family was the Chudasama family of Sorath (around Junagadh in southwest Saurashtra). Ra Dias of Sorath (tenth century CE) did not have a son. His queen worshiped Khodiyar and was blessed with a son—Ra Naughan (ruled in the eleventh century CE). Naughan became a great devotee of the goddess and was aided by Khodiyar (through a young charan girl named Varudi) in his battle with the Sumra king of Sindh. She also accompanied him on battlefields in the form of a sparrow sitting on his spear. Naughan established Khodiyar as a clan goddess of his clan. Similarly, when the Gohil dynasty began its rule in the area around ancient Vallabhi in the thirteenth century, Khodiyar was already a popular folk goddess in the area. The princes of this dynasty also honored Khodiyar. Gohil king Wakhatsinh aka Atabhai (late eighteenth century) was especially devoted to her. Khodiyar aided this king also in battles remaining with him in the form of a sparrow. She later appeared to him in the forest in the form of a beautiful woman. Atabhai constructed a shrine for her on the side of a deep water pool in the village of Rajpara near present day Bhavanagar. It needs to be noted that according to Gujarati scholars Mangaldas Saravaiya and Baldevprasad Panara, even though various royal families have honored Khodiyar as their kuldevi or clan goddess, she is not the mul or original kuldevi of their clans. 16 She is an aradhya or venerated clan goddess whose worship was added as a new layer by a member of the clan at some point in their history. In his work on Saurashtra, Tambs-Lyche argues that Khodiyar’s myths embed a major sociopolitical shift in the history of the region. Khodiyar’s association with the bardic pastoral caste of charans, the conspiracy against

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Mamadiya by courtiers, and the goddess’s curse for Vallabhi’s royal dynasty in these myths suggest a shift from the dominance of urban mercantile culture to the predominance of rural popular culture in the region. The rajputs emerged as princes of small principalities in this shift. The process marked Saurashtra’s transition from the classical to the medieval period. The charans played a key role in it. As a widely honored and feared deified charan woman, Khodiyar became a symbol of the socio-religious-political ethos of medieval Saurashtra. 17 While Tambs-Lyche’s analysis of the Khodiyar’s myth relates specifically to the medieval period, one can also see it as integrating a current of resistance to established power structures more broadly. This current resonates with upwardly mobile groups resisting social hierarchies. In Khodiyar’s myth, established power structures are represented by the members of three upper castes of the Hindu society—the brahmin, the king, and the merchant—who are subjugated by Khodiyar. The cowherd is blessed with a healthy cow, but a brahmin goes insane on seeing Khodiyar’s power. The merchant is beaten in his own games by a charan woman. The king’s audacity in insulting a charan man and challenging his daughters is punished with a powerful curse. The members of dominant elite castes have to ask for forgiveness of a limping charan girl and seek her blessings. Khodiyar emerges in her myths as a powerful representative of the common people. Indeed, traditionally she has been worshiped as a lok-devi or “folk goddess.” Her recognition as divine derives from people’s faith in her. It is not dependent on praise in classical Hindu texts in Sanskrit. As a lok-devi, she is considered as a partial—ansh—manifestation of the great goddess of the Hindu pantheon Parvati on whose behalf she carries out many divine tasks of aiding people in need. Her myth is integrally linked to the lives of the populace and she is deeply rooted in the folk culture of the region. Her worship base is popular rather than sectarian. 18 Places and Practices of Worship With her wide popularity, shrines for Khodiyar and sacred spaces associated with her are found all over Saurashtra. According to Saravaiya, their number is close to eight hundred. 19 The traditional shrines and sacred spaces are of three types—places associated with Khodiyar’s life, places linked with her miracles after her death, and shrines constructed by her devotees when inspired by her in a dream or in some other way. The first two types are generally found near bodies of water or on hills, reinforcing parts of her myth such as her origin in the Naglok. For example, the most ancient sacred place associated with Khodiyar is at Galdhara, a deep pool made by river Shetrunji in the Gir forest, which is associated with several events in Khodiyar’s myth. It is believed that it was here that Mamadiya was taken by Shiva to Naglok.

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Khodiyar is believed to have gone to get ambrosia for her brother here. It is also believed to be the place where Khodiyar returned into deep waters at the end of her life, keeping only her head out. Additionally, the place is associated with many miracles after Khodiyar’s life. The goddess appeared to the Chudasama king Naughan at this place. Another sacred place, Rajapara, where Gohil king Atabhai (eighteenth century) is believed to have had darshan (vision) of the goddess is also on the side of a pool of water. The shrines constructed by devotees are numerous and are found in diverse types of locations throughout the region. Khodiyar’s shrines have traditionally been small and simple, without the shikhar or tower as found in classical style temples. 20 Even though anthropomorphic images are not unheard of, a large number of her images are aniconic—natural stone formations, symbolic presence indicated by a trident or handprints, or a man-made fala (non-anthropomorphic images). Generally a natural stone image is painted red and given the appearance of a human face with eyes painted on them or attached to them. In Galdhara, the main image is a stone of this type. The goddess’s head, which remained above water as she entered the pool, is now believed to have been transformed in this aniconic image. In a large number of places she is also worshiped along with her six sisters in a sapta matrika–type aniconic image, a row of seven stones painted red. Khodiyar is at the center, represented by the largest stone. Saravaiya, who is a Khodiyar devotee and a scholar, holds that the seven sisters may be a local form of the ancient cult of sapta matrika and their authentic image is as a collective. 21 Worship rituals at Khodiyar temples are also comparatively simple and informal. They are performed according to local customs established by generations of worshipers rather than the pan-Indian brahmanical tradition. Except at a few temples patronized by princes, worship rituals are carried out by bhuvas (shamans) from all strata of the Hindu society, and not by brahmin priests. A bhuva is appointed by a group of senior bhuvas on receiving a sign from the goddess. The process is considerably open and democratic. 22 The chants and songs of her worship are generally in colloquial Gujarati. In the past, she was also offered animal sacrifice. 23 For centuries, Khodiyar has remained a widely worshiped folk goddess in Saurasthra with innumerable simple shrines. Yet, in recent times, her shrines and worship rituals have seen a dramatic transformation. Anthropomorphic images of Khodiyar, dressed as a charan woman are becoming fairly common. Her important temples have been extensively renovated with new images, improved facilities, and pleasant ambiance, attracting visitors in large numbers. Tambs-Lyche’s description of his visits to the temple in Rajpara, first in 1970s (1974 and 1979) and then in 1990, gives a clear indication of the extent of changes the place has undergone. 24 When he visited this temple patronized by the princely family of

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Bhavnagar in 1979, it had a rather simple structure with a small number of visitors and few stalls in the front. The brahmin priests managed the temple by themselves and did not seem to have a large income. But by his 1990 visit, the place had changed. It was neater and had a new large anthropomorphic image. There were many more visitors, several of whom came by cars from distant cities. And the temple was managed by a trust, which had appointed a new energetic priest replacing the old ones. The place also had the feel of a picnic spot. Similarly, the Galdhara temple site has also been developed to attract visitors. In addition to renovations at the major worship sites, several impressive Khodiyar temples have been built in parts of Gujarat beyond Saurashtra including large cities like Ahmedabad, Surat, and Nadiad in recent decades. Khodiyar has also found a place in Hindu temples in the diaspora—in the Ganesha temple, New York (est. 1977) and the Vallabh-dham temple, Wembley, London (est. 2012). The spread of worship and the growing size of her temples have been accompanied by change in her epithets and the nature of her ritual worship. In big-city temples, Khodiyar is worshiped in her own right as the manifestation of the great goddess, Parameshvari, and not as a partial manifestation of Parvati. She is also worshiped alone, without her sisters. She is offered vegetarian prasad (food offering) and expensive gifts. 25 Sanskrit hymns are composed for her. The shift in the nature of Khodiyar’s worship can be seen in Ai Khodiyar Gita (1985) written by Panara. This comprehensive text about Khodiyar contains her myths, information about her temples, ways of worshiping her, and numerous Gujarati songs as well as Sanskrit hymns. It is structured like the well-known Hindu sacred text—The Bhagavad Gita—with eighteen chapters focusing on different aspects of Khodiyar’s tradition. But its first four chapters also parallel the first four chapters of The Devi Gita, a part of the Brahmavaivarta Purana, which are devoted to glorification of the goddess as the universal feminine principle. 26 The main difference is that the Sanskrit text focuses on the great goddess’s lila (play) on the cosmic stage; whereas the Gujarati text focuses on Khodiyar’s life as a charan woman and her miracles among common people. Chapters 10 to 16 contain Sanskrit and Gujarati hymns to her and prescribe ways to worship her. 27 These clearly reflect the expansion in the goddess’s theology and the practices of her worship. The goddess is praised as the omnipresent great goddess and the prescribed worship rituals for her are similar to the brahminical rituals performed in large Hindu temples. In some new temples, modern elements are also integrated in Khodiyar’s worship on special occasions. At the temple in Memnagar, Ahmedabad, for example, a birthday cake was prepared for Khodiyar in March 2012. 28 Such radical innovations in food offerings are not found in classical worship rituals at more established and sectarian temples because they derive their au-

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thenticity from stricter adherence to the Sanskritic tradition. In Khodiyar’s worship, what is popular—whether traditional or modern—can be readily integrated. As the practice of cutting birthday cakes has gained popularity in the urban middle class, it is has found a place in the goddess’s worship. Thus, the contemporary worship practices for Ai Khodiyar navigate the folk, the classical, and the modern at the same time. From being worshiped in simple shrines in Saurashtra, she has emerged as the presiding deity of several imposing temples in Gujarat. In diaspora temples, she stands alongside the great deities of the Hindu pantheon. The expansion in her worship is similar to the upward mobility of tribal and folk goddesses of West Bengal observed by June MacDaniel, many of whom, like Khodiyar, are deified humans historically worshiped in aniconic images and for specific ends. 29 The Khodaldham temple complex and its shilapujan can be seen as more dramatic expressions of Khodiyar’s expanding glory in Gujarat’s religious world and beyond. 30 Worshippers Khodiyar’s worship has been a popular regional tradition rather than a panIndian classical one. It has thrived among lay worshipers and has been shaped by them. Therefore, in understanding the recent expansion in the nature and geography of her worship, we have to necessarily turn our attention to her worshipers. Who are her worshipers? How do they relate to her? How have they contributed to the shift in her worship? And how does the Kholadham event represent this shift? Mangalsinh Sarvaiya and Baldevprasad Panara indicate that in current times Khodiyar’s worshipers come from all castes—from brahmins to the Dalits. In Panara’s Ai Khodiyar Gita a chapter contains narratives about Khodiyar’s miraculous help to her devotees from diverse castes in contemporary times. Another chapter contains biographical sketches of prominent devotees from several castes. 31 Khodiyar’s reputation for answering prayers instantly contributes to her popularity in all strata of the contemporary Hindu society. But the strongest base of her worship has traditionally been among rajputs with links to Chudasama, Vala, and Gohil princely families as well as in the middle level bardic, pastoral, and agrarian castes such as charans, ahirs, and kanbis (of whom leuva patels form a sub-division). 32 Of major communities of Khodiyar’s worshipers, rajputs, ahirs, and charans have links to Khodiyar’s myth. The goddess’s aid to rajput princes in battles and birth of heirs in their families is an important aspect of her myths. Even though the narratives about Khodiyar’s father’s insult by the king and her confrontation with him suggest initial tension between her and the ruling class, once the king asks for forgiveness, she relents and the issue is resolved on the condition that his descendents would marry common people. The

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narratives about Chudasama prince Naughan and Gohil ruler Wakhatsinh in later centuries further strengthen this bond. Thus, as a group, the ruling class of rajputs develop a strong long-term relationship with the goddess, unlike the brahmins and the merchants (vania, vaishya category in the varna system) in her myth. Tambs-Lyche has discussed Khodiyar’s myth of origin in terms of a dichotomy between the mercantile vaishya culture and the power oriented rajput culture in Saurashtra. The former, predominantly vegetarian and less invested in political power, has been oriented toward Vaishnava bhakti sects. The latter, non-vegetarian and thoroughly invested in power, is oriented toward worship of forms of Sakti, the goddess, who is the source of and the driving force behind the world. Khodiyar’s rise as a goddess, then, is directly linked to the rise of rajputs on the political scene in medieval Saurashtra. 33 This is a helpful insight about the rise of Khodiyar in medieval Saurashtra, which also explains the strong base of her worship among ahirs and charans, two communities with links to both the goddess and rajputs. Ahirs are linked with Khodiyar since the time of Chudasama prince Naughan, believed to have been born with her blessings. When the prince’s father Ra Dias, the king of Vanthali was killed in a battle, the prince was protected by an Ahir couple at the cost of life of their own son. When Naughan became the king, ahirs became his important allies and Khodiyar his kuldevi—ahirs also remained worshipers of the goddess. For charans, Khodiyar is the kuldevi for obvious reasons. In her iconic images, her attire—long skirt, long jacket, and a scarf covering her head and front of the jacket—clearly reflects her charan identity. In the traditional context, the goddess’s caste identity adds to the strength of charans’ bond with rajputs, whose authority they legitimized as bards. Even though unlike rajputs, ahirs and charans of Gujarat are largely vegetarian and ahirs also worship Krishna as their patron deity, the shared practice of Khodiyar’s worship contributed to their close affinities in the cultural ethos of traditional Saurashtra. rajputs held political power; ahirs and charans supported it. And yet, as TambsLyche observed, until 1979 the most important Khodiyar shrine patronized by a princely family remained small and simple. Only in the 1980s, the transformation of her shrines and change in her worship practices began to take place. Tambs-Lyche explains the change in terms of the general trend toward “Sanskritization” and a shift in focus from community solidarity to individual devotion in recent times as royal power and military associations lost their centrality in her worship. But he recognizes a possibility that Khodiyar may emerge with new political signification in the democratic political scene. 34 The testimony of faith given by devotees in Panara’s work gives some indication of Tambs-Lyche’s first observation about a shift to individual devotion in recent times. But the Khodaldham project is squarely focused on the community. Does it provide an example of new political signification of

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Khodiyar worship in the twenty-first century? It is at least perceived to be so by some observers. The project has been referenced as “Khodaldham movement” and discussed as having political connotations by newspapers in Gujarat. 35 Some Gujarat residents with whom I spoke also expressed such a view. These observers mainly mentioned the association of Khodaldham project with leuva patel identity and the fact that the grand ceremony of shilapujan took place in an election year in Gujarat. In that election, the main rival of Narendra Modi, the current chief minister of Gujarat, was Keshubhai Patel, who belongs to the leuva patel community. Keshubhai was also one of the main dignitaries to deliver a speech at shilapujan. The gathering of leuva patels at the site of the planned temple has been seen by many as having political meaning. Who are leuva patels? And why is their gathering seen as having political significance by observers? Leuva patels form a sub-group of the patel community in Gujarat. Patels form approximately 18 percent of Gujarat’s population and have risen steadily to social prominence in recent centuries. Known as outstanding farmers, patels have dominated the agricultural scene of Gujarat for centuries. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries some of them rose to the positions of tax collectors for Moguls and Marathas getting last names such as “Amin” and “Desai.” During the British period, they became successful first through their links to Africa where many of them went as farmers and retail merchants in the nineteenth century and then since the early twentieth century they rose through their association with the freedom movement and politics. In North America, Gujarat’s patels have become synonymous with motel and hotel business and have been recognized as energetic game-changing entrepreneurs even by American hotel management experts. 36 Many patels who have thus made strides in education, politics, and business belong to the leuva sub-category. Sardar Patel, a prominent leader of Indian National Congress during the freedom movement and the first deputy prime minister of India, was a leuva patel from central Gujarat. Leuva patels of central Gujarat were also the founders of Amul, the most successful co-operative dairy in the world. Even though there are many sub-divisions among leuva patels, as is common among castes in Gujarat, they are generally categorized as one of the three major groups among patels (also called “kanbi”). The other two are kadva and anjana. 37 In today’s Gujarat, the most powerful political leader from this community is Keshubhai Patel, who hails from Saurashtra where most leuva patels worship Ai Khodiyar as their kuldevi. In his speech at shilapujan, Keshubhai exhorted the large gathering of his community to unite, be ambitious, and fight for their rights—all with the blessings of Ai Khodiyar. This advice by Keshubhai and the support of members of the temple Trust to his election campaign later have led observers to associate political meaning with the Khodaldham. 38 Indeed, the sheer number of peo-

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ple gathered at shilapujan and the sound of “Victory to Khodiyar” in their voices in unison were sufficient to send a message about the numerical strength of the community. Even though no reference to politics was made during the event and Naresh Patel explicitly stated that it had nothing to do with politics, in the political climate of caste based vote banks, large gatherings of this type do send a powerful message. Yet on closer examination many other aspects of Keshubhai’s speech, the puja event, and the temple project reveal that there is more to them than the political implications of numerical strength. In his speech, in addition to advising to get united, Keshubhai also asked entrepreneurs to start businesses putting “Khodiyar” in their company names. And he stressed that their success would add to the fame of Ai Khodiyar in the world. 39 He thus presented the role of Khodiyar’s grace in community’s success and the spread of her good name as mutually dependent. This counsel was about being industrious and venerating Khodiyar. Further, he spoke about educating daughters and giving them the freedom to pursue studies in the field of their choice. His overall message to his community was to move forward in the fast developing world with Khodiyar’s blessings. The goddess emerged in his speech as a divine source of support for leuva patels in their forward journey. Another notable aspect of the shilapujan event was the presence of a number of Vaishnava Swaminarayan holy men who installed on the stage an image of Swaminarayan. The holy men also gave blessings to the temple. A foundation stone, for which the most well-known Swaminarayan leader, Pramukh Swami Maharaj, had performed ritual worship in Mumbai, was brought to the sight to be installed by another leader of the sect. 40 Many patels, including leuvas are followers of the Vaishnava Swaminarayan sect. The blessings of the sect’s leaders were important in this undertaking. In the grand ceremony leuva patels’ devotion to Khodiyar, a manifestation of Sakti and Vaishnava bhakti were interwoven. The tension between the mercantile and the rajput cultures of traditional Saurashtra, associated respectively with bhakti and Sakti, was not seen here. Instead, on two sides of Ai Khodiyar on the stage, there were equally large images of Sardar Patel and a leuva patel saintly poet Bhojalram (eighteenth and nineteenth centuries)—two symbols of political power and devotion—were found. In a recent communication (several months after the 2012 elections), the secretary of the Khodaldham trust Hansrajbhai Gajera provided me detailed information about the temple complex and its links to other sociocultural activities in which leuva patels are involved. He indicated that the vision for the temple complex parallels the vision for Sardar Patel Cultural Foundation in the nearby city of Rajkot with which members of the leuva patel community are closely associated (Naresh Patel is its president). This center, with sophisticated facilities such as digital library, offers coaching for qualifying exams for positions in civil service in India such as Indian Administrative

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Service (IAS). It also runs yoga classes and will soon offer services to women and senior citizens. Services are available to all regardless of caste or religion. 41 While based on a similar vision, the temple complex focuses on the development of the leuva patel community. It aims to develop a “Community Development Center for research, development and maintenance of the cultural and historical heritage of the ‘leuva patel’ Community” and to inculcate “social, cultural and professional values” among them. 42 But the trust also views it as a platform from which leuva patels can engage in service to the broader society and the nation. 43 Khodaldham is thus seen by its trustees as an avenue for leuva patels for development of their society and for articulation of their identity as a service oriented and progressive community. This articulation inevitably has political implications; but it also involves processes of rediscovery and redefinition. It is important for them that it occurs in Khodiyar’s abode. AI KHODIYAR AS A DIVINE MODEL Why have leuva patels chosen Khodaldham as a venue for expression of pride in their identity and aspirations for their future? She is, of course, the kuldevi of a large majority of leuva patels in Saurashtra and as such their divine protector and supporter. But importantly, she is a folk goddess who is easily accessible to her worshipers without elaborate classical rites. She is worshiped with locally popular practices allowing confident self-expression to her worshipers. She is also believed to answer prayers immediately. “In modern age of instant food, ATM Banking, sms booking,” writes a devotee, “Khodiyar Maa comes upon as a Goddess of immediate deliverance.” 44 Her accessibility and belief in her instant grace have certainly contributed to her popularity as a goddess for the current times. But her myths and her journey from the regional cultural ethos of Saurashtra to international venues, which hold multiple paradoxes in balance, also provide an impressive model of ascendency combined with service. Khodiyar’s myths glorify her superhuman powers to traverse through three worlds—the netherworld, the earth, and the ethereal world. Yet she is fully grounded in human personhood with specificity of a caste and its characteristic qualities—a strong charan woman who stands up to and subjugates the brahmin, the merchant, and the king and aids common people in need. Through this aspect, she emerges as a powerful representative of mid-level pastoral and agricultural communities of Saurashtra. She also offers a model for service to the marginalized. At the same time, she has remained closely associated with political power in the region for a millennium through her mythical links to royal families. Because of her association with princely clans, her worshipers often use the title “Rajrajeshavari” (the goddess of

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kings) for her. Yet, she has been worshiped mostly in small simple shrines by people from all layers of the society with locally popular rites. While these age-old practices still continue, her tradition has also embraced change. In the past three decades, her temples have grown bigger and impressive, her worship has incorporated classical Sanskritic as well as modern elements, and she has traveled to far corners of the world. The goddess who was worshiped as an attendant (jogani) or a partial manifestation of Parvati has become for her devotees “Charani Parameshvari Ai Khodiyar” (Ai Khodiyar—the Great Goddess in the form of a charan woman). 45 From the paradoxes of Khodiyar’s myths and long journey emerges an image of a goddess who is resourceful, energetic, flexible, and forward-looking. As both a human charan woman and a folk goddess, she offers a powerful model for upwardly mobile communities with service oriented social agenda among her worshipers. leuva patels form a major community of this type. Traditionally, leuva patels have been farmers and as such, inseparably connected to the land. But since the nineteenth century, they have traveled to many parts of the world making strides in education and business—fields traditionally associated with brahmins and merchants. Further, even though they were not associated with power in medieval Gujarat or Saurashtra, since the British colonial period, they have been active players in the political processes of the region and the country. The emerging cultural ethos of leuva patels draws on both the mercantile and the rajput cultures of traditional Saurashtra including their religious orientations to bhakti and Sakti. Many leuva patels have embraced the Swaminarayan sect of Vaishnava bhakti which has a well-established order of monks, magnificent temples, and classical ritual practices. Yet they closely relate to Sakti in the worship of their kuldevi and find in it a powerful avenue for articulation of their identity as a progressive and service oriented community. As expressed by Keshubhai, they view their progress and Khodiyar’s fame as interlinked. She serves as both a source of inspiration and a symbol of progress and liberal social agenda for communities that identify with her. As members of such communities succeed and immigrate to distant lands in India and elsewhere, they honor her with shrines and bring her into the classical Hindu pantheon. Expansion of her glory symbolizes their rise in the social ladder. FOLK GODDESS IN THE ERA OF GLOBALIZATION As seen above, as a divine entity, Khodiyar offers an effective channel for articulation of identity for communities such as leuva patels. But the question is: Why have leuva patels chosen a religious avenue for such articulation? Their rise on the social scene is tied to their success in secular fields regionally, nationally, and internationally. Their aspirations of development and so-

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cial service can also be easily articulated without reference to religion. Why then have they opted to articulate it through their association with Ai Khodiyar? As mentioned at the beginning, sociologists have been studying the resurgence of religion in the modern era for some time. Peter Berger, for example, observes that the secularization theory as discussed in the 1950s and 1960s has failed in that the world today is as fervently religious as it ever was. Even though modernization certainly has had some secularizing effects, it has also given rise to many currents of “counter-secularization,” especially because it undermines old certainties. Any cultural current that can offer certainty meets with success. Resurgence of religion derives some of its energy from this. 46 More recently, Christian Karner and Alan Aldridge have also suggested that the postmodern era offers a suitable context for manifold resurgence of religion. They argue that “the social and psychological consequences of globalization have heightened the appeal and relevance of religions: As discourses of political resistance, as anxiety-coping mechanisms, and as networks of solidarity and community.” 47 Considering folk traditions more specifically, Pui-Lam Law, who studies folk religions in southern China, has argued that the revival of folk religions often serves as a countervailing re-embedding force to economic forces, facilitating the coexistence of the traditional and the modern in contemporary life. 48 The expanding glory of Ai Khodiyar as seen in the Khodaldham project can be seen as an example of the heightened appeal of folk religion as a channel for building community solidarity in the post-modern globalized world. For an upwardly mobile community like leuva patels who are also bound to land, their affiliation with Khodiyar offers a sense of certainty and confidence. She also unites them as a community. As a deified woman from the mid-level charan caste rising in the religious scene in Gujarat and in the diaspora, Khodiyar represents their potential for development. The intertwining of folk, classical, and modern elements in her worship makes it possible for her worshipers to authentically participate in the regional, pan-Indian, and global cultural processes. The revitalization of Khodiyar’s worship shares with similar phenomena in the world the aspect of offering certainty and building solidarity. Yet it also has a distinctively Indian aspect. In the context of Hindu India, the process takes a distinctive form because here articulation of identity through religion has to navigate the structures of caste hierarchy. Two seemingly contradictory forces appear to be at play to this end. Adaptation of Sanskrit hymns and building of Khodiyar temples on classical models clearly follow the Sanskritization model that M. N. Srinivas has discussed where lower castes emulate the behavior of the upper castes in the upward mobility process. 49 At the same time, in glorifying Khodiyar with epithets such as jagad janani, adya Sakti, or parameshvari, which are generally used for the

