Modern Ladakh: Anthropological Perspectives on Continuity and Change 9004167137, 9789004167131

Table of contents :
Contents
List of Illustrations
Introduction (Martijn van Beek and Fernanda Pirie)
Visions of Ladakh: Nicola Grist, 19 April 1957– 26 August 2004 (Sophie Day)
I. HISTORICAL TRENDS
Corvée transport labour in 19th and early 20th century Ladakh: a study in continuity and change (John Bray)
Carpet weaving in Ladakh and the influence
of Sonam Paljor (Monisha Ahmed)
II. REGIONAL IDENTITIES
Urbanisation in Kargil and its effects in the Suru valley (Nicola Grist)
Distant neighbours either side of the Omasi La: the Zanskarpa and the Bod communities of Paldar (Isabelle Riaboff)
III. RITUAL
Calculs pour l'ouverture de la bouche de la terre: étude du temps, géomancie et art divinatoire au Ladakh (Pascale Dollfus)
Small shoes and painted faces: possession states and embodiment in Buddhist Ladakh (Martin A. Mills)
Reformulating ingredients: outlines of a contemporary ritual for the consecration of medicines in Ladakh (Laurent Pordié)
Dancing in the face of death: Losar celebrations in Photoksar (Fernanda Pirie)
IV. KINSHIP AND GENDER
Groupes d'unifiliation, parenté et société à
maison au Ladakh (le phaspun) (Patrick Kaplanian)
Women's narrative life histories: implications for maternal and child health in Ladakh (Nancy P. Chin, Tim Dye and Richard Lee)
V. AGRICULTURE
Land use, land administration and land rights in Shigar, Baltistan (Matthias Schmidt)
The introduction of modern chemical fertiliser to the Zangskar valley, Ladakh, and its effects on agricultural productivity, soil quality and Zangskari society (J. Seb Mankelow)
Changing currents: an ethnography of the traditional irrigation practices of Leh town (Sunandan Tiwari and Radhika Gupta)
List of Contributors
Index

Citation preview

Modern Ladakh

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Brill’s Tibetan Studies Library Edited by

Henk Blezer Alex McKay Charles Ramble

VOLUME 20

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Modern Ladakh Anthropological Perspectives on Continuity and Change

Edited by

Martijn van Beek and Fernanda Pirie

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2008

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Cover photo: Ladakh, April 2008. Photo by Martijn van Beek. This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Modern Ladakh : anthropological perspectives on continuity and change / [edited] by Martijn van Beek and Fernanda Pirie. p. cm.—(Brill’s Tibetan studies library, ISSN 1568-6183 ; v. 20) Includes index. ISBN 978-90-04-16713-1 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Ladakhi (South Asian people)—Social conditions. 2. Ladakh (India)—Social conditions. I. Beek, Martijn van, 1961– II. Pirie, Fernanda, 1964– III. Title. IV. Series. DS432.L23M63 2008 305.895’4—dc22 2008017977

ISSN 1568-6183 ISBN 978 90 04 16713 1 Copyright 2008 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

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In memory of Nicky Grist 1957–2004

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CONTENTS List of Illustrations ......................................................................

ix

Introduction ................................................................................ Martijn van Beek and Fernanda Pirie

1

Visions of Ladakh: Nicola Grist, 19 April 1957– 26 August 2004 ....................................................................... Sophie Day

29

I. HISTORICAL TRENDS

Corvée transport labour in 19th and early 20th century Ladakh: a study in continuity and change ............................ John Bray

43

Carpet weaving in Ladakh and the influence of Sonam Paljor .......................................................................... Monisha Ahmed

67

II. REGIONAL IDENTITIES

Urbanisation in Kargil and its effects in the Suru valley .......... Nicola Grist Distant neighbours either side of the Omasi La: the Zanskarpa and the Bod communities of Paldar ................... Isabelle Riaboff

79

101

III. RITUAL

Calculs pour l’ouverture de la bouche de la terre: étude du temps, géomancie et art divinatoire au Ladakh .................... Pascale Dollfus

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contents

Small shoes and painted faces: possession states and embodiment in Buddhist Ladakh ........................................... Martin A. Mills

139

Reformulating ingredients: outlines of a contemporary ritual for the consecration of medicines in Ladakh ........................ Laurent Pordié

153

Dancing in the face of death: Losar celebrations in Photoksar ................................................................................ Fernanda Pirie