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great pan-Indian goddess, her worshipers vernacularize the pan-Indian Sanskritic tradition of goddess worship. They ground it in the regional ethos. In an insightful essay on the emergence of vernacular literary cultures in South Asia, Sheldon Pollock discusses the second millennium as “the vernacular millennium.” He defines “vernacularization” as “a process of change by which the universalistic orders, formations, and practices of the preceding millennium were supplemented and gradually replaced by localized forms.” He argues that it was through this process that cultures and communities were ideationally and discursively invented, or at least provided with a “more self-conscious voice.” They were naturalized. 50 While Pollock discusses vernacularization in relation to the rise of literary cultures in the second millennium, it can be argued that the process continues even in the third millennium in phenomena such as the expansion in the worship of folk goddesses like Khodiyar. The identities of some communities worshiping Khodiyar such as leuva patels is ideationally and discursively asserted through the worship of this folk goddess in relation to whom they can express themselves confidently. As these communities move up in the social ladder and migrate to different parts of India and the world, they enhance the sphere of her worship and her glory. The leap of the limping goddess, Ai Khodiyar, from the region of Sausrasthra to the global scene can thus be understood as drawing energy from the forces of globalization, Sanskritization, and vernacularization and at the same time, adding to their strength. NOTES I am grateful to Dr. Niranjan Rajyaguru and Jayant Meghani for their help in acquiring textual sources for this chapter; to Shri Mangalsinh Sarvaiya for sharing valuable information in extensive phone interviews; and to Hansrajbhai Gajera of the Khodaldham project for providing me with information regarding it. 1. For a discussion of “desecularization,” see Peter Berger’s “Introduction” to Descularization of the World: Resurgent Religion and World Politics (Grand Rapids, MI: W. B. Eerdmans, 1999), pp. 1–18. For a discussion of the factors that contribute to the resurgence of religion in the context of globalization, see Christian Karner and Alan Aldridge’s essay “Theorizing Religion in a Globalizing World,” International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society 18, No. 1/2 (Fall–Winter 2004), pp. 5–32. 2. For the concept of “Sanskritization” see M. N. Srinivas, Religion and Society among the Coorgs of South India (Oxford: Oxford, 1952), p. 30; for a definition of “vernacularization” in reference to literary cultures, see Sheldon Pollock, “India in the Vernacular Millennium: Literary Culture and Polity, 1000–1500,” in Daedalus 127, No. 3, pp. 41–42. 3. The number of people and the information about the states and the countries was announced by Naresh Patel, the lead organizer of the event. See Naresh Patel’s speech on Shree Khodal Dham, “Shree Nareshbhai Main Speech,” www.khodaldhamtrust.org/eng/videogallery.php, accessed December 8, 2013. 4. See Ingenuity Dias, “Maximum No of People Doing Handshake at KhodhalDham, Kagwad, Rajkot, Gujrat, INDIA. Madam Lucia Speech,” http://ingenuitydias.blogspot.com/

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2012_01_01_archive.html for the detailed information about the counting system, accessed July 15, 2013. 5. A photograph of the announcement of the record and giving of certificate is available on the website, “Shree Khodal Dham,” Photogallery, Shila Pujan Vidhi, www.khodaldhamtrust. org/eng/album-1.php, accessed on December 6, 2013. The announcement of the record is also uploaded at by a local filming business, Ajay Films, Gondal, on their channel on Youtube at www.youtube.com/watch?v=wjC7nsqV4dA, accessed July 15, 2013. 6. (a) TV9 Gujarat, the Gujarati branch of the TV9 channel of the Associated Broadcasting Company Pvt. Ltd. (India) covered the event on the same day describing it as a historical event. The channel regularly uploads its important clips on Youtube. This clip is available at, “Tv9 Gujarat—Khodhal Dham Shilanyas Ceremony Listed in Guinness Book of World Records,” www.youtube.com/watch?v=GF2gr6GNh6w, accessed July 16, 2013. (b) A media company dedicated to Gujarat also put the news on their website inviting many comments. See DeshGujarat, “Guinness Book of Records Team to Come to Kagvad in Gujarat,” http://deshgujarat.com/2012/01/20/guiness-book-of-records-team-to-come-to-kagvad-in-gujarat/. This video consistently juxtaposes the traditional with the modern in the proposed vision for the temple, accessed July 16, 2013. (c) for an announcement made for Indian community in Denmark, see All Events in Denmark, “Shree Khodal Dham,” http://allevents.in/Denmark/Shree-KhodalDham/154757764619758, accessed July 16, 2013. 7. For information about the planned shrines, see “Shree Khodal Dham,” Temple, www.khodaldhamtrust.org/eng/temple.php, accessed on July 16, 2013. 8. Ibid. 9. See DeshGujarat, “Guinness Book of Records Team to Come to Kagvad in Gujarat,” http://deshgujarat.com/2012/01/20/guiness-book-of-records-team-to-come-to-kagvad-in-gujarat/, accessed July 15, 2013. 10. For Naresh Patel’s speech see “Shree Khodal Dham,” Shree Nareshbhai Main Speech, www.khodaldhamtrust.org/eng/videogallery.php, accessed on July 15, 2013. 11. Email communication with Hansraj Gajera, the secretary of Khodaldham Trust, July 12, 2013. 12. Harald Tambs-Lyche, Power, Profit, and Poetry: Traditional Society in Kathiawar, Western India (Delhi: Manohar, 1997), pp. 22–26. 13. Mangalsinh Sarvaiya, Ai Shri Khodiyar Charitra (Dhoraji, India: Saravaiya, 2012), p. 82. 14. For this chapter, I draw on myths as recorded by Saravaiya in Ai Shri Khodiyar Charitra, and by Baladevprasad Panara in Ai Khodiyar Gita (Rajkot: Jalaram Jyot Prakashan, 2007 [1985]). These retellings agree with those cited by Tambs-Lyche. 15. For more on charans, see Ai Shri Khodiyar Charitra, pp. 25–31. 16. Ai Shri Khodiyar Charitra, p. 93; Panara, Ai Khodiyar Gita, p. 185. 17. Power, Profit, and Poetry, pp. 25–26. 18. Both Saravaiya and Panara stress that Khodiyar is a lok-devi and not a classical goddess whose praise is found in the Puranas. See Ai Shri Khodiyar Charitra, pp. 32–38, and Ai Khodiyar Gita, p. 5. 19. Ai Shri Khodiyar Charitra, pp. 137–48. The author lists major shrines of the goddess here. 20. Growing up in the Saurashtra region, I have visited numerous Khodiyar shrines, all of them small and simple. 21. Ai Shri Khodiyar Charitra, pp. 105, 109. 22. Ibid., p. 111. 23. Tambs-Lyche refers to a stone at the temple he visited in 1974, where he was shown a stone that had been used for animal sacrifices in the past. See Harald Tambs-Lyche, The Good Country: Individual, Situation, and Society in Saurashtra (Delhi: Manohar, 2004), p. 128. 24. The Good Country, p. 128 25. In the Rajpara temple, a real-size silver crocodile has been gifted by a devotee. 26. See C. Mackenzie Brown, The Devi Gita: The Song of the Goddess: A Translation, Annotation, and Commentary (Albany: SUNY, 1998). 27. Ai Khodiyar Gita, pp. 251–438.

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28. The photograph of the cake is available at “Aai Shri Khodiyar Mataji Blogspot,” Khodiyar Jayanti Celebration—Memnagar Temple, http://ishreekhodiyarmataji.blogspot.com/ 2012/03/khodiyar-jayanti-celebration-memnagar.html, accessed July 10, 2013. 29. June McDaniel, Offering Flowers, Feeding Skulls: Popular Goddess Worship in West Bengal (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), p. 27–28. 30. In an interview conducted by TV9 Guajrati news channel on October 11, 2010 an employee at Khodiyar temple in Rajpara, stated that in recent times the number of visitors to the temple has grown manifold. The interview is available at Tv9 Gujarat-Khodiyar Mata Temple: Rajapara, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgdxDCMUJHU, accessed July 10, 2013. 31. Ai Shri Khodiyar Charitra, pp. 95–97; Ai Khodiyar Gita, pp. 151–172, 184–220. 32. Evidence for this is found in a recent survey done by Anthropological Survey of India. The groups closely associated with Khodiyar are agrarian and pastoral castes some of whom are rajputs. See Gujarat, People of India 22, parts 1 and 3, K. S. Singh, ed. (Mumbai: Popular Prakashan, 2003), pp. 63, 131, 1058, 1092. 33. The Good Country, p. 124, 315–16. 34. Ibid., pp. 126, 142, 327. 35. See for example, the article by Gopal Kateshiya in, Indian Express, April 20, 2013. “Modi Visits Amreli,” http://www.indianexpress.com/news/modi-visits-amreli-leuva-patelstrongmen-in-tow/1105209/, accessed July 15, 2013. 36. See the article titled “Ragas to Riches” by New York-based hotel management consultant Stanley Turkel for International Society of Hospitality Consultants at http:// www.ishc.com/uploadedFiles/PublicSite/Resources/Library/Articles/ From%20Ragas%20To%20Riches-%20Part%20I.pdf, accessed July 16, 2013. 37. See the catalog Hindu Castes and Tribes of Gujarat 1, compiled by Bhimbhai Kirparam and edited by James Campbell (Mumbai: Vintage Books, 1988 [1901]), pp. 162–66. 38. There is also an e-poster posted on one of several facebook pages for Khodaldham that asks whom would one vote for—Keshubhai or Narendra Modi. See Facebook, Khodal Dham (Kagvad), Photographs, https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=335100293242464& set=pb.207256146026880.-2207520000.1373979078.&type=3&theater, accessed July 16, 2013. But this is not an official page of the trust and the message is an exception. Most other messages are about patel pride in their qualities of industriousness and courage. 39. For Keshubhai Patel’s speech, see “Shree Khodal Dham,” Video Gallery, http:// www.khodaldhamtrust.org/eng/videogallery.php, accessed July 15, 2013. There are already a number of successful businesses with “Khodiyar” in company names, some owned by patels. 40. Information given by Hansraj Gajera in an email dated July 12, 2013. 41. Ibid. 42. See “Shree Khodal Dham,” Vision, www.khodaldhamtrust.org/eng/vision.php, accessed July 16, 2013. 43. Email communication, Gajera, July 12, 2013. 44. See Khodiyarmaa Blogspot, Jai Khodiyar Maa, http://khodiyarmaa.blogspot.com, accessed December 6, 2013. 45. This is the epithet used on the cover of Sarvaiya’s book. 46. The Descularization of the World, pp. 2–7. 47. “Theorizing Religion in a Globalizing World,” p. 5. 48. Pui-Lam Law, “The Revival of Folk Religion and Gender Relationships in Rural China: A Preliminary Observation,” Asian Folklore Studies 64, No. 1, p. 89. 49. Religion and Society among the Coorgs of South India, p. 30. 50. “India in the Vernacular Millennium: Literary Culture and Polity, 1000–1500,” pp. 41–42.

Chapter Eight

Tantric Visions, Local Manifestations The Cult Center of Chinnamasta at Rajrappa, Jharkhand R. Mahalakshmi

In this chapter, I seek to study the transformation of the cult center of the headless goddess Chinnamasta at Rajrappa, a well-known Tantric site in eastern India. Rajrappa is a small temple settlement in the Hazaribagh district of Jharkhand, located at a distance of about 80 km from the capital city of the state, Ranchi, 38 km northeast of Ramgarh (the taluk hq), and 14 km northwest of Gola (figure 8.1). It stands at the confluence of the rivers Damodar and Bhairavi or Bhera. According to local tradition, the temple was the primary center of all activity in the settlement until after independence. However, this coal-rich area has been a major attraction for its quarrying and mining potential for centuries, even though there was no systematic effort in this direction. In 1974–1975, Coal India Limited, a public-sector undertaking, was established—the Ramgarh project. Through its subsidiary, Central Coalfields Ltd., the Rajrappa project was inaugurated in 1982 and a township established to the southwest of the temple settlement. What is significant to note is that with the exception of literature written with the express purpose of promoting the sthala or site, there has been no effort to study this place from the historical point of view. David Kinsley in his excellent study of the Dasa Mahavidyas erroneously reports that there is a Chinnamasta shrine in Ranchi along with temples to the other goddesses of the group. 1 K. N. Sahay in a similar casual vein gets the location correct but gives an incorrect origin myth for this deity. He says that in the course of a battle between an asura and the Devi, the asura cut the Devi’s body into twelve pieces. He adds that the shrine at Rajarappa stands where the head of the deity fell. 2 I was unable to learn of the source of his information, as even 199

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Figure 8.1. Location of Rajrappa temple settlement

the locals are very clear that the goddess is a Mahavidya. Elisabeth Ann Benard in her rigorous study of Buddhist textual references to the goddess Chinnamasta, in an appendix to the text, discusses various sites associated with the goddess in the Hindu and Buddhist traditions in northern India and the Kathmandu valley. 3 She admits that she was unable to visit the temple at Rajrappa and follows Sahay’s description of the site as dedicated to the goddess Chinnamastaka Devi, “represented by a stone image of a beheaded female with a head in her left hand and a sword in her right hand.” 4 On my many visits to this temple, what was very clear is that the image was essentially a kavac (shield) made of silver and mounted on an anicon. 5 In the first part of this chapter, I focus on the literary traditions related to the goddess Chinnamasta. In the second part, the study locates the worship of the headless goddess at the site of Rajrappa in Jharkhand. CHINNAMASTA IN THE DASA MAHAVIDYA TRADITION In this section, I study the textual references to the Tantric concept of the Dasa Mahavidya in terms of its elaboration and significance. Also, the descriptions of one among this group of goddesses—Chinnamasta—is exam-

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ined in some detail. According to Brown, Tantra conceives of reality as an interpenetration of physical, mental, psychological, and spiritual forces. In this sense, reality is both the one and the many, spiritual and material, with no particular type being given greater importance. In fact, the elaborate Tantric rituals aim at realizing the absolute in the spiritual sense through the physical and material world. 6 The Dasa Mahavidyas are found in the Sakta Puranas, 7 Sanskrit Upapuranas, 8 and Tantric texts, 9 mostly composed in the middle of the second millennium CE. As a category of texts, the earliest reference to Chinnamasta may have come from the Buddhist Mahayana tradition. 10 Benoytosh Bhattacharya is of the opinion that the violent Buddhist Vajrayana deity Vajrayogini was the prototype for Chinnamasta. 11 The Dasa Mahavidya refers to a group of deities within the Tantric tradition: Kali, Tara, Sodasi, Bhuvanesvari, Bhairavi, Chinnamasta, Dhumavati, Bagala, Matangi, and Kamala. Each of these embodies different aspects of creation and destruction: liberation (mukti, moksa), knowledge (vidya, jnana), prosperity (laksmi, dhanam), happiness (sam), etc. 12 Due to this difference in conceptual emphasis, they are placed within the Kali-kula and Srikula categories. 13 However, even if the dominant conceptualization is of one type, the other categorization is also worked into the characterization of the goddess. These goddesses are linked to Shiva as forms of his consort. They are also linked to Vishnu as the concept itself is seen as deriving from the dasavatara tradition. 14 However, all the goddesses do not correspond with the Vaishnava avataras. Thus, Kali is the equivalent of Krsna, Tara of Rama, Sodasi of Shiva, Bhuvanesvari of Brahman, Bhairavi of Rudra, Chinnamasta of Matsya, Dhumavati of Varaha, Bagala of Vamana, Matangi of Brahma, and Kamala of Vishnu. 15 An esoteric interpretation of the vidyas would indicate their association with supreme knowledge, thereby paving the way for moksa or liberation. As far as the origins of this group of deities is concerned, two medieval Upapuranas—Mahabhagavata Purana and Brhaddharma Purana—refer to the myth of Daksha’s sacrifice, where Sati, on being denied permission to attend the sacrifice by Shiva, takes on ten horrific forms that surround Shiva. 16 In these tellings, Sati is all pervasive, horrific in appearance, and has an overpowering presence. Shiva tries to hide from her, runs in all directions, and shuts his eyes but cannot get away from her. Ultimately, Shiva realizes that Syama, the dark one, is none other than Sati, and that she supports the universe—Jagaddhatri, and is the supreme goddess or Paramesvari. 17 In the Shiva Purana, the demon Durgama is slayed by Devi, from whose body the Mahavidyas emanate in the course of her duel with the demon. 18 They are described in the Brhaddharma Purana as capable of bestowing certain powers on the worshiper such as killing, causing sickness, and immobilizing people by merely wishing for it. 19 It has also been argued that the matrka concept may have had some bearing upon the Dasa Mahavidya one,

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as many of the Tantric texts refer to the saptamatrka when elaborating the names of the vidyas. 20 Chinnamasta is given a place in the middle order of the Dasa Mahavidya in Tantric texts, and is associated with the eastern direction. According to the sacred texts, the east appears to have been the direction associated with life and renewal, and in this context the association of this form of the goddess with the eastern quarter is significant. 21 As the name indicates, she is the goddess who cuts off her own head. According to the Narada Pancaratra, compiled in the Pranatosini Tantra, the goddess Bhavani went with her attendants Jaya and Vijaya to bathe in the river Mandakini. 22 The goddess became dark (krsna) because she now was sexually aroused. Meanwhile, her attendants asked her for food as they were hungry. However, the goddess asked them to wait. After being instructed in the same manner for a second time, the attendants told the goddess with great humility that on being begged for food by her children the mother always responded positively. This was because she was so kind and benevolent. In the same manner, the goddess should listen to their pleas. The goddess was moved by their words and cut off her head with her nails. She fed them and her own mouth with the blood that streamed out of her head in three spouts. Her attendants were now addressed as Dakini and Varnini, and the goddess as Chinnamasta. Another story in the same collection belonging to the Svatantratantra narrates the emergence of the saktis Dakini and Varnini at the time of the sexual intercourse (mahavrata) between Shiva and Mahamaya: they emerged at the moment when Siva’s semen was emitted and the goddess appeared fierce. 23 Once, when the goddess Candanayika went to bathe in the Puspabhadra river, the attendants asked for food. The goddess severed her head and with the two streams of blood that poured out of her head satisfied them, and a third was drunk by her head held in her left hand. In the evening, she replaced her head and went back to Kailasa, Siva’s abode. Shiva suspected that she had been abused by someone else and took on the form of Krodha Bhairava on this viraratri. 24 What is striking about the myths is that on the one hand, a terrible, frightening act of the goddess is narrated and on the other it is precisely because of her maternal character that the act is justified. The linkages between blood, life, and nourishment coalesce in this image of the mother feeding her attendant children. At a different level, the goddess does not merely feeds others, she also feeds herself. Elisabeth Anne Bernard argues that the dichotomy between the giver and receiver, the subject and object, and in this instance, the food and the eater is broken down in the image of the goddess drinking her own blood even as she offers it to the attendants. 25 According to Pratapaditya Pal, the act of the goddess is seen as representing a kind of “primal sacrifice,” which is essential for sustaining and maintaining life. Secondly, the goddess, though she terrifyingly accomplishes this pur-

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pose, is no different from Annapurna or Sakhambari, also extolled in Tantric literature. 26 The Tantric tradition refers to the awakening of the kundalini sakti or female energy in the human body through six cakras or levels, starting from the base of the spine. 27 The imagery of the coiled serpent rising through the whorls of the lotus is often used. Symbolically, the neck is the purest point where the visuddha cakra is located in the human body. Chinnamasta as the decapitated goddess in this sense represents the removal of maya or illusion and complete self-realization. The myth of Renuka in the epics and Puranas appears to throw light on this symbolism according to V. S. Agrawala. 28 Renuka, the wife of the sage Jamadagni, is beheaded by her youngest son Parasurama on the orders of her husband. Her crime was that she had been aroused by a sexual encounter she had witnessed and wished to engage in a similar way with her husband. The son beheads her but also seeks the benediction from his father that his mother be reborn, purer than ever. It is in this context that Renuka was known as Chinnamasta in these myths. Something else that is striking in all the myths related to Chinnamasta, and also to Renuka, is the foregrounding of sexual desire in the myth. In the first, the goddess Chinnamasta is aroused when she goes to bathe in the river. In the second, she creates her attendants at the time of sexual intercourse and returns after satiating them with her blood to again fulfill her sexual desire. Renuka, according to Agrawala, symbolized semen, and hence, the myth of Renuka revolved around the succumbing to sexual passion on the one hand and the control over it on the other. 29 In all the three myths, the intertwining of sexual desire with maternal love is significant and calls for serious analysis. Iconographically, this goddess is portrayed with her decapitated head in her left hand, her sword in the right hand, with three streams of blood feeding her attendants and her own head (figure 8.2). As already mentioned earlier, the image reflects the intertwining of the sacrificer and the sacrificed bound together by the sacrifice. Here, the goddess is not one or the other, but indeed all three elements. 30 She is sometimes shown standing on the copulating bodies of Rati and Kama. The sword in the hand is not present in any of the mythic narratives of how she came to be decapitated. It is probable that this was an artistic liberty taken to indicate the goddess cutting off her own head. It may be pointed out again that the myths themselves talk of the goddess gouging her head out with her nails in one myth, and as severing her head in another, with no reference to any weapon. However, the Buddhist Tantric texts in the sections on worship refer to the kartr or sacrificial knife as symbolizing mercy as it unleashes wisdom by severing false attachments. 31 The motif of Rati and Kama apparently derives from the myth of the goddess becoming sexually aroused on bathing in the Mandakini river. That in some representations, the couple is replaced by

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Figure 8.2. Goddess Chinnamasta

Shiva lying on his back with the goddess appearing to be astride him is again a vivid sexual motif. There are still other representations which show the goddess standing on land or on a lotus. The other points of significance are that the goddess is depicted as bloodthirsty, with her tongue hanging out, and adorned with skulls. The motif of the tongue hanging out hungrily is again a sexual metaphor, understood as the sexual hunger of the goddess, as also the hunger of the goddess breaking accepted norms. 32 The disheveled hair and the nude body further underscore this idea. The skull garland has again a violent sexual imagery of the proclamation of castration. 33 The texts further indicate certain iconological descriptions and peculiarities. Chinnamasta is to be shown as golden complexioned. However, the association of this color with the sattva guna, the highest quality, symbolic of the spiritual aspects, is intriguing for one who is associated with blood. 34 Further, the goddess is said to be depicted as if of sixteen years of age (sodasa varshiyam), naked (digambaram), with a naga yajnopavita (snake

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and sacred thread), and adorning her wild, open hair with different types of flowers. 35 Varnini, who stands to her right, is said to have been twelve years old. 36 The age of the goddess possibly indicates the attainment of maturity, while that of her attendant indicates the lack of knowledge of the youthful initiate. 37 Perhaps it is in these indicators that we can understand the association of this goddess with the sattva guna, for she helps her followers transcend their material state to reach a higher plane. Chinnamasta is propitiated in the fourth quarter of the evening, that is, midnight. 38 Her bija or mula mantra is Srim Klim Hrim Aim Vajravairocaniye Hrim Hrim Phat Svaha, according to the Saktapramoda, Rudrayamala, and other texts. It is believed that she bestows wealth on the needy and brings auspiciousness to her devotees. 39 R. C. Hazra, a leading scholar on the Puranic tradition, has spoken of how the Tantras were texts that had an appeal for the common man, particularly in areas where tribal and non-brahmanical traditions were widely prevalent. 40 They allowed for the participation of communities in such areas without resulting in any complete social and religious transformation. While anthropological models of “great” and “little” traditions or Sanskritization, 41 or even “tribalization,” 42 have dominated the discussions in specific case studies, I pose the possibility of civilizational co-existence such as exhibited in the tribal heartland of Chota Nagpur, without a necessary erosion or imposition of one tradition by another. CHINNAMASTA TEMPLE IN RAJRAPPA According to Edward Lister’s gazetteer of the region, the Gondwana system was identified by the Geological Survey of India in the form of seven coalfields comprising the Damodar river valley and the plateau of the Hazaribagh district. Of these, four in the valley were perhaps part of one formation. 43 V. Ball in his Memoirs of the Geological Survey of India, estimated that 5 million tons of coal were available in Ramgarh in 1866. 44 It is in this coalrich belt that we find the cult center of Rajrappa, in the kingdom of the erstwhile Raja of Ramgarh. The Chutupalu hills on one end and Rajouli on the other marked the extent of the small Ramgarh state. The Damodar or Deonad river, which rises to the west in Palamau, twenty-five miles from the boundary of Hazaribagh, joins with the Bhera, a tributary coming from the south, in the center of this area, 45 and it is at this confluence that we find the Rajrappa temple. According to locals, despite being a hill river, the Bhairavi never dries nor becomes muddy during the monsoons. The Damodar is seen as washing the feet of the goddess Chinnamasta at this site. There is a waterfall at the point of the confluence, where the Bhairavi is seen as falling into the Damodar. The landscape is very sparsely dotted with settlements in

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the vicinity, and the surrounding Sal forests were said to have been the home of many wild animals even fifty years ago. There is a hot spring to the northwest of the temple, whose waters are said to have therapeutic healing powers. It is my contention that the sacred center may have been an earlier tribal cult spot for a fierce female deity that gradually, with the spread of political hegemony of kings using the brahmanical religion for ideological legitimacy, began to be associated with the Tantric goddess Chinnamasta. 46 How did this site get the name Rajrappa? 47 There are three versions in this regard. One of these draws from the Markandeya Purana legend of Raja Surath being advised by Medha Rsi to worship Mahamaya on the banks of the Damodar, where it merged with the Bhera. 48 The goddess was pleased and blessed him in person. Because of this, the site was referred to as Rajtapah, but has since been corrupted to Rajrappa. However, my own reading of the Markandeya Purana indicates that this site was not known by name although it indicates brahmanical awareness of the locality. Raja Surath is said to have been harassed by rulers friendly with the Kolas, and the Puranas generally associate this region with the Kol tribe. 49 Another story also mentioned by Basu speaks of the king Rudra Narayan Ghoshal of Rajpur in Vanga in the eighteenth century. He is said to have entered this temple, shut the doors, and in the course of his worship the Ten Mahavidyas revealed themselves to him. Ma Chinnamasta is then supposed to have drawn his breath unto her. Because he gave up his life here, this place is known as Rajropa. The third story is found in the Chinnamasta Mahatmya of Govardhan Mishra. Here, the site is named after a king named Raj and his wife Rupma, who was known as Rappa. This was because the temple, which had not been known to the people in the Kali yuga, was said to have been reopened by the king and the image of the goddess was “consecrated” again. In the course of this consecration, a brahmana is also said to have miraculously appeared here, who performed the necessary established rituals, and for this reason his lineage was given the exclusive privilege of serving in the temple. All three stories provide clues about the evolution of the sacred center. The second and third stories indicate that much before the present temple was constructed, there was perhaps a Tantric goddess shrine. The story of Rudra Narayan indicates that by the eighteenth century, this sacred center was known as the abode of Chinnamasta, one of the Dasa Mahavidyas. The coming of a king and the re-consecration is an important indication of the pre-history of the shrine. It is also clear that the bringing of brahmana priests to this site happened at a later period. The shrine may have been in disuse or may have been known only to some itinerant Tantrics. It has been postulated that the site that may have been known to the Markandeya Purana was more toward the west, at a place called Bhaduli, in Intkhori taluk of Hazaribagh district. However, the text is clear that the site was at the point where the

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Nadi falls from above with great speed into the Nad. Interestingly, the goddess is mentioned as Bhagavati Mahamaya. 50 Local traditions also take pride in mentioning that the eighth-century savant Sankaracarya, known in later brahmanical accounts as reviving Hinduism, and Caitanya Mahaprabhu, the great medieval Vaishnava devotee, visited the shrine and offered worship here. 51 It is believed that the king who built the present temple was Ram Singh, who ruled from 1459 to 1537 CE. 52 He came under the influence of a Tantric priest from Burdwan in present-day West Bengal. He is said to have brought him to Ramgarh, and asked him to offer worship at the ancient temple of Chinnamasta. It is believed that the Pandas who offer worship here today are the descendants of this Gosvami brahmana of Katwa, according to this version. 53 Another version indicates that the original home of the Pandas was in Ariyadah. 54 The Pandas or Bengali brahmana priests of the Rajrappa temple had been settled in the village of Hessapora, to the southeast of the temple, by the king. Initially, it is believed that only one family was brought to the village and given a debotar, but now there are more than sixty households. The debotar was obviously the same as the devadana or land grant made in honor of the temple and/or the service personnel attached to the temple. What was the exact nature of the debotar is difficult to ascertain in these oral accounts. The actual temple as it stands today was renovated as recently as in the mid-1960s (figure 8.3). Around the same time, a paved courtyard for the sacrifice of goats was built in front, to the right of the temple. Another courtyard was made for buffalo sacrifices. To the left of the main temple, a banyan tree and a paved mandapa for a Shiva linga are second on the itinerary of pilgrims immediately after darsan in the main temple. A temple for Rudra Bhairava was built but not consecrated for a considerable amount of time because of the reservations of the Pandas. A ghat has been paved on the northern bank of the Damodar, with steps leading up to the temple. A Kali temple has also been built within the main complex. On the southern banks of the Damodar, there is an entire complex of temples called the Daksina Kali Pariksetra, which includes a set of temples in honor of the Mahavidyas (figure 8.4). The most important occasion attracting pilgrims from all over the region is the harvest festival in the month of Magha called Makara Sankranti, according to the Pandas. A fair is organized, attracting the local adivasi population comprising of Mahathos, Mundas, Santhals, and so on, from across the region (figure 8.5). This is called the Tusu Mela or Tusu Parab. According to the 1961 census reports, the largest numbers of pilgrims for any festival to the region, numbering approximately 12,000, come to Hessapora during the festival every year, which the locals refer to as Sakrat. 55 Today, the Pandas estimate that

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Figure 8.3. Chinnamasta temple complex

over a lakh of people come on this occasion. Pilgrims take a dip in the river, considered especially auspicious during sunrise. Local food preparations, vegetables and fruits, and craft and artisanal products are sold here, in addition to the provision of entertainment in the form of games and shows at the mela. With the building of new shrines to the Nava Durga, and the growth of the site as an important pilgrimage center in eastern India, attracting crowds from Bengal, Orissa, and Bihar, the popular nine-day festival of this region in honor of goddess Durga is now part of the religious calendar in Rajrappa as well. In recent years, the crowds during Durga Puja have been increasing. The Pandas reserve the first right of worship on the Navami day for the Santhals. This is a clear indication that this was originally a sacred cult site of the adivasis that was later incorporated into the brahmanical traditions of goddess worship. The adivasi population from Chota Nagpur, West Bengal, and Orissa also prefers this site for the performance of the pinda dana for their dead ancestors. Again, a dip in the river, the immersing of ashes in the river, and the making of offerings to the goddess mark the various ceremonial occasions.

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Figure 8.4. Layout of deities in Chinnamasta temple complex

The pilgrims who throng the temple on normal days themselves number more than a thousand per day. Rajrappa has also become a convenient center to conduct the various rites of passage such as upanayana, mundan and marriage. According to the Pandas, they now estimate the crowds by the number of balis or sacrifices given, as it is not possible for them to keep count otherwise. The normal prasada in the temple consists of kheer (milk pudding) or other sweets. However, the mahaprasada here is goat’s meat, and the khasi or meat of the male goat is considered the best offering (figure 8.6). It is interesting that the Puranic story of Surath refers to the offering of meat to the goddess Mahamaya. 56 The “natural” rock image of the deity is covered by an ashtadhatu kavac (covering made of eight metals), to prevent the stone from being blackened by oil and other offerings. As part of the daily ritual, worship is offered thrice a day—in the morning, noon, and evening. However, there is a tradition that worship cannot be offered here after dusk as the goddess moved freely about at this time. Whether this was because earlier the region was covered with dense forest and the Pandas had to cross here before nightfall to reach their village remains an open question. The daily offering of the Nityarcana is according to the Mahavidya tradition, with great emphasis being laid on the prana pratistha (infusing with life), the offering of the mula mantra and the bija mantra, and so on.

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Figure 8.5. Adivasi pilgrims

There are many stories of the goddess in her many manifestations giving darsan to her devotees that have been reported from this site. One of the most popular is about the bangle seller who took a dip at the holy site and was confronted with the divine figure of a red saree-clad goddess, who asked him for a pair of the auspicious sankha (conch shell) bangles, normally worn by married women. She asked him to collect the money for these bangles from her father, who was a Panda in Hessapora village. On being asked for the money, the Panda accused the bangle-seller of trying to cheat him for he had no daughters. The goddess then vindicated the seller by appearing before the priest wearing the bangles, and revealing that she had been his daughter in a previous birth and was now the denizen of the forests surrounding the holy place. 57 Another popular story is about the priest who forgot his sword in the temple when he was returning home after the evening worship. The priests were armed because their village was at a distance from the temple, separated by forests that were infested by wild animals and brigands. On entering the temple, he encountered the goddess, who was on her nocturnal rounds, and was severely reprimanded for intruding. He was instructed that hereafter, if for any reason the priests were unable to reach the temple on time to perform the rituals, they could make their offering on the opposite bank of the river

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Figure 8.6. Offering of goat to the goddess

under the huge banyan tree. 58 Until very recently, when the bridge was built across the river, the Pandas offered worship to the goddess Chinnamasta during the rainy seasons at this spot mentioned by the goddess. The maintenance of the temple is in the hands of the Pandas themselves, while the Kumudprita trust run by a patron Vipin Bihari Sharan’s family handles the affairs of the newer shrines that have been added to the complex. There have been recent attempts by the state government to take control of the temple, which the Pandas have been resisting. Further, attempts by the Pandas to form a trust have also been opposed by the state. On the other hand, it appears that the Kumudprita trust because of the political connections of its patrons has been relatively untouched by the state. The daily income of the temple is shared by the priests—each family is allotted a time to conduct the worship (figure 8.7). They are also given the rights of selling the items of worship in the area around the bathing ghat (figure 8.8). An important indication of the nature of acculturation of the Pandas is that they speak a local dialect (Khottha), a mixture of Bengali, Sadri, and Mundari. A number of their marriage customs now include some non-brahmanical marriage practices such as the bridegroom walking around a sacred tree, as is common among the Mundas. 59 As far as marriage alliances are

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Figure 8.7. Pandas (priests) with devotees

concerned, their preferred cultural area would be Purulia in west Bengal, parts of Giridih, Ramgarh, Bokaro, Hazaribagh, Lohardagga, Gumla districts and particularly around Khunti and Tamar in Ranchi district. A theft on July 2, 2010, has shocked the entire community of worshipers and ritual specialists. Not only was the traditional kavac stolen, but the stone “image” of the goddess was also vandalized. The lock appears to be untouched, leading to suspicions about an insider’s hand in the incident. The local community appears to have come together to repair the losses. The syncretic tendencies I have already commented upon are even more evident now, where the Muslim population of neighboring Chitarpur have contributed almost half (1.2 lakh) of the total local collection of 3 lakh rupees toward the renovation. Artisans were brought from Rajasthan to sculpt a new image of the goddess out of the gomed (hessonite garnet), and it is reported that the image of the goddess appeared by itself when the master sculptor sat to work on the image! The Pandas, who were quite distraught that their only source of livelihood was lost for a couple of months, have returned to their routine of sacrificing fifty to one hundred goats and earning a minimum daksina of Rs. 500/- every day.

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Figure 8.8. Pandas running shops for pilgrims

CONCLUSION The shrine of goddess Chinnamasta appears rooted in earlier traditions of goddess worship among the adivasis of the Chotanagpur region. The Tantric tradition of the Dasa Mahavidya provided the broader framework within which this local cult worship was assimilated into the brahmanical tradition. However, this process did not mark a disjunction between earlier belief systems and the brahmanical ones that can be neatly categorized within the anthropological categories of “Sanskritization” or “Great and Little Traditions.” What is striking at this site, and indeed in other sites within the region, is that there were points of intersection of the traditions as well as coexistence through the pre-modern period and well into the twentieth century. Although the brahmanization of the cult center at Rajrappa in recent years has been rapid, the continued and conspicuous presence of the adivasi population here reflects associations that cannot be simply submerged within the pan-Indian religious traditions.

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NOTES I would like to thank Bulu Imam, B. D. Chattopadhyaya, Kunal Chakrabarti, Joseph Bara, and Rakesh Batabyal for their suggestions and support for my research project on early medieval brahmanical sites in Jharkhand, from which this chapter stems. 1. See, Kinsley, David, Tantric Visions of the Divine Feminine: The Ten Mahavidyas, Motilal Banarsidass, Delhi, 1997, p. 165. 2. Sahay, K. N., Hindu Shrines of Chotanagpur: Case Study of Tanginath, IIAS, Simla, 1975; Makhan Jha, “Introduction,” in Makhan Jha (ed.), Social Anthropology of Pilgrimage, Inter-India Publications, 1991, p. 3. 3. Benard, Elisabeth Anne, Chinnamasta: The Aweful Buddhist and Hindu Tantric Goddess, Motilal Banarsidass, Delhi, 2010 (1994), appendix 2: pp. 145–47. 4. Ibid., p. 146. 5. This “image” was vandalized recently, and I have discussed this in the second part of the chapter. 6. Brown, C. Mackenzie, The Devi Gita: The Song of the Goddess: A Translation, Annotation, and Commentary, SUNY, Albany, 1998, pp. 18–19. 7. Brown refers to the Mahabhagavata, Devi, and Kalika Purana. See, Ibid., p. 7. 8. Brown particularly mentions the Devi-bhagavata Purana. Ibid. 9. For a list of texts, see, Goudriaan, Teun, and Sanjukta Gupta, Hindu Tantric and Sakta Literature, Otto Harassowitz, Wiesbaden, 1981. 10. Benard, Chinnamasta, p. xiii. 11. Bhattacharya, Benoytosh, “The Home of Tantric Buddhism,” in D. R. Bhandakar et al. (eds.), B.C. Law Volume, part I, Indian Research Institute, Calcutta, 1945, p. 259. 12. Brown, The Devi Gita, pp. 23–24. 13. Shri Chinnamasta Nityarchan, Kalyan Mandir Prakashan, Prayag, p. 3. 14. Kumar, Pushpendra, Sakti Cult in Ancient India, Bharatiya Publishing House, Varanasi, 1974, p. 155. 15. Kinsley, Tantric Visions, p. 20. 16. Ibid., p. 23. 17. Benard, Chinnamasta, pp. 2–3. 18. Brown, The Devi Gita, p. 23. 19. Kinsley, Tantric Visions, p. 25. 20. Ibid., p. 32. 21. Benard, Chinnamasta, pp. 3–4. 22. Shri Chinnamasta Nityarchan, p. 5. Other sources for the worship of the goddess are Sakta Pramoda, Tantrasara, and Mantra Mahodadhih. See, Kinsley, Tantric Visions, p. 163. 23. Benard, Chinnamasta, p. 7. 24. Ibid., pp. 7–8. 25. Ibid., p. 9. 26. Pal, Pratapaditya, Hindu Religion and Iconology, Vichitra Press, Los Angeles, 1981, p. 82. Cited in Kinsley, p. 150. 27. Kinsley, Tantric Visions, p. 47. 28. Agrawala, V. S., “Siva ka Svarupa,” Kalyana, p. 499. Cited in Benard, Chinnamasta, p. 6. 29. Ibid. 30. Benard, Chinnamasta, p. 9. 31. Ibid., p. 107. 32. Kripal, Jeffrey J., “Why the Tantrika Is a Hero: Kali in the Psychoanalytic Tradition,” in Rachel Fell Mcdermott and J. J. Kripal (eds.), Encountering Kali: In the Margins, at the Center, in the West, UCP, Berkeley, p. 201. 33. Ibid., p. 214. 34. Kinsley, Tantric Visions, p. 43. 35. Shri Chinnamasta Nityarchan, p. 49.

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36. Ibid., p. 50. 37. See Benard, Chinnamasta, pp. 108–9. 38. Jha, Indra Narayan, Siddhapitha Rajrappa, Videha Prakashan, Ranchi, 2008 (1987), p. 62. 39. Ibid., p. 95. 40. Hazra, R. C., Studies in the Puranic Records on Hindu Records and Customs, University of Dacca, Dacca, 1940, pp. 214–65. 41. See, Sahay, K. N., Hindu Shrines of Chotanagpur Case Study of Tanginath, IIAS, Simla, 1975; Jha, Makhan, “Introduction,” in Makhan Jha (ed.), Social Anthropology of Pilgrimage, Inter-India Publications, 1991. 42. Oraon, Karma, “Impact of Hindu Pilgrimage on Tribes of Chotanagpur,” in Makhan Jha (ed.), Social Anthropology of Pilgrimage, Inter-India Publications, 1991. 43. Lister, Edward, Hazaribagh: Bihar and Orissa District Gazetteers, Government Printing, Patna, 1917, p. 27. 44. Ball, V., Memoirs of the Geological Survey of India, VI, 1867, p. 109. Cited in Lister, Hazaribagh, p. 30. 45. Lister, Hazaribagh, pp. 8–9. 46. While there is very little evidence in the form of inscriptions, there are some structural remains of early medieval temples at about twenty-five sites that I have identified across the Hazaribagh and Ranchi districts. 47. I have relied on my fieldwork (2008, 2010, 2012) in addition to the local histories available in Hindi at this site for the history, legends, and contemporary developments at the site. My respondents have been the local people as well as devotees at the site. I would particularly like to acknowledge Shri Santosh Panda and his mother, Smt. Shanti Panda, for their generosity in sharing their knowledge. 48. Basu, Sukumar, Om Ma Chinnamasta, Anupam Prakashan, Patna, p. 3. 49. Shri Markandeya Mahapuranam, text with preface and Hindi transl. by Dr. Rajendranath Sharman, Nag Pubs., Delhi, 1986, p. 144: Babhuvuhu Satravo Bhupaha Kolavidhvamsinastada (chapter 78). Also see, Sri Visnu Mahapuranam the Visnu Mahapuranam, English transl. by Manmatha Nath Dutt, “Introduction” and edited by Pushpendra Kumar, Eastern Book Linkers, Delhi, 2005, chapter 78, verse 4, p. 313. 50. Shri Markandeya Mahapuranam, chapter 78, verse 13, p. 144. 51. Jha, Siddhapitha Rajrappa, pp. 165–66. 52. Ibid., p. 167. 53. Ibid., p. 168. 54. Basu, Om Ma, p. 12. 55. Census of India, 1961, vol. 4, Bihar, part 7-B, “Fairs and Festivals of Bihar,” p. 389. 56. Shri Markandeya Mahapuranam, p. 184, chapter 93, verse 37. 57. Jha, Siddhapitha Rajrappa, pp. 178–80. 58. Ibid., pp. 181–82. 59. S. C. Roy describes a marriage custom of the Mundas—Uli Sakhi, where the bridegroom on the way out of his village to the girl’s home stops at a mango tree—uli, and ties a thread. He also chews a tender mango stalk. S. C. Roy, The Mundas and Their Country, Catholic Press, Ranchi, 1995 (1912), p. 281.

Chapter Nine

The Goddess on the Hill The (Re)Invention of a Local Hill Goddess as Chamundeshvari Caleb Simmons

When talking about the history and ritual lives of goddesses in South Asia, it is almost predetermined that we as scholars must attempt to reconcile how each goddess relates to or resists the Great Goddess (Mahadevi) or Sakta configuration of the divine feminine that orders all female deities of the subcontinent into the one consistent tradition. That leaves many of us in an awkward theoretical space in which we must simultaneously shift between discussions of local and contextualized ethnographies and histories to issues of pan-Indian concern using categories and taxonomies (Sanskritic, brahmanic, folk, etc.) that are altogether insufficient to make sense of the dynamic dialectic that takes place at any given moment of history. Too often these taxonomies focus too firmly on the “nature” of the goddess (i.e., benevolent, malevolent, urban-village, etc.), overlooking her function within the political, ritual, and mythological landscapes in which these goddesses have had a meaningful role in negotiating life for those that use them to procure achievement (be it spiritual, martial, or otherwise). This chapter is a result of and a part of this academic tradition that struggles to make sense of the relationship between local and pan-Indian goddesses. Instead of engaging the discussion through these taxonomies, I will attempt to provide a different a way of viewing goddesses by examining how they develop through their roles in the fashioning of kingship in South India and how that relates to the Puranic conception of the cosmos. 1 My aim is to demonstrate one process through which a local goddess has, over a period of time, become associated with pan-Indian Puranic deities yet retained a distinctly local flavor. In the medie217

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val period during which all kings of South India were configured within the complex of hierarchic relationships based on a Puranic model of overlordship, the imagined separation between “vernacular” and “Sanskritic” or “brahmanic” only masks the significant role of goddesses at various stages in the construction of statehood. Their function in the construction of polity provides more insight into their place in the study of medieval Indian society than those that arise through a discussion of the “high Sanskritic” tradition or the “low vernaculars,” especially since both regional and local kingdoms operated according to the model of statehood provided in Puranic material. Our attachment to heuristic expressions like “vernacular,” “non-brahmanic,” “brahmanic,” “Sanskritic,” and so on, however, is not unfounded. The categories—as limiting as they may be—have helped us understand how the Goddess tradition emerged during the early Puranic period and that goddess/Goddess/Sakta traditions are never monolithic and contain a wide array of practices that seem to come from a variety of ritual and narrative sources. However, these taxonomies have had the unfortunate side effect of implying inelastic spheres of “high” and “low” (though none among us would dare to use those terms) belief and practice from which it is difficult to extricate ourselves. On one hand, we have the “complex” Sanskritic traditions, whose soteriological and/or consort goddesses come complete with a wealth of agamic rituals and ornate temple complexes and iconography; on the other hand, we have “simple” non-brahmanic traditions, whose goddesses are often un-anthropomorphized and are objects of veneration as far as they must be placated to ward off disease and famine. While certain aspects of both of these oversimplified representations ring true, it clouds the constant dialectic between the traditions that employ brahmins as ritual professionals, those that have non-brahmins performing rites, and the goals of the rituals that are performed in both sets of traditions. Therefore, in lieu of these categories, I will talk about the function of the goddess within the process of statehood in the Puranic system. In this system, goddesses function as local guardian deities (gramadevata), who bestow martial prowess to upstart local rulers (vijigishu) but are reinvented and their roles remade as the rulers amass more power and control and begin to vie for the position of Puranic overlordship. Much has been written about the later stage of this process when the court of a regional king reconstructed the ruler as a manifestation of Vishnu or Shiva and the heir of the Solar or Lunar lineages, who had the capacity to bring a period of peace to the Age of Craps (kaliyuga). 2 However, kingdoms never begin as regional powers. They started from meager beginnings in which a person of local significance (ruler, warrior, chieftain, etc.) secured greater and greater power and incorporated more complex modes of governance. It is within this early stage that local goddesses often played a crucial role, as they were linked with the establishment of a patriarch as the ruler of the realm of a goddess. However, as the king’s realm expanded with growing complexity

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and territory, the model of the local goddess was an insufficient political unifier, and her identity had to be altered to expand her sphere of influence. When the kingdom won independence from the regional power but was still not a stable independent power, the goddess was often connected with the wide cult of the emaciated goddess Chamunda; however, as imperial aspirations grew and the kingdom became secure, the ruler’s lineage was connected with the Solar or Lunar dynasties, the territories reconfigured into the Puranic landscape, and the goddess reimagined into the Puranic narratives. In the process of reinventing the dynasty, the local goddess with whom the kingdom had been connected in its infancy was slowly reconstructed through a Puranic paradigm by association with the narratives of Mahadevi or as the consorts of the cosmic overlord. This process can clearly be seen in the case of the goddess Chamundi and the Wodeyar kingdom of Mysore in Southern Karnataka. The goddess Chamundi and Mysore provide a great case of the constant negotiation that took place regarding goddess traditions in medieval South India because of the great documentation of the Mysore state and its various cycles of regional dominance and subordination. Additionally, the somewhat-sorted history of Chamundi provides an intriguing avenue of discussion concerning the permeable nature of otherwise rigid distinctions of “proper” royal deities. In texts and iconography, she was represented as a polluted goddess, who was worshiped in cremation grounds and accepted blood offerings, yet she enjoyed widespread veneration among newly coronated kings in Southern and Eastern India during the eleventh to seventeenth centuries. She also makes for an ideal case study because of her clear yet varying roles in the Wodeyar kingdom that was established in the region from the sixteenth century CE to Indian independence—including a thirty-nine-year hiatus in which the minister Haidar Ali and his son Tipu Sultan assumed the throne at the end of the eighteenth century. Through an analysis of their royal histories and inscriptions, it is clear that by the mid-seventeenth century after the decline of the Vijayanagara dynasty, the Wodeyars, eyeing the position of overlordship, began the process of reinventing their local hill goddess in the mold of the royal Puranic goddess (see figure 9.1). However, unlike many of the other royal states that preceded Mysore in South India, the goddess’s reinvention was altered by a rupture in the political structure after the fall of Tipu Sultan when the British seized control and placed the Wodeyar child-king Mummadi Krishnaraja on the throne of Mysore. Removed from the apparatus of Puranic statehood, the goddess underwent a novel reinvention as Chamundeshvari, the Great Goddess, who is allpresent and transcendent. Thereby, the cycle of local martial goddesses and aspirations of Puranic overlordship ended, and Chamundeshvari entered into a new phase in which the primary focus was spiritual devotion.