175

IV. KINSHIP AND GENDER

Groupes d’unifiliation, parenté et société à maison au Ladakh (le phaspun) .................................................................. Patrick Kaplanian

197

Women’s narrative life histories: implications for maternal and child health in Ladakh .................................................... Nancy P. Chin, Tim Dye and Richard Lee

229

V. AGRICULTURE

Land use, land administration and land rights in Shigar, Baltistan ...................................................................... Matthias Schmidt The introduction of modern chemical fertiliser to the Zangskar valley, Ladakh, and its effects on agricultural productivity, soil quality and Zangskari society ................................................. J. Seb Mankelow

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Changing currents: an ethnography of the traditional irrigation practices of Leh town ............................................................. Sunandan Tiwari and Radhika Gupta

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List of Contributors .......................................................................

301

Index ...............................................................................................

305

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Nicky Grist .................................................................................. Map of Ladakh and neighbouring regions ............................... Map of Ladakh ..........................................................................

v 2 3

Ahmed Fig. 1. Fig. 2. Fig. 3.

Nomadic woman weaving a rug on the backstrap loom. Rupshu, 2006. ............................................................. Abdul Hakim Shanku shows some of the carpets from Yarkand purchased by his father from Yarkandi traders in Leh bazaar in the early 1930s. Chushot, 2002. ...... Daniel Thangpa holds up one of Sonam Paljor’s carpets. Khalatse, July 1998. .....................................................

68 71 73

Dollfus Fig. 1.

Couverture de l’almanach (le’u tho) de l’année 1996/97 correspondant aux années Souris de Feu et Bœuf de Feu du 17e cycle de soixante ans (rab byung). ................ Fig. 2. Dessin du bouvier (glang rdzi) illustrant les prévisions météorologiques de l’année. ........................................ Fig. 3. Page d’almanach couvrant la période du 12 au 20 mars 1997, 4e au 12e jour du second mois lunaire. .............. Fig. 4. Case correspondant au 7e jour du second mois mongol de l’année Boeuf de Feu, 15 mars 1997. ..................... Fig. 5. Figure numérotée représentant un araire et un joug. Dartsi, p. 151. ............................................................. Fig. 6. La roue des agriculteurs. Dartsi, p. 150. ...................... Fig. 7. Tableau récapitulatif des heures fastes et néfastes en fonction des jours de la semaine. Dartsi, p. 168. ......... Fig. 8. Le ‘maître de la terre qui rampe sur ventre’. (Dessin tiré du Dartsi). ............................................................. Fig. 9. Diagramme de répartition des maîtres de la terre pour l’année de la Souris (à gauche) et l’année du Bœuf (à droite). ........................................................... Fig. 10. Tableau comparant les éléments des cinq énergies de l’année aux éléments de naissance. .............................

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x

list of illustrations

Pordié Fig. 1.

Illustration of arrangement of participants at the ceremony (inside the temple). ......................................

159

Schmidt Fig. 1. Fig. 2. Fig. 3. Table 1. Fig. 4. Fig. 5a.

The valleys of Shigar, Basha and Braldo. ................... Land use in Blaqchan (Union Council Marapi). ......... Land use in Hoto (Union Council Braldo). ................. Population of Shigar between 1911 and 1998. ........... Land classification according to revenue records. ....... Landed property of Xalbipong clan in Shigar, generation 1. ................................................................ Fig. 5b. Landed property of Xalbipong clan in Shigar, generation 3. ................................................................ Fig. 5c. Landed property of Xalbipong clan in Shigar, generation 5. ................................................................ Tiwari and Gupta Map of Leh valley ......................................................................