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Figure 9.1. Bronze image of Camundeshvari used during Dasara on display in the Mysore Palace

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CHAMUNDI IN EARLY TEXTUAL SOURCES In the Devi Mahatmyam In order to grasp the role that Chamundi played in this unfolding drama of military might and imperial aspiration, we must look to the origins of the goddess during the early Puranic period. The first extant record that we have of the goddess comes from the portion of the Sanskrit Markandeya Purana called the Devi Mahatmyam (henceforth DM) or the Glorification of the Goddess (circa sixth to seventh centuries), which tells the exploits of the Great Goddess (Mahadevi) and her many manifestations within the framework of Puranic cosmology. Unlike many of the other manifestations/epithets of the Great Goddess, which are found in the DM, there are no previous historical or literary records that have been found that mention a goddess named Chamundi or Chamunda. In fact, the insertion of this name into the DM tale occurs almost as an endnote to the narrative in chapter 7. This episode tells about the slaying of the demons (asura) Chanda and Munda by Kali, who gifted their heads to Ambika/the Great Goddess. At the end of the scene Ambika explains, “Because you [Kali] have grabbed Chanda and Munda and brought them [to me], you will be called ‘Chamunda.’” 3 The absence of this deity from any texts or historical material prior to the DM has led some scholars to conjecturally note that Chamunda/i is most likely a “nonSanskritic deity” that has been inserted into the text by its author(s)/editor(s), presumably, in order to co-opt popular practice into the burgeoning Sakta tradition. 4 However, due to the lack of historical data, this presumption has not been further explored. While any concrete data is yet to be discovered, a deeper look at the narrative can give us clues about the background of the goddess. The scene wherein Kali receives her “new” name takes place in the third and final episode of the overall DM narrative. In this episode, the gods have been overtaken by the demons Shumbha and Nishumbha, who have stolen their portions of the Vedic sacrifice (yajna). As a result the gods fell to the earth bereft of their former splendor. However, at this point the gods remembered the promise, which the goddess made to them at the end of the previous chapter at the conclusion of the famous Mahishasura (buffalo-demon) episode. Therefore, the gods made a pilgrimage to the Himalayas and joined together in a hymn of praise to the cosmic deity Mahalakshmi. 5 At this point, a beautiful girl of the mountains (parvati), who had come to the source of the Ganga to bathe, asked the gods to whom they offered such praises. Before they were even allowed to answer, she shed her outer corporeal form (sharirakosha) to reveal her true auspicious self (shiva). 6 This form was called “Ambika” but is said to be known throughout the worlds as “she (who emerged) from the sheath” (kaushiki). The mountain girl 7 became the “dark

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one” (krishna), who is known as Kalika 8 and resides in the Himalayas. 9 At this point the ministers of Shumbha and Nishumbha named Chanda and Munda saw the beautiful goddess and returned to their kings to tell them of this great jewel—the only one that they had not taken from the gods. Upon hearing this, Shumbha sent Sugrīva, a messenger, to the goddess to “win” her with his words. There, Sugrīva tried to convince the goddess that since she was the greatest jewel of all women of the earth she ought to belong to the demon king Shumbha because he was the greatest jewel connoisseur. After hearing Sugriva’s speech, the goddess (bhagavati), who is difficult to attain (durga), explained that her master could only be the man who defeated her in battle. Only after Shumbha was victorious over her in battle would he be able to take her by the hand. 10 Upon hearing these words from the “haughty” woman, Sugriva rebuked her insolence and promised that she would be taken before Shumbha and Nishumbha dragged by the hair with no regard for her modesty or decorum. 11 Once news of this conversation reached Shumbha and Nishumbha, they were intent on fulfilling the promise made by their messenger. They ordered their general Dhumralocana 12 to take his legions to battle against the goddess. Almost without delay, Ambika incinerated the demon-general by incanting the mantra “hum.” 13 Then, the outmatched legions of asuras were quickly subdued by the goddess and her lion-mount. After hearing the news of Dhumralocana’s defeat at the hands of the goddess, the demon-lord Shumbha ordered the great demons Chanda 14 and Munda 15 to go and violently bring her by her hair. Chanda and Munda attacked the goddess on the highest mountain with four legions of asuras. The goddess, seeing the imminent onslaught, let out an angry cry, and her face became black as ink from which Kali (the black one) emerged with sword, noose, skull-staff, necklace of heads, and a tiger-skin skirt. She with mouth wide, tongue lolling, and deep red eyes, roared a roar that filled all directions. Then, she immediately gobbled up all the armies of the gods’ enemies. Chanda and Munda, then, began to assail her with an onslaught of arrows and cakras (discus), which like the sun enveloped by a black cloud, entered into Kali’s mouth. The hag goddess Kali cackled, showing her terrible teeth. She mounted her lion, grabbed Chanda by the hair, and decapitated him. Munda, seeing Chanda dead, ran at her but was felled by her sword. Kali approached Ambika with the heads of Chanda and Munda and playfully said, “From me, [I give you] these great sacrificial animals (mahapashu) Chanda and Munda, which is your portion of the battle-sacrifice (yuddhayajne). [Now] you will [be able] to kill Shumbha and Nishumbha.” 16 At which point, the beautiful goddess Ambika gave Kali her new nickname “Chamunda.” In the remainder of the episode, Kali is called Chamunda several times but only in the battle scene contained within chapter 8 verses 52–60 in which she drinks the blood of the demon Raktabija (blood-seed), which if allowed

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to fall on the earth would sprout and take form as more manifestations of the mighty demon. 17 Chamunda had to perform this extremely polluting act because the demon-general was overwhelming the “band of mothers” (matrigana), 18 the personifications of the feminine energies (sakti) of Brahma, Māheśvara (Shiva), Guha (Skanda), Vishnu, Hari (Varaha), Narasimha, and Indra. 19 Like the episode in which Chanda and Munda were defeated, whenever the goddess is associated with bloodthirsty and polluting activity the epithet Chamunda is used. She is only deployed when her terrifying and volatile powers are the only remaining option. She is more powerful than the rest of the pantheon (i.e., the seven mothers, Ambika, the male deities), and she remains separate from them all—allowing them to not sully their pristine and pure qualities. While the DM always associated her with Kali, Chamunda serves a more ritually polluting and powerful role that is beyond the capabilities of the other gods and goddesses. She emerges within and from Kali like a second personality when a really messy situation arises. However, because of her terrifying, polluting, and ultimately uncontrollable character, she remains distinct—like a Mr. Hyde to Kali’s Dr. Jekyll. This divine quarantine has probably been a major factor in goddess scholars’ assumptions that Chamundi was not part of the “brahmanical” devotional and liturgical milieu and that this narrative within the DM is the first attempt to bring this powerful and gruesome outlier into the pantheon. In Bhavabhuti’s Malatimadhava Chamunda’s volatile character is also easily seen in the in the Malatimadhava of Bhavabhuti (circa seventh to eighth centuries) 20 in which we see an interesting portrayal of devotees of Chamunda that shows the goddess’s place outside the hegemonic agamic ritual court culture of this period. In this drama the devotees of Chamunda are referred to as Kapalikas, who practice in cremation grounds and abduct young virgins in order to sacrifice them to the goddess. In the text, a female Kapalika, named Kapalakundala, who has the ability to fly through the air because of her perfection (siddha) of yoga, has discovered the heroine/damsel-in-distress Malati, who has smitten the hero Madhava with her beauty and modesty in the previous scene. Because of these coveted characteristics, Malati is the perfect specimen for the gurudiksha—the sacrifice of a virgin to the goddess Karala (she whose mouth is gaping)—required by the Kapalika’s teacher Aghoraghanta. In the next scene (act V, scene II), the Kapalikas have captured Malati and taken her to the temple of Karala. 21 When they begin their ritual, the opening of their hymn to the goddess makes clear that Karala is but another epithet for Chamunda: “Devi Chamunde namaste namaste.” 22 The hymn continues describing the gruesome power held by the goddess:

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However, just before the devotees of the goddess could deal the fatal blow to Malati, Madhava steps in to rescue the lovely maiden, killing Aghoraghanta, but allowing Kapalakundala to escape. The drama concludes when Kapalakundala returns and successfully steals Malati away, but her plans are miraculously thwarted as a yogini, named Saudamini, 23 intervenes for the sake of Madhava. This drama clearly demonstrates a distrust of antinomian ascetics associated with cremation grounds to which the Kapalika moniker was used as a generic marker and applied to devotees of the goddess. There is also the implicit understanding that groups that practice left-handed rites for the attainment of magical powers or siddhis do so in order to engage in evil deeds for disreputable worldly achievement, not for a higher goal such as moksha or kshatriya dharma—like defeating demons—that we saw in the DM. However, their hymn to the goddess and the connection with the Kapalikas also makes it clear that by the last part of the seventh or the first part of the eighth centuries, Chamunda/i was associated with the Puranic deity Shiva, but other than the reference to the wide-gaping mouth there is no connection between this Chamunda and the Chamunda of the DM. 24 The ill-portrayal of Chamunda in this narrative, I would suggest, was neither spiritual fear nor a product of ritual intolerance, but it was catering to the dominant Puranic cosmopolity, which associated regional dominance with agamic Shaiva and Vaishnava traditions. Within this same system, nonagamic goddesses (and non-agamic Shaiva rituals) were representative of those outside the hegemonic court culture and were invoked by those who wished to use their devotion to goddesses to glean power to overthrow their regional overlords. She was the goddess of those that threaten the system and were thereby enemies of the mighty king—the goddess of the periphery of the Puranic cosmopolity. 25 I choose to employ the lens of Puranic cosmopolity and periphery instead of the “Sanskritic”-“Non-Sanskritic” binary because it is obvious in regional literature and inscriptions that even these marginalized local kingdoms operated within the greater Puranic worldview incorporating the Sanskrit lexicon into their local practices—just as these peripheral Kapalikas chant the hymn to their goddess in Sanskrit meter. Therefore, these peripheral actors were fashioning a subversive state by attempting to shift power and authority, threating the security of the king, but doing so by employing many of the same tools as the dominant court culture. Indeed, linguistic and epigraphic

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evidence suggests that scribes, who authored inscriptions in the early Karnata language, assumed Chamunda to be of Sanskritic origin and not a nonSanskritic name as now many presume. Since her name was thought by medieval scholars to be Sanskritic, it seems anomalous to reason that ritual tradition associated with her could be now classified as “non-Sanskritic.” Therefore, it is important to examine linguistic clues that can point us toward the Chamunda/i’s role in Southern Karnataka and the relationship between local kings and chieftains within the broader concerns of the Puranic political cosmology. CHAMUNDA/I IN KARNATAKA EPIGRAPHIC SOURCES An analysis of the inscriptions from medieval Karnataka show that “Chamunda” was viewed as a non-Karnata (videshi) word and was included in many inscriptions relating to local royalty and their donative practices. Most of the inscriptions that are found in the Karnata region are often said to be written in Sanskrit and/or Kannada; however, this is slightly misleading. The language of many of these early inscriptions was an early attempt to synthesize a local language and vocabulary with elements of the grammar and vocabulary of Sanskrit. This grammatical exercise creates a new linguistic system that eventually formed modern Kannada. 26 The inscriptions discussed below that predate modern Kannada (ninth to seventeenth centuries) have a varied and complex grammar that includes a set of complex rules about the combination and alteration of sounds called sandhi—like the similar set of rules in Sanskrit. One such rule governs the change of an original m to v in which Chamunda is often rendered Chavunda. These rules produce high variation in the inscriptions that relate to the goddess Chamunda but also shed some light on her emergence within the Mysore region. 27 In Grammar of the Oldest Kanarese Inscriptions, linguist A. N. Narasiṃhia, through his analysis of the inscriptions found in Epigraphia Carnatica, has concluded that this change occured in words that were of Sanskrit origins. He explains, “the change . . . suggest [sic] that -m- was probably used with the phonetic value of -v-, though conservative writing still used -m- as the Skt. [Sanskrit] word.” 28 If this is the case, then as far back as the ninth century by altering the word in inscriptions, Karnata court poets recognized Chamunda as a Sanskrit goddess/word, not as a deity that existed outside the system. Moreover, when we examine the earliest inscriptions that mention Chamunda from the region, it is obvious that the name was also part of the “high” court culture, which was mimicked by the small local kings, even if their courts were primarily “vernacular,” from the ninth century onward. These mimetic courts were not only aware of the “high” tradition, but also incorporated “Sanskritic” or “brahmanic” practices into their devotional and political

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lives, associating their tutelary deities with those in the Puranic cosmopolity—albeit with those on the periphery. The oldest inscriptions that mention the goddess Chamunda in Southern Karnataka that I have found began in the ninth and tenth centuries CE where she is included in the names of royalty and heroes. The oldest of these is from Heggothara in the Chamarajanagar district, which states that Chavundabbe, the wife of a king from the Western Ganga dynasty, gave a land grant to a temple, though the temple is not named. In a nearby village, there is another tenth-century hero-stone that eulogizes a cattle-raider named, Chavunda. There are several more stones from nearby villages that contain similar eulogies, which could all be referring to the same person—a heroic man named Chavunda that lead many successful military cattle raids against neighboring kingdoms/tribes. 29 By the twelfth-century Chavunda was a popular name, at least among those who were active in ceremonial donations. Of the many names that incorporate Chamunda that are found in inscriptions, the most notable are a Pallava queen named Chavundabbaradi, a Hoysala king named Chavundaraja, and an extremely famous Jain minister to the Ganga king named Chavundaraya, who is the author of the Jain Adipurana called the Chavundaraya Purana. This suggests that Chamunda devotion was not only widespread, but also influential among the regional and local elite. The goddess’s association with local polity and martial identity also seems to transcend the ritual and devotional practices that delineated traditions that we now, somewhat anachronistically, call Hinduism and Jainism, serving a purpose in the lives of the rulers and their ministers, who were both Hindu and Jain. In addition to the names that incorporate some form of Chamunda, there is evidence by the end of the tenth century of the presence of the goddess and temples associated with her. In the tenth and eleventh centuries, there are records of least one Chaudeshvari and one Chaudeshvara temple in which an image of Surya was installed in the former and the great Hoysala king Vishnuvardhana offered a water libation in front of the latter. 30 In a twelfthcentury inscription from the Hassan district, the Hoysala king Narasimha I bestowed a land grant to a faithful minister in the “land of Chaundeshvari.” Later in the fourteenth century, a Hoysala king granted permission to one of his vassals to give a land grant to a male deity named Chaudeshvara. 31 The first reference that we have in which the name is explicitly Chamunda does not come until the thirteenth century in a badly damaged Tamil inscription as Chamundeshvari, which possibly reinforces the conclusion that Chamunda was linguistically of Sanskrit origin since the Sanskrit suffix is added even at this early point and Tamil does not have the same sandhi rules for m that are observed in early Kannada. Unfortunately, however, all that can be made out from this donation list is that a town existed, whose inhabitants were called the “children of Chamundeshvari.” It remains unclear, however, what rela-

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tionship the Chamunda mentioned in these inscriptions had, if any, with the goddess, who dwells on the top of Chamundi hills in Mysore. There was never any reference to Chamundi found in the area surrounding Mysore city or references to Mysore in the inscriptions regarding Chamundi until the seventeenth century. 32 This epigraphic evidence seems to suggest that the goddess Chamundi was considered by the authors of these inscriptions to be a deity who was part of the Sanskrit lexicon; however, as we shall see, she seems to have been most important during the intermediate position of peripheral kingdoms aiding local chieftains in their rise to prominence after they achieve a measure of regional domination but before they started to recreate their lineage in the Puranic mold. She was malleable and could be reinterpreted and reinvented based on the needs of the ruler and the degree of his imperial aspirations. Chamunda was both a “high” and “low” deity in the sense that she was part of the royal endowment schemes, which included agamic rituals performed by brahmiṇ priests and was part of the Sanskrit lexicon, but she was also of critical import to those subversive groups that existed outside the dominant agamic court culture—rendering the taxonomies of “Sanskritic” and “brahmanic” unhelpful for our understanding of the larger system of South Indian polity and the role that goddesses played in the formation of statehood as an intermediary between the dominant political structure and those that were transitioning into it. FIERCE GODDESSES AND THE UPSTART KINGDOM The best way to understand the Chamunda tradition is to situate it within the context of the emergence of royal courts within the cosmological structure of Puranic polity in which she played the role of the marital goddess of the periphery, who was connected with the rise of upstart local kingdoms. Alexis Sanderson has shown that the cult of the emaciated goddess Chamunda was widespread throughout Eastern India during the ninth to fourteenth centuries and was propitiated for her role in military conquest as kings expanded their territory. 33 Likewise, there are numerous examples of various kingdoms ranging from the South Indian kingdoms to Northern Buddhist kingdoms in which Chamunda or similar emaciated and fierce goddesses had a prominent position in the early stages of kingdoms that eventually became significant political powers during the early medieval period beginning with the Cholas and the Palas in the ninth centuries. After Vijayalaya of the Chola dynasty seized Tanjore in 850 CE, the king built a temple to the fierce Nishumbhasudini (“The Slayer of Nishumbha”) as an offering for the victory. 34 Also, in the ninth century, the king of the Buddhist Pala kingdom Mahendrapala constructed a Vidabhi temple to Charcika (another epithet of Chamunda) in

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honor of the military might of his father Devapala. 35 Since records of these grants are given in later accounts, this leads me to believe that it was part of a later stage of political development that the name Chamunda (or another similar Sanskrit epithet) was used, perhaps inflating the local goddesses as the state sought to expand their influence. Chamunda fulfilled this intermediary position in Mysore and transitioned from the fierce local goddess (gramadevata) into the regal Puranic goddess Durga or Mahadevi. Near the Mysore region of Southern Karnataka, we can see the great importance of the local fierce goddesses in the initial military conquests found in the origin narratives of the Wodeyar’s predecessors, the Gangas of Talakadu and the Hoysalas. 36 The role of the fierce goddess in the establishment of the local kingdom is the narrative focal point of both dynastic foundational myths that emphasized the military coalition between the upstart local kings and their goddesses. The origin myth of the Western Ganga dynasty of Talakadu tells of the line’s progenitor Bharata. 37 In the narrative, Indra gifted Bharata five celestial ornaments and renamed the king’s capital the Vijayapura or the “City of Victory.” He promised that these treasures would remain with the descendants of the king unless a wicked ruler rose from among them. Using these gifts, the Ganga line flourished until Ganga king Padmanabha remained heirless. In order to obtain children, he propitiated a goddess named Sasana Devi, who gifted him with two sons, Rama and Lakshmana. After they had come to age, an evil Ujjaini king named Mahipala threatened to take away the celestial royal ornaments. Padmanabha sent his two sons, who were renamed Dadiga and Madhava, along with their sister Allabe, a host of brahmins, and the five ornaments south away from the battle with Mahipala. Along the way they met Simhanandi, a Jain ascetic, who propitiated the goddess Padmavati on their behalf. 38 The goddess was pleased with their offering and bestowed upon them a boon and conferred upon Madhava a celestial sword that could cut through any object. Madhava seized the sword and struck a stone pillar, which was sliced in twain by the magical weapon. Upon seeing this feat of strength and good fortune, Simhanandi joined forces with the brothers, giving them the banner of the peacock, and coronated them as the kings of the region. As a sign of their allegiance they were sworn to convert to the Jain path, take only Jain wives, avoid liquor and meat, give to the needy, and be heroic in battle. The Hoysala origin myth is quite similar to the earlier Western Ganga narrative. In a thirteenth-century description of the lineage, the origins of the Hoysala dynasty are also linked to an alliance with the goddess and the boon of victory acquired from her through rituals performed by a Jain ascetic. Yadu, who was of worthy and pleasing character, was born into the lunar line. Starting with him, hundreds of famous and powerful kings were born. The glorious king Sala, also in that line, possessed the entire world [in] his arms

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and [ruled] according to the shastras in his capital [Shasapura or Shashakapura]. Once, this king went to worship Vasanti, his lineage’s chosen goddess, and approached the Jaina priest (siddha), 39 standing at her side. At that moment, a powerful tiger/lion, 40 desiring to eat, came [toward them]. The monk said to him, “Hoy Sala!” [literally: Strike it, Sala!] in the Karnata language, and he fearlessly slew it. From that point, the kings born in that line, whose record of patronage renders even Karna unremarkable, became known by that name [Hoysala]. 41

Other inscriptions elaborate upon this basic narrative, often adding that the Jain ascetic was named Sudatta and that he handed Saka a fan (kuncha) with which he struck the tiger/lion. 42 In other versions the goddess is also often referred to as Padmavati. 43 Additionally, many of the narratives add that after Sala slayed the tiger, Sudatta was so thankful that he propitiated the goddess for the king and after being worshiped Padmavati gave Sala a boon that would secure his kingdom. The role of the goddess in the acquisition of kingdoms in these narratives shows the diverse range of devotional traditions (Shaiva, Buddhist, and Jain) that emphasized the importance of goddesses in the establishment of their new kingdoms. These deities functioned as gramadevatas, who dwell within towns or are situated on the outskirts of villages and rule the metaphysical and physical space under their purview and have the ability to grant a worthy devotee-king authority over the land. As local goddesses they are responsible for warding off evil beings, providing good health for the villagers, and invigorating their territory through their dynamic energy (sakti). Also, in the medieval period these goddesses could grant immanent and immediate desires to a ruler, such as victory in battle, in exchange for acceptable offerings and propitiation. These deities, however, can be temperamental and often require the village to pay their respects through sacrifice or their benevolent protection and blessing can turn into destruction and malevolence, which might also have been used to explain the fall of the previous ruler/dynasty. 44 However, their range of influence is limited to the small region in proximity to their situated abode. The lack of range over which these goddesses rule posed a difficult problem to medieval rulers as they sought to extend their territory beyond the confines of their goddesses, local control. Therefore, all of these narratives were at some point developed and assumed elements of Puranic myths especially the narrative of the DM—the process through which the goddess was reinvented. The emerging medieval courts integrated their local tradition into a more abstract and far-reaching political apparatus. This took place as the court sought to increase the kingdom’s power by shifting to Puranic cosmopolitical rhetoric in which imperial power was abstracted through an association with a powerful male supreme deity, who bestowed ruling power (versus military power). At this point the local goddess became

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associated with the broader cult of the emaciated goddess Chamunda and eventually a consort deity or Mahadevi. The tropes of imperial domination can clearly be seen in the Chola material discussed by Daud Ali. 45 As Ali describes, the Cholas grew larger and larger, displacing their overlords the Rashtrakutas, and aspired to the role of overlordship described in the Puranas. Therefore, they constructed their divine lineage through the Solar lineage, who along with the Lunar lineage had the possibility of reclaiming the Puranic position of overlord even during the Age of Craps (kaliyuga). However, this process only began after the upstart king Vijayalaya established a temple to the fierce goddess Nishumbhasudini on the outskirts of Tanjore after he and his army had successfully conquered the city. 46 Only after propitiating their fierce goddess could the Shaiva Cholas shift their concerns from the immediacy of military might that she had bestowed to the more abstract concepts of empire building. Along with the shift away from more concrete concepts of victory and locality came a reconfiguration of space on a cosmological level in which the locale was important not as a site of a situated goddess but as a new site of a malleable and moveable Puranic landscape. The focus of this landscape was the king, who was fashioned as an incarnation of Vishnu—Shiva’s primary devotee. Through this reconstitution of the earthly realm within a cosmic scope, the king ruled through the soteriological power of the divine overlord that reflected through the ruler. This same narrative reconstruction seems to play out whenever the former aspirant (vijigishu) became a dominant player in regional imperial politics. There seems to be a direct correlation between the complexity of Indian polity and the need for more abstract notions of divinity that is expressed in masculine terminology with metaphysical and soteriological attributes. Within this system, however, goddesses are still prevalent as they appear as the consorts of the divine overlord, which calls to mind the complicated nexus of virility and fertility in early Indic conceptions of kingship and the cosmogony found in the Shaiva/Sakta tradition. 47 CHAMUNDI AND THE WODEYAR KINGDOM This is where the case of the Wodeyars and Chamundi proves helpful. They emerged as an independent kingdom during a time of great political development in South Indian history, which is often called the Nayaka period by historians of Tamil history. As products of their circumstances, the Wodeyar court continued to incorporate medieval paradigms of statecraft but were also forced to contend with new modes of polity that were being introduced by outside forces. Therefore, there are conflicting concerns and processes of state that are reflected into their histories. Additionally, since they aspired to regional dominance but were never long in a position to truly compete for it,

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their relationship with the local goddess remained quite dynamic, shifting between tropes with some regularity. After the decline of their Vijayanagara overlords, their imperial aspirations can briefly be seen, but this was extremely short-lived. Thus, we can see the role of their goddess fluctuate along with their position in regional politics. THE GODDESS AND THE WODEYAR FOUNDATIONAL MYTH In the myths of the foundation of the Wodeyar state, their rule over the region is directly related to a boon of victory from the local goddess. Though the exact details often change, the standard version of the story is such: 48 In 1399 CE the kingdom of Hadinadu (just outside of modern Mysore city) was in a state of turmoil. The chieftain of the township and odeyar 49 of the Vijayanagara Empire Chamaraja had been removed from his throne. 50 Seizing the opportunity at hand, an evil minister named Maranayaka, ruler of the nearby Karugahalli, had usurped the throne from the local chieftain and planned to secure his rule by forcing Chamaraja’s daughter Chikkadevajammanni to marry him. However, Yaduraya and Krishnaraya, two princes from Dwaraka (in modern day Gujarat—over 1350 kilometers away), the capital of Krishna’s Yadava kingdom in the Mahabharata, both received a vision in a dream 51 that instructed them to go south in search of their soon-to-be kingdom. 52 Upon arriving in the Mysore region, they proceeded to Chamundi hill. After worshiping the Goddess upon the hill, they went to Nanjangud and worshiped Shiva’s form there. That night when sleeping and meditating on the goddess’s feet, Chamundeshvari came to them in the form a small girl and told them that she would give them the kingdom of Mysore. She instructed them to go into Mysore’s Trineshvara temple and wait for a priest (jangama) from the locally influential Virashaiva (lingayat) caste, who would help them win their kingdom. In the morning, Yaduraya heard of the unfortunate events that had befallen the ruling family from the jangama. Yaduraya immediately instructed his brother that it was their duty as kshatriyas to defend the honor of this princess against the machinations of the evil minister. The brothers joined the lingayat priest, who provided them with a small army with which they could win the city. Then, the two brothers along with their new coalition attacked the minister and his armies. After a decisive battle, Yaduraya grabbed Maranayaka by the hair and decapitated him. 53 After presenting the queen with the severed head, he was offered a marriage alliance with the princess and was thereby placed on the throne as the ruler of Mysore, Hadinadu, and Karugahalli accepting the title odeyar or Wodeyar as the lineage name. Given all the complex themes latent within the narrative, it seems to be of relatively late origin, which is confirmed upon reading earlier

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inscriptions and lineage tales (vamshavali) where most of these detail are missing. HISTORICAL DEVELOPMENT OF CHAMUNDI IN MYSORE Period of Emergence: Bolu Chamaraja IV and Raja Wodeyar The first direct connection between the Wodeyar rulers and the goddess of the hill came in 1572 when the Wodeyar seat of power was moved to Mysore by “Bolu” (Baldy) Chamaraja IV (r. 1572–1576 CE), who had received the town from his father, Bettada Chamaraja III (r. 1513–1553 CE), who divided the kingdom among his three sons. Previously, the town had been called Puragurri, and the hill was called Mahabaleshvara hill after the Shaiva temple at its precipice. The king’s interesting nickname—Baldy—came as a result of his worship of a goddess on top of the hill. When he established his kingdom in Mysore, Bolu Chamaraja Wodeyar went to worship the goddess on the top Mahabaleshvara hill. After worshiping the goddess, the king was struck by lightning, which left him bald (bolu), but he miraculously survived due to the “grace of the goddess.” 54 After this incident, the goddess of the hill was a recurring character in the narrative of the dynasty. Raja Wodeyar (r. [1578–] 1611–1650 CE), who ruled in place of the impotent king Bettada Chamaraja V (r. 1576–[1578]–1611 CE) and lived through a poison attack, was praised as the “earring of the goddess” because of his ability to “subdue hostile enemies.” 55 Most importantly, he defeated the Vijayanagara viceroy at Shrirangapattana and establish Mysore as legitimate regional powers, fulfilling the covenant formed between his predecessor and the goddess. Immediately, Raja Wodeyar incorporated Puranic rhetoric by mimicking the Mahanavami rituals of the Vijayanagara dynasty. The Vijayanagara dynasty had been established just outside of Hampi in 1336 CE in the wake of the Delhi Sultanate’s military excursion into South India by five brothers from the local Sangama kingdom. There, the two eldest, Harihara and Bukka, established a new city-state as an imperial power of South India and would heavily contest the Bahmanis for dominance in the Deccan. Their origin story is quite similar to those of the dynasties to the south that have even led some to believe that they were an offshoot of the Hoysala dynasty. 56 Because of their position in the Deccan and their constant feuds with Bijapur, the Vijayanagara kings lauded themselves as the “Protectors of Hindu kings” (hinduraya suratrana) and spent half of their annual cycle on military expeditions to secure their realm and assure the continuing allegiance of their vassal states. The period of military activity was inaugurated each year with the celebration of the festival of Mahanavami (also called Navaratri or Dasara) in which the goddess’s victory over the demon-king Mahisha is celebrated on the tenth and final day. This festival, which had become quite popular

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among many kingdoms throughout India by the fourteenth century, was the principle festival of the Vijayanagara kingdom and served to spacially reconstruct the mandala of the Puranic royal hierarchy by the arrangement of the vassal kings and lower chieftains within the king’s darbar. 57 However, the primary function of the ritual was to acknowledge the role of the goddess in victory and to harness that power for the ensuing military campaign. However, as the Vijayanagara power was in sharp decline, Raja Wodeyar was able to reconstruct Mysore’s position in the royal landscape of South India by mimicking their royal rituals. In 1610, Raja Wodeyar began his own annual series of military campaigns by inaugurating the annual festival of Navaratri performed by the Wodeyar kings (see figure 9.2). This was only months after he had defeated Vijayanagara viceroy (mahamandaleshvara) Tirumala at Shrirangapattana, where he established his new capital. 58 Period of Stability: Kanthirava Narasaraja and Dodda Devaraja The Wodeyar court fashioned their rulers after their former overlords, Vijayanagara, constructed their polity in the same Puranic mode as their predecessors including their “proper” royal devotional traditions. The Wodeyar court maintained close ties with the previous rulers and at least casually acknowledged their former overlords for several years to come. They also converted to Shri Vaishnavism shortly after Raja’s victory in Shrirangapattana. 59 The transition from vassal to suzerain continued after the final fall of Vijayanagara king Shriranga III in 1649, which for all intents and purposes ended the dynasty. In that year, the ruler of the Vijayanagara (Aravidu) lineage moved to Mysore under the protection of the mighty Wodeyar king Ranadhira Kanthirava Narasa I (r. 1638–1659). Kanthirava promised to uphold the Vijayanagara legacy and waged gruesome wars with his neighbors in an attempt to stretch Mysore’s territory. Kanthirava developed a reputation for his grisly fighting techniques—including chopping off the nose and upper lip of his prisoners of war—that left many others in the region wary of crossing him. 60 As he became more powerful the Puranicization of the goddess became clearer. In the Kanthirava Narasaraja Vijaya (ca. 1648–1659), we find the first reference to the Mahabaleshvara hill called by its modern epithet “Chamundi Betta” or “Chamundi Hill,” though the king himself is referred to as a devotee of Shiva and Vishnu (hariharabhaktiyol). 61 In this text, the Wodeyar’s connection with Yadavagiri (i.e., Melukote) and its Shri Vaishnava temple became explicit. The next king Dodda Devaraja (r. 1659–1673), who ruled during the remaining years of Shriranga III in a period of peace and plenty, began the fervent patronage of the goddess, elevating her from a remote deity with a small rectangular shrine to an object of broader devotion by constructing steps leading up Chamundi hill to her shrine and constructing the temple’s pyramidal tower. However, the construction projects were part

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Figure 9.2. Block print of Raja Wodeyar’s Dasara in Shrirangapattana from Mahishura Shrimanmaharaja Chamarajendra Odeyaravara Vamsha Ratnakara, 1887 Mysore: Aramaeya Jaganmohana Mudraksarashaleyelli Mudrisalapattitu

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of her reinvention that had already begun during the reign of Kanthirava Narasaraja. In this period when their imperial aspirations seemed within reach, the goddess of Mysore was being reinvented to incorporate broader possibilities for the Wodeyar dynasty. Her ability to confer triumph over enemies was still certainly an important function of the goddess, but her role as the local protector was altered and expanded to compliment the necessary and impending complex and abstract notions of polity and kingdom mapping of the Puranic landscape. She had become not the goddess of the hill but the slayer of the buffalo-demon. In 1639, Kanthirava Narasaraja made the transition from local hill goddess to Puranic deity by referring to the protector goddess of the Mysore kingdom as both Chamundi and as the slayer of the buffalodemon (Mahishasuramardini), clearly associating Mysore and the myth of Durga slaying the buffalo-demon Mahisha. 62 As such, he also explicitly reconfigured his realm within the Puranic landscape. The hill was no longer just important to the inhabitants of Mysore, but it acquired pan-Indian significance, and its influence reached farther. It is at this point that the goddess of the hill was clearly associated with Chamunda and Durga and with the Puranic narrative of Mahadevi, signaling a period of greater imperial aspirations. The strategy was effective as Mysore has become synonymous with the buffalo-demon’s former kingdom. 63 Along with the connection between the goddess of Mysore and the slaying of the buffalo-demon, the connection of the kingdom with the Puranic villain demonstrates the Wodeyar’s reinvention of their domain within the context of Puranic narrative and modes of polity. The function of the goddess had become supra-regional and was thereby relevant in the rhetoric of empire building and maintenance instead of localized significance. There is no indication that the daily rituals to the goddess changed with the exception of the pageantry of the annual Dasara celebration. The traditional priests of the goddess temple continued to be an agricultural caste known as the Sivarcakas, who are also the traditional priests for Shaiva temples in the Mysore district. 64 In the autumn rituals performed by several agricultural castes (Sivarcaka, Vokkalu, and the Raja Pariwar) 65 in and around Mysore city, we can still see the remnants of very traditional rituals that have become associated with the pre-imperial festival of Navaratri or Dasara in Mysore. These rituals are enacted during the local festival called kannu kannadi. 66 This traditional celebration of the goddess and the ancestors takes place in the month of Bhadrapada (August/September) and marks the beginning of the sacred season for the villages around Mysore. 67 At the beginning of the festival period, all three castes believe that the gates of heaven are open, and they can communicate with their dead relatives through offerings. The primary ritual of the festival is the construction of a temporary triangular wooden structure called the pradhana kannu kavadi (the primary

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[prized] eye kavadi), which is a non-anthropomorphic representation of the goddess with large almond-shaped eyes. Six additional, albeit miniature in comparison, kannu kavadi are made by the Shivarcaka priests at the same time. These additional images represent the six sisters of the goddess, whose shrines are all located in or around Mysore city. 68 On the day that has been selected, the seven kannu kavadi are taken to the main hall of the Mahabaleshvara temple located just to the west of the Chamundeshvari temple on Chamundi hill. 69 The pradhana image is carried by a specially selected prepubescent girl from the Shivarcaka caste. 70 The other six images are all carried by prepubescent boys from the same caste. After leaving the Shiva temple, they are joined by seven more prepubescent girls from the Raja Parivar caste, who carry earthen pots on their heads, before circumambulating the Chamundeshvari temple. 71 The rituals that are enacted during the Kannu Kannadi festival closely resemble those of other local gramadevatas from South India. From the ritual and practical similarities, it is safe to assume that these rituals were somehow connected with the goddess’s role as the local village protectors and exist outside of and along with their coalescence in the Puranic Sakta tradition. She is still worshiped as the local goddess whom Mysore’s inhabitants propitiate to harness her divine energy (sakti), invigorate their lives, ward off disease, and receive boons, just as she was before she became the Puranic slayer of the buffalo-demon. Period of Reconstruction: Mummadi Krishnaraja Wodeyar However, the royal rituals to the goddess continued to change, especially after the dynasty regained power that was lost to their ministers (dalavayi) Devarajayya, Nanjarajayya, and Haidar Ali and his son Tipu Sultan. 72 The Wodeyars reclaimed the diminished throne of Mysore in 1799 and moved the capital from the war-devastated Shrirangapattana to Mysore city, where they had been sequestered for several decades. Mummadi Krishnaraja was installed on the throne by the British at the age of four years old (see figure 9.3). Mummadi Krishnaraja was not only the repossessor of the throne, but also was considered the miracle child, who was able to reclaim the Wodeyar throne. In almost every royal eulogy thereafter Mummadi Krishnaraja is said to have been born “by the grace of Mother Chamundi.” Mummadi Krishnaraja was a fervent devotee of Chamundeshvari, even installing an image of himself worshiping her in the adimantapa of the Chamundeshvari temple. He also became a prolific scholar-king, and composed, among many other works, the Shritattvanidhi, a massive three-volume Sanskrit work of which the first volume, the Saktinidhi, is completely devoted to praising the goddess and discussing the hidden treasures (nidhi) of goddess devotion. Within

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Figure 9.3. Krishnaraja Wadiyar III with his family deities on display in the Jayachamarajendra Art Gallery, Jagamohan Palace, Mysore

the text, he again reworks her position, elevating her from the consort of the supreme overlord to the supreme reality of the cosmos herself. Mummadi Krishnaraja was again reinventing the goddess, but this time removing her completely from her situated-ness and her association with the locale that had been important during the early days of the dynasty in Mysore city. The goddess became the Goddess, who completely transcends human time and space. However, for the court of Mummadi Krishnaraja, she did not function in the same manner as the supreme divine overlords that played such a prominent role in the imperial imagination of the medieval period. Instead, her purpose centered solely on soteriology—release (moksha)—not her ability to bring about good fortune—children, thrones, and wealth—though she is still praised as Bhuktimukhtipradayani (the giver of both release and enjoyment). 73 This shift is perhaps the only possibility in the reinvention process since the goddess’s primary role had been to secure military victory or to support

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the overlord model. With the advent of British rule in the region and their overwhelming display of strength at the siege of Shrirangapattana, the goddess had to be re-evaluated or suffer a diminished and insignificant role for the Wodeyar rulers, who were under the direct control of the British. Through their inquiries and critiques, British scholars and missionaries had effectively introduced a hegemonic discourse about “religion” into the discourse of the Mysore court in which deities were only acceptable in their abstract and transcendent form. Additionally, through administrative measure they supplanted the older way of viewing statehood with new ideas following the nation-state model that required a new program of fashioning kings and kingdoms. Thereby, the Puranic model of kingship was outmoded and replaced within the burgeoning European system. With the aspiration for dominance at local or regional levels quelled and the emergence of panIndian nationalism, the goddess on the hill transitioned from the world of local kingly politics to the world of spiritual and metaphoric politics. 74 CONCLUSION In conclusion, let me return to the broader issue of Sanskritic and brahminic traditions. As I have discussed, a broader cultural connection between local rulers and their regional overlords existed in the medieval period in which both suzerain and vassal operated under an assumption of polity derived from Puranic models. This system pervaded all kingdoms (whether regional or local) as they were subsumed within a larger system of political hierarchy of overlords and vassals. This world was connected by the common understanding of power and position, which reflected Puranic cosmology. This system transcended “religious” distinction; instead it was understood that the world of politics operated within a larger system of superhuman beings and metaphysical powers in which the political structures equally apply to spirits and deities. Therefore, the rulers had to ally themselves with deities that fit the model. Within this system, goddesses served a special function in which they invigorated martial prowess and conferred victory to their devotees; however, the relationship between the rulers and their neighbors and their position of power determined the role and nature of the goddess. The larger the imperial complex the farther removed the goddess had to be from the situated locale from which she ruled. At every phase of empire building the goddess was reinvented to suit the dynasties’ place in the Puranic model. This system cannot be defined through limiting taxonomies and categories. Doing so limits these complex interactions neglecting the multiple ways that goddesses created meaning for many different people and institutions throughout history. To place deities within a binary (or even a spectrum) based on their relation to agamic rituals performed by brahmin priests or

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their incorporation of Sanskrit lexicon or liturgy masks the more significant role they played in the establishment and maintenance of South Indian polity that permeated all levels of society obscuring the complex relationships that existed between kingly rhetoric, brahmin ritual, and popular devotion. Instead, it is better that we expand our view and realize that goddesses were also instruments in a dialectic game of thrones in which their roles and characteristics were malleable and were constantly reinvented as dynasties and kings were fashioned according to their aspirations and position in the political landscape of South India. NOTES 1. Throughout this chapter, I will employ the term “Puranic” to describe the overall system within which statehood is being crafted. I use this term intentionally instead of other alternatives (e.g., Post-Gupta, medieval, etc.) because of the dynamic nature of the Puranic way of viewing life, statehood, and the cosmos. 2. See Daud Ali, “Royal Eulogy as World History,” in Querying the Medieval, ed. Ronald B. Inden et al. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 165–229, for a detailed discussion of this process at the later stage. 3. DM 7.25: yasmāccaṇḍaṃ ca muṇḍaṃ ca gṛhītvā tvamupāgatā | cāmunṇḍeti hato loke khyātā devī bhaviṣyasi || 4. See Kathleen M. Erndl, “Goddesses and the Goddess in Hindu Religious Experience: Constructing the Goddess through Personal Experience,” in Search of Mahadevi: Constructing the Identities of the Hindu Great Goddess, ed. Tracy Pintchman (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2001); and Thomas B. Coburn, Devi Mahatmya: The Crystallization of the Goddess Tradition (New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass Publishers, 1988). 5. DM 5.7–36: The refrain is yā devī sarvabhūteṣu _____rupeṇa saṃsthitā | namastasyai namastasyai namastasyai namonamaḥ. The following narrative also relates a variety of names of goddesses to this one form. Below I have attempted to highlight these different epithets in order to provide the unifying flavor of the passage in a loose translation of the text. 6. There is obviously a Shaiva emphasis in this story in which she is not only called Shiva and Parvati but the narrative also takes place at the Ganga in the Himalayas. 7. What one must presume that his are the remains of the sheath that had been shed by Ambika and remained alive as the mountain girl. 8. M. M. Williams, like most commentators of this portion of the text, take kalika as the feminine form of kalaka, which means something of someone that relates to the color dark blue or black (it is also the Sanskrit name for the great blue heron [ardea jaculator]). However, it could also be construed as the feminine form of kalika or something or someone that relates to or is dependent on time. 9. This same myth is elaborated in Padma Purana 1.46.1–121; Skanda Purana 1.2.27–29; Matsya Purana 154–157. 10. DM 5.69–70. 11. This, of course, immediately conjures images of Duhshasana dragging Draupadi before Duryodhana in the Mahabharata. 12. “The one with the eyes of smoke.” 13. This is exactly like the destruction of the rabble-rousing demon Carvaka by a group of brāhmaṇas in the Mahabharata. See Smith’s Penguin Classics translation, p. 603. 14. “Fierce.” 15. “Bald/Shaven.” 16. DM 7.23: mayā tavātropahṛtau caṇḍamuṇḍau mahāpaśū | yuddhayajñe svayaṃ śumbhaṃ niśumbhaṃ ca haniṣyasi ||

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This is further elaborated in the Devi Bhagavata Purana. “Taking the powerful Caṇḍa and Muṇḍa like hares and laughing wildly, Kali went to Ambika, and said: ‘I have brought the two beasts very auspicious as offerings in this sacrificial war. Kindly accept these.’ Seeing the two Danavas brought, as if they were the two wolves, Ambika told her sweetly: ‘O Thou, fond of war! Thou art very wise; so dost not commit the act of envy nor dost leave them; think over the purport of my words and know that it is. Thy duty to bring the Devi’s work to a successful issue.’ Vyasa said :—‘O King! Hearing thus the words of Ambika, Kalika spoke to her again: ‘In this war-sacrifice there is this axe which is like a sacrificial post; I will offer these two as victims to Thy sacrifice. Thus no act of envy will be committed (i.e., killing in a sacrifice is not considered as envy).’ Thus saying, the Kalika Devi cut off their heads with great force and gladly drank their blood. Thus seeing the two Asuras killed, Ambika said gladly: ‘Thou hast done the service to the gods; so I will give Thee an excellent boon. O Kalika! As Thou hast killed Chanda and Munda, henceforth Thou wilt be renowned in this world as Chamunda.’” Vijnananda Devi Bhagavata (Allahabad: n.p., 1934), 446–447. 17. This portion of the episode is particularly interesting with regards to the power of reproduction in the ancient world in which the queen/female was connected with the earth and the king/male with the seed (bija). In this scene, it is clear that the goddess takes control of both the seed and the earth, and all power of reproduction is controlled by her. 18. Who later become known as the “Seven Little Mothers” (saptamatrika). It should also be noted that Cāmuṇḍā is further incorporated into the Sanskritic fold in later texts such as the Shaktapramoda in which she replaces Narasimhi, the sakti of Vishnu’s half man half lion avatara Nārasiṃha in the collection of saptamatrikas in the chapter to Tripurabhairavī. Shaktapramoda (Bombay: Khemraja Shrikrishnadasa Prakashan, 1973); David Kinsley, Tantric Visions of the Divine Feminine (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1997), 32. This is interesting on two levels. On the first, when speaking of the fierce goddess in relation to the third episode of the DM, Chamunda must be mentioned. Second is that it takes place in the context of Tripura, who is of utmost importance to the Shri Vidhya tantric ritual. 19. Historically, both in textual traditions (e.g., Shaktapramoda) and in iconographical representations in temples from the seventh century until today (see Donaldson, 1991), Chamunda is often depicted as one of the saptamatrikas, often replacing the lion-woman (narasimhi). 20. Coburn (1988) gives the latter date, but a thorough examination of the author by M. R. Kale shows that Bhavabhuti falls between the active writing years of Bana, who does not mention the poet in his list of previous kavis, and the death of king Yashovarman of Kanouj, who according to the Rajatarangini patronizes Bhavabhuti and whose eulogizer, Vakpatiraja, lauds Bhavabhuti as a great poet and inspiration for his poetic style. M. R. Kale, Bhavabhuti’s Malatimadhava with Commentary of Jagaddhara (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1967), 7–8. 21. It should also be noted that one of the asuras that is slain by the goddess in the second episode of the DM is named Karala (3.16). While this may be mere coincidence and simply references the description of the goddess in the hymn, I think it is more likely that the fierceness of Chamundi is being equated to demonic forces in this drama, and this reference concretizes her terrifying qualities 22. Malatimadhava, 5.22; Kale, Bhavabhuti, 102. devi cāmuṇḍe namaste namaste sāvaṣṭambhaniśumbhasaṃbhramanamadbhūgikaniṣpīḍana nyañcatkarparakūrmakampavigalahbrahmāṇḍakhaṇḍasthiti pātālapratimallagallavivaraprakṣiptasaptārṇavaṃ vande nanditanīlakaṇṭhapariṣahvyaktrddhi vaḥ krīditam 23. M. M. Williams suggests that Saudamini is an incorrect feminine form of the term “Sudaman,” which has numerous connotations and denotations, many of which are related to kings in the Mahabharata. 24. The reference to nishumbha (translated as “destructive”) in the verse is clearly referring to her desire for sacrifice and not to the demon found in the narrative of the third episode of the DM. 25. My use of periphery here is intended to be understood as a rhetorical periphery since, as we know, the medieval South Indian states were often without a true center. Additionally, the

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periphery does not necessarily correlate to a physical distance but an ideological distance from the dominant state apparatus. 26. A. N. Narasiṃhia, A Grammar of the Oldest Kanarese Inscriptions (Mysore: University of Mysore Press, 1941), xi. 27. The development of these rules can be traced through the Kavirajamarga by Nripatunga (ninth century CE), Karnataka Kavyavalokana and Karnataka Bhasha Bhushana both by Nagavarmma (eleventh century CE), and Shabdamanidarpana by Keshiraja (thirteenth century CE) and had become concretized by the time of Karnataka Shabdanushasana by Bhattakalanka (seventeenth century CE), which were all treatises from the region on grammar and rhetoric of Kannaḍa and Sanskrit. The grammatical change from “m” to “v,” which can easily be seen in inscriptions as far back as the sixth century CE, was not explained in the in the earliest extant Kannaḍa grammar, the ninth-century Kavirajamarga by Nripatunga; though, he does observe that some words retain “m” and while others change to “v.” By the eleventh century, Nagavarmma suggests that the sounds of any of the labial consonants will change to “v” after any vowel or “y,” “r,” or “l.” This explanation is clearly not comprehensive since there exists numerous counter-examples in which this does not take place. However, in the thirteenthcentury Kēshiraja suggests that “m” changes to “v” in “high Kannada” when the word is a loan from Sanskrit. In his seventeenth-century treatise, Bhattakalanka incorporated this same explanation into his grammar of the language, which had become less malleable and was beginning to be concretized into what is now modern Kannada. 28. He also suggests one other possibility, though he prefers the first, in which the “m” changes to “v” when another nasal is present in the word. Both are equally applicable in the case of Chamunda, but given the classical grammars and Narasimhia’s preference for the former, I will accept that the change from “m” to “v” took place when the scribe perceived the word to be of Sanskrit origins. 29. In fact we find another reference to such acts of heroism in inscriptions from the thirteenth century about a hero named Chaunda, which could be another reference to the same man and suggest an association between local warfare and Chamunda in a larger hero cult that spans several centuries. Additionally, in the fifth-century Tamil Cilappatikaram the local fierce goddess Aiyai was associated with cattle-raids: “We have adored your lotus feet, / You who have the color of sapphire! / The crowned gods and their king bow to you. / Accept the blood that spurts from our flesh. / This is the debt, the price for helping / The Eyinaṉs slay their enemies / And seize their herds of cows.” R. Parthasarathy, The Tale of the Anklet (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993), 127. This might suggest that the hero of these cattle raids found on these hero-stones was in some way linked to the goddess Cāmuṇḍā, and the hero(es) was named in honor of the fierce goddess, who played a similar role for his tribe as Aiyai did for the Eyiṉaṉs. 30. As Narasimhia also points out that in rural Kannadaa “v” and “u” are often substituted because of their phonetic similarities. He writes that that same tendency can be found in inscriptions, even those that would have originally had an “m.” Therefore Chamunda → Chavunda → Chaunda. 31. These inscriptions further muddy the water if one attempts to firmly categorize the goddess in term of the taxonomies discussed above. Chaudeshvari (also known as Hebbaramma and Masikanakamma) today is a goddess worshiped primarily by Madiga leather-working caste. In this case, the etymology of the term can be traced to a proto-Dravidian form of chauda that means “leather” or “skin.” Given this etymology and contemporary devotional tradition would make Caudeshvari a non-brahmanic “leather goddess.” However, this goddess is also popularly worshiped by Liṅgayat brahmiṇs, and it seems as though she was during the Hoysala period as well. (A special note of thanks to Professor R. V. S. Sundaram for calling my attention to this interesting etymological and ritual development.) 32. The first reference to Chamundi in Mysorean sources is found in the Chamarajokti Vilasa, the Kannada prose version of the Ramayana, which Chamaraja VI (r. 1617–1637 CE) commissioned from Virupaksha in 1633 in which he refers to the king as a devotee of Śrī Cāmuṇḍī of Mahabalachala (i.e., Cāmuṇḍī hill), mahābalācalāvāsa śrīcāmuṇḍikāmbā sadbhakti. C. Hayavadana Rao, History of Mysore Volume One (Bangalore: Government Press, 1943), 98 f.n. 73.