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INTRODUCTION Martijn van Beek and Fernanda Pirie Contemporary social scientific and humanities scholarship on Ladakh has its roots in colonial exploration and missionary activity in the nineteenth century. At this time, in part as a corollary of processes of state formation and colonial expansion in the Indian subcontinent, Ladakhi society became caught up in processes and projects of development which intensified, and arguably became more reflexive, in the following century. The historical background to these developments has been the subject of a significant body of scholarship, reviewed in the volume Ladakhi Histories, edited by John Bray (2005). In the present volume, all but two of the papers focus on post-1974 Ladakhi society, although the developments and trajectories that are the subject of individual contributions often have roots in the colonial era. Ladakh has attracted the attention of a remarkably large number of scholars in the social sciences and humanities. This interest may be attributed to the relative accessibility of Ladakh, as compared to neighbouring Tibet, which has remained largely closed to Western scholars. Except for the years from India’s winning of independence in 1947 until 1974, much of Ladakh could be visited by almost anyone with the means to hike across the Himalayan passes from Kashmir or Manali, or more recently to take the bus or aeroplane. The flow of Tibetan refugees into India and Nepal in the wake of China’s occupation of Tibet and the escape of the Dalai Lama in 1959 reinforced popular and academic interest in Tibetan society and culture, particularly Buddhism. Initially, anthropological studies of Tibetan societies were only possible among these refugees, mostly aimed at either reconstructing pictures of Tibetan society on the basis of their memories, or studying the adaptation of refugees to their new environment in India and Nepal.1 Anthropologists also worked among Tibetan-like communities in Nepal as well as in India, but particularly after the 1962 Sino-Indian war, research in border regions became

1

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Examples are Aziz (1978), Dargyay (1982) and Goldstein (1968, 1971, 1973).

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HUNZA

Shigar

PALDAR

Padum

Ladakh and neighbouring regions, showing India’s contemporary international boundaries and areas disputed with China and Pakistan. Drawn by Ea Rasmussen, Moesgård Museum/ University of Aarhus.

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50 km

Tingmosgam

SURU

Wanla

Panikhar

Alchi Chang La

Photoksar

Stakna

Omasi La

PALDAR Kishtwar

Sani

Gulabgarh

Panggong Tso

Nyi Padum Bardan

Atholi Killar

PANGI

Keylang Chamba Rohtang La

Kulu

Map of Ladakh. Drawn by Ea Rasmussen, Moesgård Museum/University of Aarhus.

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practically impossible. When the Indian government opened Ladakh to tourists in 1974, anthropologists and other scholars also began to make their way there. A major part of the attraction was the possibility to study what was regarded as a ‘traditional’ Tibetan society with a strong monastic establishment, the closest thing to what ‘real’ Tibet was imagined to have been like. It soon became clear, however, that Ladakhi society and culture could not so easily be subsumed under a generic Tibetan cultural or social model. Detailed ethnographic work showed significant differences not only between Tibet and Ladakh, but also within Ladakh.2 Among the first to conduct detailed, long-term research in Ladakh after its reopening were the members of the Cambridge University Undergraduate expedition in 1977, among them Nicola Grist, to whom this volume is dedicated.3 A group of mainly younger researchers working in Ladakh gathered in 1981 at Konstanz on the initiative of Detlef Kantowsky and in 1983 produced the first volume of Recent Research on Ladakh, an informal series of proceedings from Ladakh Studies conferences.4 After 1985 such conferences were held roughly every other year under the auspices of the International Association for Ladakh Studies, which was founded in 1987 at the initiative of the late Henry Osmaston.5 The present volume, too, originated in one such conference, held at Oxford in 2001, organised by Clare Harris and John Bray. It was Nicky who proposed the publication of a separate volume of papers on Ladakhi society, focusing on processes of development and change. After Nicky’s sudden death in the summer of 2004, Martijn van Beek and Fernanda Pirie took on the task of seeing the volume published. Although its origins in the Oxford conference and Nicky’s vision for the volume are still discernible, this is a different collection

2 Some of the most important early post-1974 studies of Ladakhi society and culture are Snellgrove and Skorupski (1977, 1980), Brauen (1980a, b), Kaplanian (1981) and the contributions to the first volumes of the Recent Research on Ladakh series (Kantowsky and Sander 1983; Dendaletche and Kaplanian 1985). 3 See Sophie Day’s chapter in this volume on Nicola Grist’s life and contributions to Ladakh studies. 4 The series includes: Kantowsky and Sander (1983), Dendaletche and Kaplanian (1985), Icke-Schwalbe and Meier (1990), Osmaston and Denwood (1995), Osmaston and Nawang Tsering (1997), Dodin and Räther (1997), van Beek et al. (1999) and Bray and Nawang Tsering (2007). The 13th colloquium took place in Rome in September 2007. 5 The International Association for Ladakh Studies website can be found at: http:// ladakhstudies.org/.