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33. Alexis Sanderson, “The Śaiva Age: The Rise and Dominance of Śaivism During the Early Medieval Period.” in Genesis and Development of Tantrism ed. Shingo Einoo (Tokyo: Institute of Oriental Culture, University of Tokyo, 2009), 231. 34. South Indian Inscriptions Vol. 3 No. 205. B. Sheik Ali History of the Western Gangas. (Mysore: University of Mysore Press, 1976), 10 ff. 35. Sanderson “Saiva Age,” 112 ff and 225–232. 36. Others also exist including the narrative of the goddess Pampa and the founders of Vijayanagara Hakka and Bukka, but for time and proximity I will only discuss the origin stories of the Western Gangas and Hoysalas. 37. NR 35 Revised Epigraphia Carnatica Vol 8 (Mysore: University of Mysore Press, 1984), 133. 38. The earliest reference in which Simhanandi appears in this story is dated to 963 CE; Ali, Gangas, 12. Also worthy of note is that in Devacandra’s 1838 Kannaḍa history of the Mysore kings titled Rajavali Kathasara, he states that the goddess atop Chamundi hill is actually Padmavati. 39. Notice the use of the term “siddha.” While this could simply refer to the perfected qualities of the sage, its usual association is with the attainment of magic powers like those discussed previously in this chapter. 40. As can be seen in the imagery of Durgā astride her vehicle or of the Muslim hero Ali, who is often called the “Lion of Allah,” and linguistically in south Asian languages, the tiger and lion are synonymous within the culture of the subcontinent. 41. TN 97, Revised Epigraphia Carnataka Volume 5 (Mysore: University of Mysore Press, 1976) 475–477. 42. Cm. 20 REC, Vol. XI. 43. Sb. 28 EC, Vol. VIII. Historian of Mysore Nanjaraja Urs argues that Chamundeshvari of Chamundi hill was originally a Jain temple to Padmavati. Nanjaraja Urs, Maisuru Nurinuru Varshagalu Hinde (Mysore: Abhiruci Prakashana, 2011). 44. According to the Mackenzie Manuscript titled, “Traditionary Account of the Worship of Chamoondee Sactee or Chamoondee Betta,” Cāmuṇḍi required the inhabitants of Mysore to sacrifice two men annually in exchange for her killing the buffalo-demon (here called “Chendak-Asoor”), who lived upon the hill. Mackenzie General Translation No. 17.6, 55–56. 45. Ali, “Eulogy.” 46. South Indian Inscriptions Vol. III, No. 205. 47. This process also seems to be taking place in Eastern India during the same time period and is discussed at some length by Alexis Sanderson in “Saiva Age.” 48. By the 1880s, in the Maisuru Samsthanada Prabhugalu Shrimanmaharajaravara Vamshavali the narrative was concretized within the official Mysorean histories, which leads Joyser in his history of the lineage to state that the kingdom was established by Yaduraya, who “paid grateful devotion to Sri Chamundeswari.” G. R. Joyser, The History of Mysore and the Yadava Dynasty (Mysore: Coronation Press, 1939), 26. 49. Odeyar was a feudatory title that had been used in the region as far back as the Hoysaḷa dynasty. By this time it had become an official bureaucratic title that signified the “lord of 33 villages/townships.” According to the Maisuru Samsthanada Prabhugalu Shrimanmaharajaravara Vamshavali, it becomes the name of the Mysore royal family at the behest of a Jangama (lingayat), with whom they had allied. 50. The details of his absence from the throne vary from source to source. Most suggest that he had fallen ill and died; however, Wilks in his history of the dynasty collected from conversations with the Mysore royal historians at the end of the eighteenth century CE suggests that the king “was afflicted by mental derangement.” Mark Wilks, Historical Sketches of the South of India (Mysore: Government Branch Press, 1930), 40. 51. Later sources attribute this dream to the power of Chamundi or Vindyavasini. 52. The place from which the brothers set out also widely varies from source to source. There are no references to their origins in epigraphic evidence outside of the fact that they are from the Yadava lineage. Therefore, in subsequent retellings they are associated with mythological Gujarati Dvaraka kingdom; the Yadavas, who ruled in Devagiri (modern-day Daulatabad, Maharashtra) during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries and fell during the southward

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push by Malik Kafur, which is chronicled by Barani, Isami, and Ferishta; Mathura, the home of the Yadavas prior to the rule of Krishnaa in the Mahabharata; or the Vijayanagara Empire just to the north in Hampi. See, Wilks, Historical Sketches; R. R. Diwakar, Karnataka Through the Ages (Bangalore: Government Press, 1968); Vikram Sampath, Splendours of Royal Mysore (New Delhi: Rupa, 2009); and Joyser, History of Mysore. 53. Sampathi, Splendours, 11. 54. My 26 Revised Epigraphia Carnatica, Vol. 5, 160–61. 55. My 17 Revised Epigraphia Carnatica, Vol. 5, 157–58. 56. Diwakar, Karnataka, 533; There are two brothers, who are aided by an ascetic named Vidyaranya and establish a new kingdom claiming descent from the Yadava lineage. 57. For a great discussion of the function of Dasara see Aya Ikegame, “Royalty in Colonial and Post-Colonial India: A Historical Anthropology of Mysore from 1799 to the Present” (Unpublished PhD dissertation: University of Edinburgh, 2007). 58. It is said to be the source for the curse of Talakadu given by Alamelamma, Tirumala’s queen, that all Woḍeyar rulers would remain heirless—a curse that Mummadi Krishnaraja Wodeyar would eventually break. 59. Wilks, Historical Sketches, Vol. 1, 52–54. 60. R. S. Aiyar, History of the Nayakas of Madurai (London: Oxford Press, 1924), 135–137. 61. Kaṇṭhirava Narasaraja Vijaym 1.10 and 7.63. 62. Chamarajokti Vilasa, cited in Hayavadana Rao, History of Mysore, Vol. 1 f.n. 73, p. 98; Nj. 198, Revised Epigraphia Carnatica, Vol. 3. 63. There are many variations on the name: Maisuru, Mahishamandala, Mahishavishaya Maisurnad, Maisunad, Maysunnadu, and Maysuru. 64. S. G. Morab, “Chamundeshwari Temple,” in Cultural Profile of Mysore City , ed. P. K. Misra (Calcutta: Anthropological Society of India, 1973), 62. 65. They claim to be the descendants of the former rulers of Mysore. 66. This seems to be a reference to the mirror (kannadi) that is placed in front of the processional image that is mostly unanthropomorphized with the exception of two very large eyes (kannu). The other term that is for this festival in Mysore is “kannu kavadi.” This literally refers to the unanthropomorphic image (kavadi) with very large eyes (kannu). However, the exact name of the ritual is unclear even to Mysoreans, who will often call it either name. In their ethnography of the Cāmuṇḍēśvari temple Goswami and Morab (1991) use “kannu kannadi” as the name of the festival. 67. The Bhadrapada festival is typically associated with Chamundeshvari and the one in Phalguna with Uttanahalli. This festival closely resembles the annual festival to Pyḍamma in Andhara Pradesh, which also takes place in Phalguna. 68. This collection of seven goddesses, however, is often described by their Sanskrit names—Chamunda, Brahma, Maheshvari, Indrani, Varahi, Vaishnavi, and Kumari. While this list is similar to the traditional list of the saptamatrikas, it varies from those described in the DM with Cāmuṇḍā replacing Narasimhi. This is not particular to Mysore city, though. This list can be seen as far back as the Shaktapramoda, a Sakta tantric text, which demonstrates the importance of the tantric path in the wider understanding of Chamunda in the region. 69. B. B. Goswami and S. G. Morab state that the traditional day for the celebration is the first Tuesday after the full moon day of Bhadrapada, but that in actuality it occurs “according to the peoples’ convenience,” Chamundesvari Temple in Mysore (Calcutta: Anthropological Society of India, 1991), 20. 70. I have taken all the information about the caste of the children from Goswami and Morab, Chamundesvari. 71. The practice of carrying earthen pots during the festival, which is sometimes called the Festival of the Earthen Pot, is quite similar to the earthen pots (karaga) that are ‘danced’ with during the festival to Māriyammaṉ in Tamil Nadu. This practice is also associated with the Tamil god Murugan, who is connected to the Sanskritic deity Skanda. The karaga dance in his honor is also very widely practiced in the diaspora communities of Southeast Asia and elsewhere. See Paul Younger, New Homelands (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010). Māriyammaṉ is an agricultural goddess who is associated with infectious diseases such as smallpox and cholera. Elaine Craddock, “Reconstructing the Split Goddess as Sakti in a Tamil

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Village,” in Search of Mahadevi: Constructing the Identities of the Hindu Great Goddess, ed. Tracy Pintchman (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2001), 146–147. The festival in honor of Māriyammaṉ usually takes place in the Tamil month of Adi (Sanskrit: Shravana; July/August). Younger observes the same festival in the town of Samayapuram during the second week of April. Paul Younger, “A Temple Festival of Mariyamman,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion, Vol. 48, No. 4 (Dec. 1980), 495. During this festival or at the onset of an outbreak of a disease, the devotees of the goddess, both male and female, place earthen pots on the top of their heads and walk in procession to the temple of Mariyamman. This procession is typically referred to as dancing because of the elaborated brisk walk or shuffle in which the devotees engage. In recent years, the pots have become highly decorated including hooks that pierce the cheeks, chest, and backs of the devotees, who are often accompanied by a band of musicians, creating quite a spectacle and giving the procession the feel of a parade. This is even more exaggerated in the festival to Murugan. In the context of modern Tamil Nadu, the pot represents the seat of the goddess, into which she is invited to “cool off.” The connection between rituals to Mariyamman and Chamundi is even stronger when you consider that Chamundeshvari was also associated with infectious disease, such as smallpox and cholera, and can be propitiated and “cooled off” in the earthen vessels carried by the Raja Parivar caste in order to curtail the outbreak of cholera (Morab, “Chamundeshwari,” 68). In addition to the pot rituals, Richard L. Brubaker has pointed out that often buffaloes would be sacrificed at the onset of an epidemic. Robert L. Brubaker, “The Ambivalent Mistress: A Study of South Indian Village Goddesses and their Religious Meaning” (Unpublished PhD Dissertation: University of Chicago, 1978), 4; 332–343. This practice can also be seen in the Tamil diaspora in the Guyanese festival Kalimai Puja. However, in Guyana the earthen pot is replaced with a brass pot that is considered to be the womb of the goddess Kali, and the marlo pujaris, who carry the consecrated pots to the Kali temple inaugurating the festival, are only prepubescent boys. The carrying of earthen pots is also included in the annual festival of the Andharan village deity Pydamma of Visakhapatnam. However, in this case they are not carried by virgin or prepubescent children but married women, who undertake this as fulfillment of a vow for the well-being of their children and husbands. Also in this case, the goddess is seen as an incarnation of Durga, but she still accepts animal sacrifices (until recently including buffalo) and holds a cup for drinking blood offered to her by her devotees. The connection between the festivals of Mariyamman of Tamil Nadu, Pydamma of Visakhapatnam, and Chamundi in Mysore is striking, and the former might demonstrate some aspects of South Indian local goddess rituals, which were part of the worship/veneration of the goddess of Chamundi hill prior to Wodeyar intervention. 72. In an interesting article Kate Brittlebank discusses how Haidar Ali and Tipu Sultan employ notions of sakti to legitimate and invigorate their rule. Kate Brittlebank, “Sakti and Barakat: The Power of Tipu’s Tiger,” Modern Asian Studies, Vol. 29, No. 2 (May 1995), 257–269. 73. As a result of the different role of the goddess, the ritual landscape of her shrine also changed, completing the reinvention. The Sivarcakas were removed from their position at Cāmuṇḍeśvarī in either 1819 or 1848 and were replaced by brahmins imported from Tamil Nadu by the Wodeyar rulers, who were increasingly concerned with rituals performed by brahmin priests from well-known lineages. It was at this point that the non-Sanskrit nonagamic rites at the temple began to dwindle including the ritual sacrifice of animals. As a concession from the Wodeyar rulers, the Sivarcaka priests were placed in charge of the four directional foot (pada) shrines of the goddess located just outside the main temple. They were also allowed to remain the officiants at all the bull shrines on the hill, including the massive image of Nandi that rests at the 600th step on the path leading up the hill. Though their rituals are still performed, they are not officially sanctioned by the temple’s executive trust. 74. See Christopher Pinney, Photos of the Gods (London: Reaktion Books, 2004), for a discussion of images of the goddess slaying the buffalo-demon as a metaphor for the Indian independence movement.

Chapter Ten

Communicating the Local Discursively Devi, the Divine Feminine as a Contemporary Symbol for Grassroots Feminist Politics Priya Kapoor

The word “Devi” is a common form of address for women in languages of northern India. This common reference, or name suffix for women, “Devi” (goddess) or “Amma” (mother) is an empowering aspect of Hindu tradition. The rural and slowly urbanizing geographic spaces have been able to adapt the idea of the devi, the divine feminine, at the level of the everyday through their daily rituals and forms of address. The devi is understood in local cultures as protector of the household, as giver of seasons, while feminist activists, in particular eco-feminists, are known to have structured a modern resistance movement around the powerful notion of the goddess. Lynn Foulston 1 has described the pervasiveness of the devi, “Huddled under trees, at the edge of a water tank or at the center of a bustling settlement, the divine feminine in the form of local goddesses pervades and characterizes local Hindu religion . . . supply the daily spiritual sustenance that keeps heart and soul together for the mass of the Hindu population.” There are a variety of goddesses although the Goddess is spoken of as a “singular and unifying presence.” 2 This chapter explores how the image of the devi, the amma, or mother goddess has survived in contemporary India. I have chosen to examine the current discursive and historical mythologies of Devi and mother goddess. Some political struggles have appropriated the extant and lived aspects of the goddess tradition in effective ways that have positively impacted their communities while certain political nationalisms have chosen traditional mythologies to dismantle communal harmony and create divisiveness. The concerns 245

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I raise in this chapter also point to some of the issues facing the feminist movement in India today. Feminist studies in world religion are a significant yet recent area of scholarship. 3 These studies transcend accounts of the ordinary to explore the powerful, spiritual figure of the goddess and its impact on contemporary men and women’s lives. 4 Traditionally, researching the goddess has been the academic territory of religious studies (in-depth study of religious practice) or anthropology (rigorous study of culture). Religious studies are considered out of bounds in schools and colleges in India 5; serious study of world religion is unacknowledged as important within a collegiate humanities or social sciences curriculum. Keeping in sync with demands of a global economy, secondary school and college education is instrumentalist, and primarily in the service of technology and business. As a result there lacks a significant cadre of learned persons within the younger generations who can rebut dominant aspects of Hinduism, least of all relate key themes to daily conduct. Furthermore, feminist scholars have noted that many studies of the goddess emerge from the Western academy, and not from regions with established goddess practice. 6 The project of questioning, recovery, discovery and the revitalization of the study of the goddess have been ongoing for the past three decades. 7 The debates on employing everyday religious imagery and meanings for local political action must continue, as 9/11, and the transnational furor and fury that ensued, requires scholars to rearticulate previously accepted theological enactments, performances, and texts in all world religions. While the research conducted on the goddess is substantial, it is primarily based upon fieldwork in rural centers, where religiosity and temple worship are whole. The interest I evince in the ubiquitous goddess is located awkwardly within urbanized contemporary culture where the goddess is understood by its youth in a rudimentary sense through noisy neighborhood jagrans, kirtans, film songs, television series on the epics Ramayana and Mahabharata, and goddess memorabilia sold in suburban malls. The average age in India (and in many countries of Asia) is approximately twenty-five years, which, by virtue of the youthfulness of its citizens, transforms religious practice in the same ways that recent protest and political action remain transformed, nationally (Anna Hazare agitation, Seed Save movement) and globally (Arab Spring, Zapatismo, Battle of Seattle). The mediated realities and uses of social media make action direct and protest empowering. These same mediated realities democratize religion in ways that at times lend a hand to divisive, communal sentiments. The religious nationalisms in the South Asian region have rendered religious identity an important aspect of selfhood and community life. All forms of religious association, however, are not fundamentalist or nationalist; many are em-

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powering and I am interested in exploring how goddess-based religious practice is a fertile ground for transformative political action. The latest political theorizations of feminism 8 do not take goddess culture and symbolism into account. Within the neoliberal modern-Western ethic the mother goddess is evaluated as an “out-there” figure that tries to upstage patriarchal Abrahmic religion, or create a parallel matriarchal dominated order. Goddess religion as Melissa Raphael, and other scholars of religion, term worship of the goddess, is not ubiquitous nor given equal status beside dominant ritual and practice of Judeo-Christian religion. Goddess religion is perceived as encroaching on an established monotheistic religiosity that has had centuries to develop in the Western world. Devi, the mother goddess, has been an enduring figure in the Indian religious landscape. While “devi” refers to the divine feminine in Hindu tradition, recent postcolonial and transnational studies are replete with accounts of the transformation of the Indian goddess figure in service of Hindu nationalism or Hindutva. In this chapter I try to show that the important precedence of a goddess worship culture ties tightly with the awareness of women’s Sakti or power. That is, the divine feminine has retained its synergy with the human feminine despite the movement from agricultural to urban social fabric in India. Mass movement and migration from multiple villages in India to a comparatively small number of urban centers (New Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennal, Bangalore, Hyderabad) has caused the modification of family structures, and the continually changing role of women in local and social contexts. Granted, these connections mentioned previously, between divine feminine and human feminine, have loosened within the lockstock embrace of Western modernity; however, the post-modern inflection or alter-modern orientation of some grassroots movements is worthy of note. I assert that there is a certain risk for social movements, and situated communities that abandon, forget, or disengage with the extant symbolism and cultures of the goddess in India. The risk is that the elaborate rituals, protocols, and habits to honor the feminine divine are simply not available in the public treatment and associations with the feminine human. The transformation from the religious and the sacred to everyday life is not a streamlined process. However, when employed, the shifting contexts of uses of goddess symbolism create a much-needed dynamism within grassroots movements and local politics. The richness of a feminine-centered philosophy, ripe for translation into contemporary progressive politics is the gift of tradition. Scholar of religion Bhattacharya Saxena has described it as India’s “Gynocentric spirituality,” or “the Sakta tradition that is centered on reverence for the divine feminine.” 9 Within the country and in South Asia, it is often noted that the divine and human are easily interchanged in media, in daily conversation, during worship, in the general iconography of the landscape and nonelite artwork such as calendars, hoardings along roadways and highways, and

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so on. Kathryn Erndl has also said that “there is no clear dividing line between the divine and human; Gods can become humans and humans can become Gods and it is often unclear which is which.” 10 The fallibility of deities is important to their longevity within extant Indian traditions. There are frequent efforts to make deities in the Hindu pantheon larger than life as neoliberalism makes us all “consumer-citizens.” 11 Gigantic statues are erected in public parks such as the enormous Shiva figure on the Jaipur Highway in Gurgaon, Haryana, or the giant Hanuman statue in Jakhu, Shimla. Scholars note that these pumped-up statue images retain no iconic features of deities they represent, Shiva or Hanuman, and are purely impressionistic. 12 Quasi-religious rituals are recreated believing miracles are possible. For instance the recent spate of milk offerings to Ganesh figurines in temples, while believing all statues were capable of ingesting milk offered by devotees, are efforts at rendering deities as heroes and heroines within other globalized consumption of goods and services. COMPLEX CURRENT REALITIES BEFORE THE GODDESS Sakti, scholars have said, is a non-hierarchical concept, 13 not just an indigenous rearticulating of the theory of power, to be easily understood by the Western academy. There is a tacit agreement and assumption even among votaries of masculinist Hindu thought that “women are powerful.” 14 Foulston’s (2002) study shows that the Great Goddess in the Devi-Bhagavatam Purana and in Devi-Mahatmaya do not need a male consort to complete essential tasks like battles nor are they under any male authority. Sakti can be understood as an attribute available to all women, even when mired in sociopolitical webs of responsibility. The political and public furor over the suspension of Uttar Pradesh cadre’s junior administrator aptly named Ms. Durga Sakti Nagpal shows how entry to an elite administrative cadre and higher education do not necessarily ensure respect for women among corrupt political structures. Her firm stance to bring illegal sand miners to book laid her vulnerable to political pressure groups that benefit directly from the boom in the construction industry in the country as arable land continues to be used for non-agricultural purposes. Sand is an important ingredient in making cement; therefore, construction companies are constantly prospecting for sand reserves in metro regions. Ms. Nagpal’s fitting name notwithstanding, a closer connection with current feminist movements that can present mythological, historical, and contemporary continuity to the ways in which women have been oppressed and in turn overcome oppression, can serve as important context, and provide feminist solidarity to the legal and political battle that Durga Sakti Nagpal will have to wage to wrest back her position as government administrator in a corrupt political regime.

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Not all Durga adaptations have been empowering. The slayer of demons and Mahisha, the goddess Durga’s versatility has been readily exploited by Hindutva forces. Anja Kovacs’s 15 extensive research on uses of Durga imagery in Hindutva campaigns explicates how Durga Vahini is founded as the women warrior arm of the Vishwa Hindu Parishad. Goddess Durga’s fierceness is appropriated and directed to a hate campaign toward Muslims. Goddess Durga’s militant qualities are not at odds with what she stands for in the areas of domesticity and loyalty to the family; therefore, she lends well to Hindu nationalist women’s activism. Goddess scholars 16 are mindful of the myriad modifications of the mother goddess principle for religious nationalistic purposes. Similarly, Kovacs’s study is a historical reminder that Durga became Bharat Mata or Mother India in the hands of Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay, who in turn greatly influenced Indian nationalist thinking in the late nineteenth century. 17 Kovacs is concerned about the distortion of Durga imagery from how she is understood by devotees, and her representation in both vernacular traditions and Hindu texts. “The few traces of militancy and sexuality that remained associated with Durga were further appropriated when Bengali nationalists collapsed her figure into that of the ideal mother figure; the presiding deity of Bengali kitchens and the sickbed.” 18 The brutal rape and murder of a twenty-three-year-old woman, a medical (physiotherapy) student and her male companion, in New Delhi, named by civil society and press as the Nirbhaya (or the fearless one) case has cast a pall of gloom over urban inhabitants, especially women, who do not find equity, respect, and solace enough in the pathways of modernity and neoliberalism. Sigridur Gudmarsdottir would call the Nirbhaya incident ecorape 19 because women are not, but are treated, as absent referents in a widely accepted idiom that valorizes a model of progress that desecrates sacred bonds of humanity. The breakdown of common and shared custom contributes to the epistemic violence against women. Modernity assures urbanites a livelihood through its transnational connections to neoliberalization and globalization; an elite education, and malls, but no spiritual outlets. Small roadside shrines, often mistaken for temples, have sprung up at street corners in cities, to collect offerings of fruit, sweetmeats, and money from passersby, and have become entangled in urban land-grab schemes as municipal authorities find it hard to demolish religious structures. Modernity is forward looking, is linear, and does not hark back to a collective memory of religious practice and mythology that supports important linkages to cannon of images and customs that are collective and therefore empowering. The current instances of flaunting of power by politicians in Uttar Pradesh, the Hindutva forces that thrust forth their goddess interpretations, and the rape of an educated woman in New Delhi demonstrate the complexity of issues and incidents faced by the contemporary feminist movement in India.

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The traditions of the goddess are not always already available for appropriation by the women’s movement given how politicized the goddess has become in the subcontinent. The problem remains, of relating to a wider crosssection of Indian and South Asian women who have few connections to Hinduism or have felt alienated by mainstream practices for reasons of religious or caste affiliation, or state-sponsored antagonisms. As with other aspects of modernity, goddess beliefs and religious practice need to be rearticulated for common good rather than for narrow communal concerns. All religious symbol systems seem similarly fraught. What follows is a discussion as to why the study of the goddess has been marginalized in cultural studies, particularly postcolonial studies as in Orientalism. CULTURAL STUDIES: EXPLORING AN APPROACH TO STUDYING GODDESS SYMBOLISM My perspective on gender and religion are in large part influenced by my engagement with cultural studies in communication. Instigated by workingclass, diasporic, postcolonial, and later feminist scholars. Cultural studies emerges as the academic community’s bête noir with its provenance in the late 1960s and 1970s in Birmingham, United Kingdom. The cultural studies of Raymond Williams, Richard Hoggart, E. P. Thompson, Stuart Hall, and the New Left stave away from the economic determinism of classical Marxism and move to scrutinize contemporary life and politics. 20 The Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies in Birmingham under the initial leadership of Williams, Hoggart, Thompson, and Hall wrested control of the term “culture,” used previously only as a way to describe phenomena in the aesthetic, elite, artistic, and traditional realm, and gave it a meaning that inscribed the much needed political dimension into the fast-changing urban-based “culture” of post-industrial and postcolonial societies. For the first time in Western scholarly literature, the study of culture shed the binary opposition between high and low culture and accepted discursive working-class cultural forms such as punk and rock music as important enactments of race, class, and gender in post-industrial Western societies. Nelson, Treichler and Grossberg have said that cultural studies comes out of a need “to identify and articulate the relations between culture and society.” 21 Classical Marxist and neo-Marxist analyses have been rightly suspicious of including religion in its definitions of culture or politics. That suspicion needs modification and nuance as a response to historical change. Raymond Williams positions cultural studies as a vital area of study for the breakdown of “knowable communities” and the

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increasing commodification of cultural life, the collapse of the Western colonialist empires and the development of new forms of imperialism, the creation of a global economy and the worldwide dissemination of mass culture, the emergence of new forms of economically or ideologically motivated migration, and the re-emergence of nationalism and of racial and religious hostilities. 22

While conventional religion is still big money, commercialized in discursive ways, frequently criminalized via national political structures, and the opiate of the masses, minor traditions and minor religious practice must be examined in order to mainstream a culture of everyday varieties of resistance and difference from within the institution of religion. Religious practice and political action are not separate in the lives of the youthful citizenry of today. Arab Spring 2011, birthed in several West Asian and North African countries, is an example of political religious identity coming to the fore as protest for democracy. Religion imparts a vital performative quality to identity. Cultural studies acknowledges the need to study the structure of experience 23 of varied phenomena so as to include minor discourses in social analyses. This libratory genealogy of cultural studies must include in its ambit the cultural practices of a pan-urban or rapidly transforming-to-urban populace as a distinct category to understand religiosity and goddess rituals, as part of their performative corporeal identity—an identity youth find hard to extricate from their daily lives, within transitioning and postcolonial nations. Unless theological critique enters various academic approaches such as cultural studies, we stand to maintain a disinterested naiveté about religious identity and religious engagement. It is with this project in mind that I depart from the usual subject matter of cultural studies, though not the spirit. The next section provides some reasons why the study of the goddess has been marginalized in cultural studies, particularly postcolonial studies as in Orientalism, and in academia as a whole. ORIENTALISM AND THE QUESTION OF ACADEMIC ENGAGEMENT WITH THE GODDESS Orientalism, authored by Edward Said, 24 argues that Islam becomes an adversary to Christianity, as practiced (read: monotheistic) and institutionalized in the West. The examples Said 25 provides range from Dante’s Divine Comedy where Mohammed is an apostate, an evil entity, to the Hundred Year Wars, Napoleon’s rout of Egypt, to the fancy-dress homecoming at Princeton where the Palestinian-inspired theme allows alumni to dress as Arabs with appropriate headgear, along with the scores of Orientalist painters and musicians who presented the Islamic East as the exotic “other.” In fact the modern War on Terror has its antecedents in Orientalist thought and ideology that

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have metamorphosed into a political doctrine, in America primarily, and then more broadly in European nation-states. More importantly the central thesis of the Orientalist project is that the West has continued to exoticize the nonWestern states through its desire of conquest and acquisition of knowledge. Historically, in its material desire for gold and riches, the conquering Western state purloins its knowledge resources to aid its own progress. 26 Urs App 27 builds upon the work that Said has done, and stretches the scope of the project even further to say that it was the West’s search for India and Indian philosophy that primarily led its military armies and scholars alike to advance toward the mythical Orient. That initial project to locate a text that would pre-date the Bible and match it in literary quality has driven the study of India and Indian philosophy, while glossing over the lived traditions of goddess worship in India. By finding a match to the Bible, scholars from the fifteenth to the nineteenth century believed that they could secularize their own societies and loosen the hold of the Vatican in their political procedures. 28 The pursuit of secularism, to begin with, followed territorial conquest and traditional means of vanquishment, while being topped off with a masculinist desire for equally authoritative texts (to the Bible) as in Voltaire’s desire for the Vedas. There has not been enough room in this search for a wider notion of religious practice rather than a prescribed notion of what Hinduism is, a Hinduism that was as even a match for American and European Christianity. Hinduism for the Orientalists would cease to be if not for its central location in written texts. To explore the living cultures of the goddess and create important linkages within contemporary urban and rural life then becomes an important task for scholars of religion and feminism. This chapter strives to carry the conversation in that direction. The study of scripture and text is heaped upon an imagined legitimate study of Hinduism; therefore, it has taken longer to unearth the serious study of the goddess, her symbolism, meanings, and position within Hindu religion and philosophy. Concurrently, despite its desecration within Orientalisminspired academics, goddess worship and spirituality have thrived within towns, villages, and the city. The preponderance of textual study within Hinduism does not mean that goddess worship or the image itself ceases to exist in popular imagination and popular practice. HOW THE GODDESS FARES IN MODERNITY The transnational image of the goddess commands attention as media, migration, globalization, and modern aesthetics contribute to converting the goddess into a highly mediated image that is easily commodified. Ghosh 29 studies images of India in the United States as portraying an exotic and confusing aesthetic that combines sexuality, sensuality, and spirituality. While her re-

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search does not study the relatively recent outrage over the Indian goddess used in a large transnational coffee company’s newspaper commercial, and the case of toilet seat covers with goddess images, it is an important treatise on the sociopolitical roots of the proliferation of de-contextualized images held sacred in India and by Indians. Ghosh’s analysis draws from race theory, Said’s Orientalism, and Foucault’s theorization of discourse, revealing the hidden linkages between knowledge and power. Ghosh 30 writes: Social historian Prashad (2000) notes that India entered the popular imaginary in the United States through vaudeville acts and spectacles organized by PT Barnum. Both fetishized India as a domain of spirituality and its people as ghastly and mysterious. . . . At the same time, India was also constructed as the domain of the spiritual and the transcendental both in the works of wellregarded thinkers such as Emerson and Thoreau and by agencies such as Barnum’s circuses. This kind of popular Orientalism that reduces the multiplicity and heterogeneity of India and Indian Americans into either an exoticized and commodified spiritual realm or the wellspring of primitivism is well and alive even today in advertising.

The earthen pot with myriad sacred and utilitarian functions, the iconic representations of deities in statues, the mandala and yantras of the gods and goddesses have all been transformed into unlikely commercial forms for aesthetic and cosmetic uses 31 that at times double for spiritual fulfillment, such as the oversized roadside deity located in a public park that attracts families who go there for recreation and, ostensibly, devotion, and the Srichakra yantra, embodying “creative field of Shiva and Sakti in all its phases of manifestations from the germinal state of creation to gross realms,” that can adorn the “ceiling of a restaurant in a five star hotel, as MTV props, on table tops, and fabric designs.” 32 Scholars have charted the increased mobility and plasticity of religious symbols within an urban non-family centered life via new and innovative forms of media. This “increased social mobility of religious symbols has had a socially ‘disembedding’ effect on religious traditions,” 33 and the global/local goddess is one such disembedded figure. The active selling of cultural artifacts and cultural forms—from Bollywood film to studio yoga—solidifies Indian spirituality as easily attainable through commodity market forms and through global practice (as in yoga or bharatnatyam dance). The easy availability of these cultural artifacts makes the act of consumption lazy and the consumer does not ask the hard questions surrounding religious practice, especially more particularized and discursive practices involving the goddess.

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FEMINIST SCHOLARSHIP ON THE GODDESS Current feminist writers have attempted to understand special and unique goddess attributes, which also shed light on how love and intimacy get defined in neoliberal times. The ethnographic research of Brenda Dobia asserts goddess devotion as located in the body; and not just the individual body but in the collective relational body, which then serves to heighten the feeling of devotion and makes the journey all the more pleasurable. Dobia 34 traveled to the Kamakhya temple in Assam with four other scholars of the goddess tradition so as to engage the full liberating potential of the goddess darshan. A topic as visceral and personal as the goddess could not be experienced alone so Dobia fashioned a methodology that transformed the meaning of research for her narrators and herself. Research, after all, is not just summarizing observation; it is also the act of being transformed. Dobia wove through Western feminist definitions of desire and spirituality, specifically theorization by Luce Irigaray, which led her to begin her research on the Kamakhya Temple and the legends surrounding it. The worship of the yoni, the vital bodily marker of intimacy, the representation of female sexuality, is unique among world religions. Dominant world religions, all monotheistic, do not have the institutional structure of rituals and texts to support similar practice. Mainstream practices of Hinduism warn against desire of all kind—sexual or material. It is in opposition to cautionary tales about desire within Hinduism that this Sati temple is resurrected. The temple becomes a spiritual marker for women’s sexual (kama) and other forms of desire. Not all scholars have embraced the yield of goddess spirituality and especially South Asian academic feminists are cautious about a wholesale acceptance of the goddess. An engaging essay by Rajeshwari Sunder Rajan 35 titled, “Real and Imagined Goddesses: A Debate,” summarizes a six-year dialogue among South Asianists, Indologists, feminist and religious studies scholars about the political leanings of the goddess. The title of Sunder Rajan’s essay in 2000 was modified from her 1993 essay, “Real and Imagined Women.” The essay is housed provocatively in an anthology titled, Is the Goddess a Feminist? Well-known goddess scholars have contributed to this volume and answer the question posed in the title; therefore, Sunder Rajan brings forth an important critical voice from the humanities. The essay was written pre-9/11. Scholarship in the United States and other international academies has changed drastically post-9/11. Religion cannot be ignored as a legitimate aspect of public culture and identity. The questioning about the context of this inquiry is starkly relevant—is the goddess representative of “undifferentiated woman power”; does the goddess figure promote radicalized religion; whose interests are served, if at all, and what is at stake? 36 Sunder Rajan believes that patriarchy is able to maintain a divide between women as social actors and as goddesses without contradiction and therefore

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their position in Indian society is more than just “ambiguous.” As an argument against adopting goddess culture, Sunder Rajan thinks that goddess attributes are not necessarily desirable (they are “unconventional”) to girls growing up in India. 37 She hereby questions the indigenous nature and relevance of the goddess symbolism. As others in the past, I find the ongoing question of the innate feminism of the goddess anachronistic 38 and problematic for the simplicity with which the question is asked and then answered in the context of this essay and anthology. While goddess theology is located in India, she resides in a transnational world and our intersubjectivity (migration patterns and circulation of global capital, for instance) makes the goddess symbolism transnational and not simply a local phenomenon with local application. Besides, academic feminism’s (residing in the Western academy and other powerful university systems where entry is highly selective) role does not end with shying away from the harmful associations of the goddess and religious fundamentalism. Our role is manifold and we must at least entertain the idea that goddess symbolism, which is derived of a non-dominant philosophy within majority Hinduism, can be democratized for mobilizing women politically. Sunder Rajan 39 is loath to embrace a goddess idiom from a majoritarian religion in a country that is still modernizing and finding its place as a sovereign and secular postcolonial entity. This argument has simultaneous consistency and discontinuity with her earlier observations, as Sunder Rajan seems particularly uncritical of secularism as a nationalist ideology. Secularism, though a worthy philosophy for a multi-religious postcolonial nationstate, has created havoc with planning and priorities in several institutions such as politics and education. Dialogue and debate nationally and at all levels must find other idioms that can sustain the human diversity of the largest, populous nation in the world. Agnes Flavia’s 40 essay already shows us the futility of trying to flatten religious difference in public life, when the state uses a religiously driven legal code to mete gender equity and justice. Secularism becomes the biggest cop-out of the Indian state, which panders to religious particularity yet wants to provide justice to all. Religious nationalism and fundamentalism have already made it difficult for recovery of the goddess as problem-free and empowering. This chapter serves as an appeal simply to understand the cultural politics that exists and allow a progressive rural or urban-based populace to proudly own and control its own symbolism and cultural reality if they are able to work toward a common social goal. The idea is not to allow just the upper-class Hindu majority to wrest all goddess meanings toward self-aggrandizement but to open up the possibilities of minority religious practices such as the goddess culture for political action and a broader project of social justice. While Western religions may not have an equivalent to yoni worship or active goddess rituals, the recent scholarship on affect acknowledges the

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impact of embodied practices and the structure of feelings 41 on everyday life. The popular affective turn in feminist theory poses “critical questions regarding feminist theoretical engagements with affect, emotion and feeling.” 42 Feminists have cautioned against attention to feeling without consideration to the structural cause of oppression. 43 “Feminist engagements with affective politics thus require attention to the ways in which feelings can (re) produce dominant social and geo-political hierarchies and exclusions.” 44 Yet possibilities exist for emotional and political transformation. Boler’s 1999 book, Feeling Power: Emotions and Education, begins with the cautionary: “A study of emotions requires acute attention to differences in culture, social class, race and gender . . . emotions are a primary site of social control; emotions are also a site of political resistance and can mobilize social movements of liberation.” 45 Boler’s work among school-going youth demonstrates that strong emotions are suppressed through social control and there is a politics of emotion that remains unexplored in most formal disciplines. Boler believes emotion (in the way that she describes it) has the power to resist oppression. She argues that emotions are political in that patriarchy and capitalism collude to construct women as “naturally nurturing and caring,” 46 which lays women open to charges of unreason and overemotionlism. “Emotions are also political in the sense that emotions can catalyze social and political movements. The civil rights movement can be analyzed as significantly shaped by the moral revolution offered by anger. Those who fought for civil rights were angry about the disenfranchisement, segregation, and systematic violence toward African-Americans.” 47 JAGRAN: AN AWAKENING, A CULTURAL POLITICS Goddess cultures are an unacknowledged release and performance of emotional states that inhabit the body of devotees. The emotional states of goddess devotees are not individual or personal and do not lack historical specificity. My experience of the Jagran, while conducting research in the Garhwal region of Uttarakhand, yields similar insights as Boler, though the structural oppression and historical specificity of the area is quite different from the urban, institutional context of Boler’s research. Uttarakhand was the home of the Chipko movement in the 1970s and is now home to the more contemporary Seed Save movement. Both populations, of Boler’s research and mine, are non-elite and marginalized. Boler is chastised by male colleagues for pursuing an area so deeply identified with women. Gorton’s 48 work on shame and affect show us that “ugly feelings” remain under-theorized in feminism. Gorton recalls the work of Elspeth Probyn on shame where she insightfully talks of how feminist

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ideas have been used on several occasions to shame other feminists. Just as Gorton and Probyn, I am drawn to the literature on feminist affect theory and shame because the ideas of goddess, politics, and affect can evoke similar sentiments at public academic meetings given how scholars’ views on the subject are so divergent and disparate. Therefore the subject matter of goddess and feminist theory poses an element of risk to one’s academic standing within certain social science disciplines. The Jagran, in all its festivity and fanfare, allows women to express their religiosity in dramatic ways. A Jagran is a safe cultural space for women to spring from a crowd of thousands of devotees and sway to the music of the bhajan dedicated to Ma Bhagwati. The women devotees of Ma Bhagwati come into sharper focus—than the male devotees who are present—because of their affective embodied response. The body of the goddess and the body of the female devotee become coterminous. This phenomenon is known as possession by the Devi. 49 I agree with Erndl’s suggestion that in the moment of possession the goddess offers agency and becomes “an agent” rather than simply remaining a “symbol projection.” 50 I offer the Jagran as not merely a safe space where private, spiritual acts happen but I would like to forward the idea of this public event as a site of local politics, as well as a space of intimacy and affect. Hegemony is social control by consent rather than by explicit violence. 51 Yet, hegemony as a concept wavers in such a situation because the embodied cultural practices of the people of Uttarakhand are beyond state control and their public protest is managed but not completely controlled. Their convictions constitute what Dian Million calls “felt knowledge,” 52 a break from obvious “truth” with a view to political action. Million’s concept of felt knowledge suggests that feelings such as anger, devotion, and expression are most damaging when suppressed. 53 Felt knowledge and personal stories are often given the status of alternate truths, alternate historical views by oral historians. When the women of Uttarakhand, who are also devotees of Ma Bhagwati and attendees of the nighttime Jagran, take to the streets by day, to reiterate the demands of the local Seed Save movement, they stand to be called irrational, emotional, and unreasonable by the state. They want the status of farmers, a status given to men. The conditions of their labor need improvement so they want their farmland to be rid of wild pigs that ruin their sown crops. The free reign the pigs have in farms tells a story of deforestation in the region. They also want to grow crops using indigenous seeds that are not genetically engineered. Seeds saved in traditional banks in the village do not cost them money though they barter seeds among farmers. Seeds that are GMO are at a cost so dear to farmers that they have to take out loans. Loans are rarely repaid due to the declining sale price for cash crops and the farmers

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are led to commit suicide, leaving families bereft of a household member and chief earner. Counter to Berlant’s 54 theorization of private domains as having become sentimental and a place of refuge that have de-politicized citizens into citizen-consumers, we see an active politics of intimacy emergent within transnational private spaces. The women of the Jagran are also the women who protest at Seed Save mobilizations in the region. “Women’s experience becomes, as Joan Scott has argued, the foundational site from which a feminist politics is fashioned, and as a result, some women’s experiences.” 55 While Hesford is seeking, in her article, to include white, middle-class women’s experience as the norm of feminist understanding, there is merit in employing her theorization to foreground indigenous women’s experience, inclusive of their belief in goddess worship and symbolism, as central to feminist theory. ECOFEMINISM, NATURE, RELIGION, AND THE GODDESS Within discourses of ecofeminism in Western academia, ecofeminism is associated with women’s spirituality and goddess religion. Ecofeminism becomes an important space to reclaim a place for women within a patriarchal godhead tradition of the Judeo-Christian world. Over the years ecofeminism has fallen out of favor of feminists and post-feminists. Ecofeminists like Mary Daly and other second-wave feminists who harbor optimism about common sisterhood based upon shared lived experience have “faced their own winepress, which is the terrible doom of essentialism.” 56 Gaard, on the other hand, questions what is to be gained from discarding the scholarship on ecofeminism. 57 Scholarship on ecofeminism, Gaard contends, lends important language, momentum, and precedence to current movements in global gender justice, climate justice, sustainable agriculture, affordable housing, and health care. 58 In a more recent essay that provides justification for Gaard’s questioning Milstein and Dickinson 59 introduce the theoretical idea of an androcentric-gynocentric dialectic that expose the values of masculinity as they dominate a feminine construction of nature. Milstein and Dickinson’s essay points to the continued relevance of ecofeminism critiques. These anthropocentric and androcentric values are employed when describing whale families and ant colonies in the animal kingdom, or more simply a family of trees. The study shows that despite the essentialism of ecofeminist perspectives, it is the material reality of a masculinized global economy that holds sway over nature/culture constructions. 60 It is the active de-contextualized fragmentation of nature, religion, and the feminine principle that ecofeminism tries to preserve.

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While ecofeminism in the West has stood for reclaiming an earth-centric feminist sensibility and spirituality, in India, ecofeminism has become a credo to position the environmental movement centered in the Hill States. Vandana Shiva strategically conflates the actual practice of goddess worship with conservation of earth, nature, and ecology. “Ecofeminists and deep ecologists . . . have stated that all things stand in relationship to one another.” 61 Reiterating the interconnections of body and body politic, Khanna refers to Jungian studies of pre-modern societies to surmise that, “all elements of existence were interlinked.” 62 Amidst other symbolic application, Shiva has summoned the oft-invoked mother goddess or earth goddess Gandmardhan for an ecological agitation among adivasi women of Dhanmati, 63 Orissa. In Shiva’s words: Development has meant the ecological and cultural rupture of bonds of nature, and within society, it has meant the transformation of organic communities into groups of uprooted and alienated individuals searching for abstract identities. What today are called ecology movements in the South are actually movements for rootedness, movements to resist uprooting before it begins. 64

In the quote above, Shiva establishes that the modernizing practices of the State in collusion with global capital have caused disruptions in nature and ecology, thereby calling for activism. The project also stands in for a critique of the post-1950s international development juggernaut that rode rough shod over postcolonial nations, divorcing rigorous analysis of gender, sustainable agriculture, poverty, and economic class from state planning. For all the criticism directed at Vandana Shiva for advocating an environmentalism and nationalism that possessed the echoes of Gandhian nationalism, she still stands for an active resistance to deforestation in Uttarakhand and for the impetus to the Seed Save movement. Vandana Shiva, in one of her earlier books entitled Ecofeminism, 65 with Maria Mies, takes on the nature question within feminism, forming a powerful collaboration of ideas across nations and histories. Mies and Shiva predate recent feminist calls, 66 for collaborative partnerships within activist circles and academics. It is an influential book, partly because of its scope and partly because, in the 1990s, it filled an important gap in feminist literature though thereafter became vulnerable to critiques of essentialism. More importantly Ecofeminism illustrated how women’s lives in current agricultural communities are closely linked to symbolic power that is coded in local idiom and ecotheology as being feminine. An accepted term within religious studies is “goddess religion” referring specifically to the revival and worship of the mother goddess (in the West) despite the overwhelming presence and institutionalization of Abrahmic religions. Goddess religions are rebellious of patriarchal controls in daily lives

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of those seeking a different paradigm of religion, worship, and spirituality. This form of epistemological and ontological defiance emerges in a Western context. Raphael’s 67 critique draws on the writings of practitioners of goddess religion in Europe and from academe. There do not seem to be similar crises of goddess worship within Hinduism because goddess worship does not necessitate the displacement of the central practices of dominant religion or of any one mode of worship for another. A critique of Western-based goddess religion goes as thus: “Because Goddess religion ascribes little or no moral transcendence to the Goddess, it becomes difficult to use the Goddess as the religious justification for a struggle against evil, or to construct meaning in the face of it.” 68 Raphael’s analysis of Western goddess religion is noteworthy for the cautionary tale it tells us about replacing patriarchy with yet another exclusionary essentialist reality. 69 The goddess in India and South Asia is multifocal and entrenched in people’s everyday practice and not considered a threat to the daily order unless employed in the service of a divisive movement or cause. Indigenous goddess cultures have shown extraordinary resilience and are therefore imbued with unquestioned relevance by virtue of being part of a polytheistic religion such as Hinduism. The neoliberal perspective does not give nature the valence of mother, nor does it connect nature to spirituality. Social scientists, untethered by ecofeminism and theology, provide other neoliberal constructions of nature and resource. The conceptual term “natural resources” rolls from the lips of scholars unmindful of the binary worldviews presupposed in the terms “nature” and “resource.” 70 While building upon the Derridean thesis on polarities and differance, the point made is that despite obvious divisiveness implied in the language between nature/culture, on one hand, and the deliberate, material terminology of resources on the other, the coinage “natural resources” continues to have strategic value. “Nature” presupposes the nature/culture dichotomy wherein nature is untamed, signifying human desire. “Resources” invokes an image of well-managed human capital. The two polarities, namely, nature and resource, according to Baviskar, “rest upon assumptions about space and territory, and how they relate to collectivities in the past, present, future.” 71 These cultural formations have always been in flux and fraught with contention, Baviskar notes in her critique. Shiva’s work in the Seed Save agitations and Arundhati Roy’s work with the Narmada Bachao Andolan (NBA), further scrutinizes how nature and resources still remain embattled when nation-state and corporate entities combine forces to create a cultural shift in the ways in which citizens think about national progress. Perhaps an unorthodox way (read: goddess culture) to articulate conservation, preservation, and restoration of ecology will instill greater ownership in those who bear the brunt of the fallout of top-down governmental decision making.

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CONCLUSION I have explicated some historical conditions for exclusion, and a chance for inclusion of the goddess principle in feminist grassroots movement organization. The discursive ways in which goddess knowledge(s) have been employed demonstrates the breadth of meaning the goddess can infuse in a cause, or then, what the goddess can stand for contemporaneously. The hermeneutics of suspicion 72 directed at the goddess comes from the mass-scale desecration of religious and spiritual symbols and the widespread commodification of the goddess in modernity. Historically, the suspicion of lived texts, especially goddess worship, dates back to classic and neo-colonialism, when conquest and vanquishment meant privileging territory and text. Youth in India and around the world have shown that they are keen to participate in democratic politics and they are not willing to shed religious, vernacular identities that are regionally particular. A rigorous educational curriculum and a readiness to open religious discourse, custom, and text to critical interpretation by feminists and practitioners would be a start. The modern disjunctures between the goddess, feminist grassroots politics, modern democracy, and popular culture are vast. The concept of articulation from Marxist theory is instructive as there is hope of a healing of ideas that have never been tied together with ease. For Lawrence Grossberg: Articulation is the production of identity on top of differences, of unities out of fragments, of structures across practices. Articulation links this practice to that effect, this text to that meaning, this meaning to that reality, this experience to those politics. And these links are themselves articulated into larger structures, etc. 73

Cultural studies supports the theory of articulation, which can provide the possibility of goddess symbolism into political action: The disentanglement from prior uses before it is put to work in a markedly different cultural context. The concept of articulation—widely and successfully used in cultural studies in the 1980s—is an example of a concept sufficiently abstract and general that it can be moved to new contexts whenever it is helpful. It provides a way of describing the continued severing, realignment, and recombination of discourses, social groups, political interests, and structures of power in a society. It provides as well a way of meaning. In its application, therefore it is anything but abstract. 74

Stuart Hall describes articulation as a “linkage, which is not necessary, determined, absolute and essential for all time.” 75 Echoing this theorization, we perceive that goddess worship and goddesses themselves change with each historical or cultural shift and vary across communities of disparate classes and caste. If we wish to understand the social experience of living in a

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contingent rapidly changing nation and world, we will have to give a chance to assemblages that have not been linked or considered prior. NOTES Sincere gratitude to Dr. Madhu Khanna for valuable feedback on a first draft of the chapter. Thanks also go to graduate student Mariko Thomas for helping with library research. This chapter is dedicated to my dear late friend Dr. Usha Zacharias, whose critique I was anticipating on the publishing of this chapter. Sadly, I lose out on her criticism, laden with wit, insight, and humor. 1. Lynn Foulston, At the Feet of the Goddess (UK: Sussex Academic Press, 2002), 1. 2. Tracy Pintchman, Seeking Mahadevi: Constructing the Identities of the Hindu Great Goddess (New York: State University of New York Press, 2001), 1. 3. Madhu Khanna, “The Goddess—Woman Equation in Sakta Tantras,” in Gendering the Spirit, edited by Durre S. Ahmed (United Kingdom: Zed Books, 2002), 35–59; Paul ReidBowen, “Great Goddess, Elemental Nature or Chora? Philosophical Contentions and Constructs in Contemporary Goddess Feminism,” Feminist Theology 16 (2007): 101–109; Alf Hiltebeitel and Kathleen Erndl, “Introduction: Writing Goddesses, Goddesses Writing, and Other Scholarly Concerns,” in Is the Goddess a Feminist? The Politics of South Asian Goddesses, edited by Alf Hiltebeitel and Kathleen Erndl (New York and London: New York University Press and Sheffield, 2009), 11–23. 4. Tracy Pintchman and Rita D. Sherma, eds., Woman and Goddess in Hinduism: Reinterpretations and Re-envisionings (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2011). 5. Madhu Khanna, “Politicization of Religion and Its Possible Impact on the Academic Study of Religion in India,” in Asian Perspectives on the World’s Religions after September 11, edited by Arvind Sharma and Madhu Khanna (Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger, 2013), 141–152. 6. Rajeshwari Sunder Rajan, “Real and Imagined Goddesses: A Debate,” in Is the Goddess a Feminist? The Politics of South Asian Goddesses, edited by Alf Hiltebeitel and Kathleen M. Erndl (New York: New York University Press, 2000), 269–284. 7. Rita M. Gross, “Hindu Female Deities as a Resource for the Contemporary Rediscovery of the Goddess,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion XLVI/3 (1978): 269–91; David Kinsley, Hindu Goddesses: Visions of the Divine Feminine in the Hindu Religious Tradition (New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass Publishers, 1987); Kathryn Hansen, “The Virangana in North Indian History: Myth and Popular Culture,” Economic and Political Weekly 23, 18 (1988): ws25-ws33; Kathleen M. Erndl, Victory to the Mother: The Hindu Goddess of North West India: Myth, Ritual, and Symbol (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993); Tanika Sarkar and Urvashi Butalia, eds., Women and the Hindu Right (Delhi: Kali for Women; London: Zed Press, 1995). 8. Lauren Berlant, Love/Desire (Brooklyn, NY: Punctum Books, 2012). Berlant’s trilogy on national sentimentality are also influential texts within critical and feminist theory. 9. Neela Bhattacharya Saxena, “Mystery, Wonder, and Knowledge in the Triadic Figure of Mahavidya Chinnamasta: A Sakta Woman’s Reading,” in Woman and Goddess in Hinduism: Reinterpretations and Re-envisionings, edited by Tracy Pintchman and Rita D. Sherma (New York: Palgrave McMillan, 2011), 62. 10. Erndl, cited in Mary Keller, The Hammer and the Flute: Women, Power, and Spirit Possession (Baltimore, MD: John Hopkins University, 2002), 44. 11. Lauren Berlant, The Queen of America Goes to Washington City: Essays on Sex and Citizenship (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1997). 12. Madhu Khanna, “In The Flow of Modernity: Some Reflections on Tirtha and Murti in Hindu India,” Evam: Forum on Indian Representations 2, 1 and 2 (2003): 99–114. 13. Marglin, 1985; Madhu Khanna, personal conversation (New Delhi, India, 1995); Kathleen Erndl, “The Play of the Mother: Possession and Power in Hindu Women’s Goddess

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Rituals,” in Women’s Lives, Women’s Rituals in the Hindu Tradition, edited by Tracy Pintchman (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2007), 149–158. 14. Kathleen Erndl, “Is Sakti Empowering for Women? Reflections on Feminism and the Hindu Goddess,” in Is the Goddess a Feminist? The Politics of South Asian Goddesses, edited by Alf Hiltebeitel and Kathleen Erndl (New York and London: New York University Press and Sheffield, 2000), 95. 15. Anja Kovacs, “You Don’t Understand, We Are at War! Refashioning Durga in the Service of Hindu Nationalism,” Contemporary South Asia 13, 4 (2004): 373–388. 16. Khanna, “Politicization of Religion,” 141–152. 17. Kovacs, “You Don’t Understand, we are at War!” 373–88. 18. Ibid., 375. 19. Sigridur Gudmarsdottir, “Rapes of Earth and Grapes of Wrath: Steinbeck, Ecofeminism, and the Metaphor of Rape,” Feminist Theology 18, 2 (2010): 206–222. 20. Lawrence Grossberg “The Formations of Cultural Studies: An American in Birmingham,” in Relocating Cultural Studies: Developments in Theory and Research, edited by Valda Blundel, John Shephard, and Ian Taylor (London: Routledge, 1993), 59. 21. Cary Nelson, Paula Triechler, and Lawrence Grossberg, “Cultural Studies: An Introduction,” in Cultural Studies, edited by Lawrence Grossberg, Cary Nelson, and Paula Treichler (New York: Routledge, 1992), 4. 22. Nelson, Triechler, and Grossberg, “Cultural Studies,” 5. 23. Raymond Williams, “Structures of Feeling,” in Marxism and Literature (New York: Oxford University Press, 1977), 128–135. 24. Edward Said, Orientalism (London: Penguin, 1978). 25. Ibid. 26. Ibid. 27. Urs App, The Birth of Orientalism (Philadelphia and Oxford: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2010). 28. Ibid. 29. Sanjukta Ghosh, “‘Con-fusing’ Exotica: Producing India in U.S. Advertising,” in Gender, Race and Class in the Media, 2nd edition, edited by Gail Dines and Jean M. Humez (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications, 2003), 274–282. 30. Ghosh, “‘Con-fusing’ Exotica,” 276–77. 31. Khanna, “In The Flow of Modernity,” 99–114. 32. Ibid., 110. 33. Lawrence Babb, “Introduction,” in Media and the Transformation of Religion in South Asia, edited by Lawrence A. Babb and Susan S. Wadley (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995), 1–18. 34. B. Dobia, “Approaching the Hindu Goddess of Desire,” Feminist Theology 16, 1 (2007): 61–78. 35. Rajeshwari Sunder Rajan, “Real and Imagined Goddesses: A Debate,” in Is the Goddess a Feminist? The Politics of South Asian Goddesses, edited by Alf Hiltebeitel and Kathleen M. Erndl (New York: New York University Press, 2000), 269–284. 36. Sunder Rajan, “Real and Imagined Goddesses,” 269–284. 37. Ibid., 273. 38. Ibid., 269–284. 39. Ibid. 40. Agnes Flavia, “Women, Marriage and the Subordination of Rights,” in Community, Gender and Violence, Subaltern Studies XI, edited by Partha Chatterjee and Pradeep Jeganathan (New Delhi: Ravi Dayal Publishers, 2000), 106–137. 41. Williams, “Structures of Feeling.” 42. Carolyn Pedwell and Anne Whitehead, “Affecting Feminism: Questions of Feeling in Feminist Theory,” Feminist Theory 13, 2 (2012): 115. 43. Pedwell and Whitehead, “Affecting Feminism”; Lauren Berlant, The Female Complaint: The Unfinished Business of Sentimentality in American Culture (North Carolina: Duke University Press, 2008); Sara Ahmed, The Cultural Politics of Emotion (New York: Routledge, 2004).

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44. Pedwell and Whitehead, “Affecting Feminism,” 120. 45. Megan Boler, Feeling Power: Emotions and Education (New York: Routledge, 1999), x. 46. Ibid., 7. 47. Ibid. 48. Kristyn Gorton, “Theorizing Emotion and Affect: Feminist Engagements,” Feminist Theory 8 (2007): 343. 49. Kathleen M. Erndl, “Fire and Wakefulness: The Devi Jagrata in Contemporary Panjabi Hinduism,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 59, 2 (1991): 339–360. 50. Kathleen M. Erndl, Victory to the Mother: The Hindu Goddess of North West India: Myth, Ritual, and Symbol (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 105–134. 51. James Lull, “Hegemony,” in Gender, Race and Class in Media: A Text-Reader, 2nd edition, edited by Gail Dines and Jean M. Humez (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications, 2003), 61–66; Boler, Feeling Power. 52. Dian Million, “An Indigenous Feminist Approach to Affect and History,” Wicazo Sa Review 24:2 (2009), 58. 53. Million, “An Indigenous Feminist Approach,” 53–76. 54. Lauren Berlant, The Queen of America Goes to Washington City: Essays on Sex and Citizenship (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1997). 55. Victoria Hesford, “The Politics of Love: Women’s Liberation and Feeling Differently,” Feminist Theory 10, 1 (2009): 7. 56. Gudmarsdottir, “Rapes of Earth,” 217. 57. Greta Gaard, “Ecofeminism Revisited: Rejecting Essentialism and Re-placing Species in a Material Feminist Environmentalism,” Feminist Formations 23, 2 (2011): 26–53. 58. Ibid., 26–53. 59. Tema Milstein and Elizabeth Dickinson, “Gynocentric Greenwashing: The Discursive Gendering of Nature,” Communication Culture and Critique 5 (2012): 510–532. 60. Ibid. 61. Gudmarsdottir, “Rapes of Earth,” 214. 62. Khanna, “In the Flow of Modernity,” 113. 63. Maria Mies and Vandana Shiva, Ecofeminism (London and New Jersey: Zed Books, 1993), 99. 64. Ibid. 65. Ibid. 66. Ibid. Other than Mies and Shiva in 1993, collaborative feminist praxis is called for in a more recent book by Richa Nagar and Amanda Lock Swarr in Critical Transnational Feminist Praxis by SUNY, 2010, among other recent scholarship on feminism. 67. Melissa Raphael, “Truth in Flux: Feminism as a Late Modern Religion,” Religion 26 (1996): 199–213. 68. Ibid., 208. 69. Ibid., 199-213 70. Amita Baviskar, ed., Contested Grounds: Essays on Nature, Culture, and Power (New Delhi and New York: Oxford University Press, 2008). 71. Ibid., 8. 72. Erndl, “Is Sakti Empowering for Women?” 91–95. 73. Lawrence Grossberg, “The Formations of Cultural Studies: An American in Birmingham,” in Relocating Cultural Studies: Developments in Theory and Research, edited by Valda Blundel, John Shephard, and Ian Taylor (London: Routledge, 1993), 59. 74. Nelson, Treichler, and Grossberg, “Cultural Studies: An Introduction,” in Cultural Studies, edited by Lawrence Grossberg, Cary Nelson, and Paula Treichler (New York: Routledge, 1992), 8. 75. Stuart Hall, “On Postmodernism and Articulation,” in Stuart Hall: Critical Dialogues in Cultural Studies, edited by David Morley and Kuan Hsing Chen (New York: Routledge, 1996), 142.

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Index

Ai Khodiyar, 177–195; deified woman, 182, 194; myths about, 182–184 Ai Khodiyar Gita, 188 Agrawala, V. S., 203 Aldridge, Alan, 194 Amma (mother), 245 Amman, 66, 66–81 Andhra Village, 1 Angalamman annual festival, 47 Angamma. See Karukali Angayamma. See Angayee Angayee, 104, 111 anklets, 129, 133–134, 140 Annanmar Kathai. See Legend of Ponnivala Arnold, David, 63 Aryan, 65–72; contrasted with Dravidian, 65–66 Association for Asian Studies, xiii average age in India, 246 Balasundaram, Sasikumar, indentured goddess, 6 bards, 3; fundamental techniques, 15 Beck, Brenda, 3 Bernard, Elisabeth Anne, 202 Bhagavad Gita, 17, 32, 33 Blackburn, Robin, 112 blood sacrifice, 66–74, 81 brahmanical textual traditions, 1 brahamanization, 213

British Colonial government, 4 British colonial officials, 2 Brown, Karen, 103 buffalo-demon, 221, 235 Burger, Peter, 194 Caldwell, Rev. Robert, 65 caste system, changes to, 117 Celatta, 17, 19, 21; and lands of Ponnivala, 26; in more depth, 25–26; raises twin boys, 25–26. See also Mariyamman Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies, 250 Ceylon: multiple labor forces, 107. See also Sri Lanka Chamunda, 219, 221, 222–233; Kapalika (devotees), 223, 224 Chamundi: history of, 219–221; origin, 221 Charan caste, 182, 184 Chinnamasta, 199–200, 204, 205; reinvention as Chamundeshvari, 219; self-realization, 203; temple in Rajrappa, 205–212; Vajrayogini as prototype, 201 Christian Missionaries, 2 commercialization of goddess religion, 252–253 cultural studies and articulation, 261 Daksha: sacrifice, 201; story, 18 277

278

Index

Dasa Mahavidya, 200–202 deified women, 182 demonolatry alleged in Tirunelveli, 65 desecularization, 177 Devi and feminism, 245. See also Amma Devi Mahatmyam, 221 diverse caste groups, 110 Divine Mother, 89–95. See also Devi and feminism Dobia, Brenda, 254 Dravidian, 66–74 Durga, 17; in more depth, 27–28; and Jagran, 256–258. See also Kali Ecofeminism, 258–260 Ellamma, 5, 157–159, 165–171 emotion and politics, 255–256 feminist politics, 245–262 feminist studies in world religion, 246 four goddesses: and four yugas, 23; roles of, 20 Frazzette, Emily, xiii ganachari (medium), 146–150, 152, 156–159 goddess cults: reinvention of, 3; spreading of, 1 goddess religion v. monotheism, 247 goddesses: bourgeoisification of, 93; categorization, 217, 218; changes, 2; contemporary concerns, 2, 3; and Hindu society, 3; local, 1; modern relevance, 2; rituals criticized, 2; and Sanskrit literature, 5; transformation of, 2; village protectors, 1 gods, everyday, 109 gramadevata (village goddess), 143, 146, 148–150, 152 Gullah, 108 Hall, Stuart, 261 Hazra, R. C., 205 headless goddess. See Chinnamasta Hindu pantheon, 3 humans and gods not divided, 247–248

Kali (Durga), 4, 19, 21; battles demons, 221–222; in more depth, 27–29; nicknamed Chamunda, 222 kangani, 104–105, 111 Karner, Christian, 194 Karukali: black Kali, 19, 22; in more depth, 29–32; vs. Celatta, 22 Karumariamman, 5, 90–95, 97 Karumariamman temple in Thiruverkadu, 5, 89, 93 Khodiyar. See Ai Khodiyar kings and goddesses, 218–219 kolupu (wedding), 146–159, 161 Komban, 30 Kongu Region, 3, 34 Kumar, G. Krishna, 95–100 Kunnutaiya, 25 Kuveni, Naga queen, 107 Lakshmi, 5. See also Uppalamma Lalithambika, soaring popularity, 2 languages, indic, 3 Law, Pui Lam, 194 Leuva Patel caste, 178, 180, 181, 194, 195 limping mother/limping goddess. See Ai Khodiyar Lister, Edward, 205 Mahadevi (great goddess), 217, 219, 221, 228, 230, 233 Malaiyaha, 107, 108 mantra hum, 222 MacDaniel, June, 188 Mariyamman, 4–5; Angayee, 2; goddess of poxes, 63; husband Munnadiyan, 113–114; offshoot of Durga, 33 Moksa (liberation), 201 Mysore, 219, 225, 227, 228, 231, 232 Nirbhaya incident, 249 Panara, Baldevprasad, 188 Panda (priest), 209, 212 pan-Indian and local goddesses, 217 Paramesvari (supreme goddess), 201 Parashakthi temple in Pontiac Mich., 5, 6, 89–93 Parvati, 4, 5, 8; and Virgin Mary, 24; as creatrix, 23; bride of Shiva, 11; go-

Index between Shiva and Vishnu, 24; lead goddess, 11; three forms of, 12 Pattanaik, Devdutt, 56 Pintchman, Tracy, 5, 6 plantation, 108 plantation system: feminized economy, 112; shaped religiosity, 117–118 Pollock, Sheldon, 195 Ponnacci, 27, 30 Ponnivala, legend of, 3, 15 poosari, 3 puranas: Brhaddharma Purana, 201; Shiva Purana, 201; Markandeya Purana, 206 puranic system, 217, 218 Rajagopalachary, Mythili, 4–5 Rajan, Sunder, 255 Ramdass, 94, 97 Ravana, Hindu king, 107 religious resurgence, 177, 194 Religious Studies and India, 246 religious text v. religious practice, 252 religious nationalism, 255 resistance to government, 3 sacrifice and sacrificer, 203 Sakti, 223, 248; as female force, 223 Sami, Mariammal, 94 Sanscritization, 177, 195 Santeria, 108–109 Sarvaiya, Mangalsinh, 188 Sati, 201 Schroder, Ulrike, 66 Sexual desire in myths, 203 Shankar, 31 Shiva, 1, 3, 201, 202; temple festival, 36 Shiva and Vishnu: brothers-in-law, 16; equals, 16 Shiva vs. Vishnu, 16; cosmic balance of power, 16 shrine types: type one, Parvati, 35; type two, Celatta, 38; type three, Green Kali, 43; type four, Black Karukiali, 46; type four alternate, heroes, 50 Siva. See Shiva smallpox: goddesses, 63; vaccination, 63 Srinivas, M. N., 194 Snow, Jennifer, xiii South Asia conference, xiii

279

Sri Lanka: multiple ethnicities, 107; Tea Plantations, xiii Srinivasan, Perundevi, 5, 6 sthala purana (traditional lore), 2, 3, 11 stones as shrines, 186 Swamy, A. N. K., 95 Tamarai, 24; cursed by sow-boar, 27; denied entrance, 27 Tambs-Lyche, Harald, 181, 184, 185 Tamil: Malaiyaha, xiii; Migration to Sri Lanka, xiii Tamilnadu during colonial period, 63 Tangai burns palace, 32 Tantric tradition, 201, 203 Tantric texts, 202 teaching techniques, 14; appeal, 15; cohesion, 14; teachabilty, 14 temples: festivals, 207–209; Kannapuram Shiva, 35; locations, 33, 34; management of, 95; niche markets, 7; pilgrims, 2–12; in Thirumeeyachur, 3–11 Thirumeeyachur, 2; thiruviza, 115 traditions, coexistence of, 205 triangle statue, 110, 115 Turner, Victor, 108 Tweed, Thomas, 100 Uppalamma, xiii, 172; arrival of, 145; Christian and Muslim devotees, 144; as daughter of the house, 143; and Lakshmi, 161, 163–165; and mushrooms, 145–150, 156–165, 168–171; new ground vs. traditional ground, 144; reactions to appearance, 146–147. See also Lakshmi vaccination, cause of conflict, 63 variolation (inoculation) and smallpox goddesses, 63 Vicissitudes of the Goddess, xiii, 1, 5 vernacularization, 177, 195 virgin sacrifice, 223 Vijaya: marries Kuvena, 107; Sinhalese, 107 Virappur festival, 51 Viratangal, 30

280 Vishnu, 1, 201; as flirt, 6; as helper, 6; magic, 32; and Tamarai, 6; and triplets, 16 Voodoo, 108–109 Waghorne, Joanne, 90, 92–93, 100

Index world view of South Indian Peasant, 15 yoga, 1 yugas: cosmic decay, 9; repeating cycles, 33

About the Contributors

Sasikumar Balasundaram is visiting assistant professor at the College of William and Mary. He received his PhD in anthropology at the University of South Carolina. He worked as a lecturer in sociology for two years at the University of Peradeniya in Sri Lanka. His research interests include migration, globalization, gender, human rights, and contemporary social issues of the Up-country Tamils in Sri Lanka. His doctoral dissertation titled, “Freedom from Camp: Housing and Power in the Experience of Long-Term Sri Lankan Refugees in India” (2012). explores multiple marginalities of encampment of the Up-country Tamils in Indian refugee camps. He coauthored a book chapter with Ann Kingsolver titled, “Walking with Amman: Young Malaiyaha Tamils’ Views of Their Identity in Practice” (2007). His recent article, “Stealing Wombs: Sterilization Abuses among the Up-country Tamils in Sri Lanka,” was published in Indian Anthropologist (2012). Brenda Beck is currently an adjunct professor in the Department of Anthropology at the University of Toronto. In addition, from 1986 onward, she has run her own documentary and animation production company known as Soft Science Associates. Since 2004 she has also served as president of the Sophia Hilton Foundation of Canada, a small federally incorporated charity devoted to the development of educational, video-based curriculum materials. Earlier, between 1969 and 1983. Brenda was an assistant, associate, and then full professor at the University of British Columbia. Other academic positions she has held include an honorary appointment over several years in the Department of Comparative Studies at Trent University and a teaching position at the University of Madras for four months courtesy of the government of India. More recently Brenda has lectured by invitation at a variety of universities around the world and presented papers on many different topics 281

282

About the Contributors

at scholarly conferences. Dr. Beck’s animated feature film “The Gates of Heaven” received a nomination at FICCI-2011-Mumbai. Her twenty-six episode series titled, “The Legend of Ponnivala,” a folk epic from Tamilnadu, is currently being broadcast across Canada by the Asian Television network. During the production phase of this large project she was recruited by the government of Canada to discuss and display some of the material being prepared for this animated series at an animation workshop in Taipei. Professor Beck is the sole author of three books (one of them in two volumes) and lead editor-contributor for two more. She has also authored more than fifty academic articles. Adding to her published works is a recently completed two-volume compilation of twenty-six fully illustrated graphic novels (based on her animated work). Within the past few months Brenda has also made her latest illustrated story series available in ebook form via Kindle (in English and, separately, in Tamil). An interactive iPad version aimed at young students, accessible via Apple’s iTunes store, represents her latest publication adventure. This innovative departure in book production, though nearly identical in content to the above series, “self-narrates” and even presents short, animated video clips to readers on demand. Dr. Beck’s main project website can be viewed at: www.ponnivala.com. Priya Kapoor is associate professor of international studies at Portland State University. She researches grassroots movements and mobilizations, particularly in South Asia, and teaches courses in race, class, and gender in the media, critical and cultural studies, intercultural communication, and Bollywood cinema. Current areas of research include critical media studies, transnational feminism, and qualitative/critical methodology. An ongoing research project is a study of the community radio movement in India and South Asia. Another research project is a media ethnography examining Muslim identity, at a time when discourses on the War on Terror abound. Priya Kapoor’s latest publication is titled, “A Genealogy of Occupy within Transnational Contexts, and Communication Research” (2013), in an anthology Understanding Occupy from Wall Street to Portland, edited by Renee Heath, Vail Fletcher, and Ricardo Munoz. R. Mahalakshmi is associate professor at the Centre for Historical Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. She is the author of two books: The Making of the Goddess: Korravai-Durga in the Tamil Traditions (2011) and The Book of Lakshmi (2009). She has several research articles in prestigious journals and publications, on aspects of bhakti devotion in South India, goddess worship, and gender prescriptions in normative texts in the early Indian context. She teaches courses on state and economy in early India, ancient societies, religion, and art and architecture. She is currently working on

About the Contributors

283

political and religious transformations in early medieval Sri Lanka, with specific reference to Polonnaruva. Vasudha Narayanan is distinguished professor in the Department of Religion at the University of Florida. Her fields of interest are the Hindu traditions in India, Cambodia, and America; visual and expressive cultures in the study of the Hindu traditions; and gender issues. She is currently working on Hindu temples and traditions in Cambodia. She is the author of Hinduism (2004, 2009), The Vernacular Veda: Revelation, Recitation, and Ritual (1994), and The Way and the Goal: Expressions of Devotion in the Early Srivaisnava Tradition (1987). She coauthored The Life of Hinduism (with John Stratton Hawley, 2007), The Tamil Veda: Pillan’s Interpretation of the Tiruvaymoli (coauthored with John Carman, 1989), and numerous articles, chapters in books, and encyclopedia entries. Sree Padma is executive director of the Inter-Collegiate Sri Lanka Education (ISLE) Program, a study-abroad program in Sri Lanka. She also teaches at Bowdoin College, Brunswick, Maine, offering courses on the cultural history of South Asia. She has been a research associate in the Department of History and Archaeology at Andhra University, Visakhapatnam, Andhra Pradesh, where she completed her PhD. She has taught at Harvard University as a lecturer and research associate in women’s studies and history of religions, and as research assistant professor in Asian studies and assistant professor of history at Bowdoin College. She is the author of Costume, Coiffure, and Ornament in the Temple Sculpture of Northern Andhra (1991) and the coeditor of Buddhism in the Krishna River Valley of Andhra (2008). Her recent book is Vicissitudes of the Goddess: Reconstructions of the Gramadevata in India’s Religious Traditions (2013). Tracy Pintchman is professor of religious studies and director of the International Studies Program at Loyola University, Chicago. She specializes in the study of Hinduism, with a focus on goddess traditions and women’s rituals. She is the author, editor, or coeditor of over twenty articles and five books: The Rise of the Goddess in the Hindu Tradition (1994), In Search of Mahadevi (2001), Guests at God’s Wedding: Celebrating Kartik among the Women of Benares (2005), Women’s Rituals, Women’s Lives in the Hindu Tradition (2007), and Goddess and Woman in Hinduism (2011). Neelima Shukla-Bhatt is associate professor in South Asia studies at Wellesley College, Wellesley, MA. She studies and teaches courses on religion in South Asia. Her work focuses on devotional literature of medieval North India with a focus on its performative aspects, goddess traditions in Gujarat, Gandhi’s thought and work, and South Asian religions in the context

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About the Contributors

of globalization, especially as they traverse popular media. Her forthcoming book is titled, “Narasinha Mehta of Gujarat: A Legacy of Bhakti in Songs and Stories.” She is a coauthor of A Fire That Blazed in the Ocean: Gandhi and the Poems of Satyagraha in South Africa, 1909–1911 (2011). She has also published on woman poet Mira of Rajasthan, goddess worship dance of Gujarati women, and commercials for faith healers on the South Asian channels in the diaspora. Caleb Simmons is assistant professor of religion at the University of Arizona. He received his PhD in religion from the University of Florida in 2014. His research is focused on the relationship between the goddess Chamundi and the Wodeyar kingdom of Mysore and how devotional practices were a central feature in the process of king-fashioning in medieval South India. He has also published several articles on expressions of South Asian religious traditions in transnational popular culture. Previously, he held positions at Santa Fe College and the University of Mississippi. Perundevi Srinivasan is assistant professor of religious studies at Siena College in Loudonville, New York. She received her PhD in interdisciplinary human sciences from George Washington University in 2009 and was a postdoctoral associate with the Rutgers Center for Historical Analysis in 2009–2010. Srinivasan’s research interests are in religious traditions of South Asia, especially in popular religious practices engaging with colonial and post-colonial modernity, Tamil literature and films, epistemologies of body and subjectivity, gender and performance, and global feminisms. Her book chapter, titled “The Creative ‘Modern’ and the Myths of the Goddess of Poxes,” was included in Religion in Literature and Film in South Asia, edited by Diana Dimitrova (2010). Another book chapter, titled “Can We Cross the Chasm? Agency and Orientalist Discourse in the Colonial Tamil Context,” was included in Reorienting Orientalism, edited by Chandreyee Niyogi (2006). Her recent article “The Ascetic Goddess Who is Half Woman: Female Authority in the Discourses of Mariyamman’s Tapas” has been published in Nidan: International Journal for the Study of Hinduism 24 (2012). She has also authored three poetry collections and several articles and translations in Tamil.