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than originally envisioned, incorporating papers presented at the Leh conference in 2003 and others written specially for the volume. A more detailed presentation of its contents is given in the second half of this introduction. Here, we offer a review of central themes and debates in the contemporary study of Ladakhi society and culture. We focus on scholarship in anthropology and related social sciences, rather than that on the ecology, health issues, material culture, or history, for example.6 We intend this introduction to be, in part, a contribution to those debates and themes and, in part, an introduction for readers without a background in Ladakh studies. Among other topics, we address the politics of scholarship, both in the sense that scholarly analyses and representations become part of political debates in and about Ladakh, and that scholarly interests are themselves politically situated. We suggest that there is a need to pay attention to such issues. More openness and willingness to debate such questions with local residents and scholars could also serve to create a platform for research that is of greater relevance to the people with whom we work and on whose knowledge and cooperation we depend—a dependence that deserves to be acknowledged more fully. Imperial Roots Much like the discipline of anthropology as a whole, the study of Ladakhi society and culture has roots in the expansion of Western political and missionary interests in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Even today, Moorcroft and Trebeck’s (1837) detailed descriptions of central Ladakhi society in the years prior to the Dogra invasion are routinely cited, as are those of government administrators and employees Alexander Cunningham (1854), Frederic Drew (1875), F. Maisey (1878) and H. Ramsay (1890). The mapping and description of the society and culture of Ladakh was deemed necessary for the proper administration, exploitation and development of the region. At a time when European governments were increasingly concerned with the welfare of their populations and required ever more detailed descriptions of

6 Recent research on material culture, including papers from the IALS conferences held at Oxford and Leh, is found in a volume edited by Monisha Ahmed and Clare Harris (2005). Bray (2005) contains papers on the history of Ladakh.

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ever more aspects of their lives, in the imperial territories we see a similar attention to detail. Motivations, no doubt, included the desire for securing colonial control over territories and populations, whether directly ruled by the British or by so-called princely states, such as Jammu and Kashmir became.7 The resulting descriptions of everything from material culture to kinship, religious practices and trade routes provide contemporary scholars with an historical depth against which contemporary processes of social and cultural continuity and change can be analysed. A second important historical source of knowledge about society and culture in Ladakh are the Christian missionaries. A.H. Francke (1907, 1914, 1926, 1929), H.A. Jäschke (1881), A. and K. Heber (1976 [1926]), S.H. Ribbach (1940, 1986 [1940]), Walter Asboe (1932, 1938, 1946, 1947) and others wrote and published detailed accounts of a wide range of social and cultural aspects of Ladakhi society, most of which remain valuable.8 Travellers and explorers are a third significant source of ethnographic information, in particular Alexander Csoma de KZrös (1834), Filippo de Filippi (1912, 1916, 1932), Giotto Dainelli (1922a, 1922b, 1924, 1931a, 1931b, 1934), Marco Pallis (1939), Anagarika Govinda (1966) and Rahul Sankrityayana (1939, 1950, 1951, 1952), who all travelled through the region in the first decades of the twentieth century and wrote valuable accounts.9 Among the first to carry out social anthropological research in Ladakh was Giotto Dainelli. Polyandry, in particular, attracted a good deal of attention and the first scholarly article on the topic was published in 1883 by Charles de Ujfalvy, who had carried out physical anthropological research in Ladakh. Prince Peter of Greece and Denmark, who visited Ladakh in 1936 with a view to studying polyandry as it was practised there, was a student of one of the founding fathers of

7 Princely states were nominally self-ruling territories within British India. They were subject to varying degrees of oversight and interference by the British imperial government. 8 John Bray’s (1988) Bibliography of Ladakh contains a full, annotated list of the historical sources and scholarship up to 1988. A new edition is in preparation. A comprehensive description of the work of A.H. Francke and other Moravian missionaries can be found in Walravens and Taube (1992). 9 Csoma de KZrös lived in Zangskar for several years and is widely regarded as one of the founders of modern Tibetan studies, see Le Calloc’h (1998) and various publications by P.J. Marczell (www.marczell.com). On Sankrityayana in Ladakh see van Beek (2001). So far, very little of Sankrityayana’s work has been made available in English.

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modern anthropology, Bronislaw Malinowski at the London School of Economics. Prince Peter travelled up to Leh from Manali via Korzok, documenting with notes, photographs and even film the lives of nomads, monks, caravaneers, urban dwellers and village farmers (Pedersen 2005; Pedersen and van Beek 2007). Some of his findings were published as part of his doctoral thesis at the London School of Economics, A Study of Polyandry (1959), which formed the basis for his 1963 book of the same title.10 After Indian independence in 1947, the Kashmir wars soon put the region beyond the reach of Western travellers and scholars.11 It was only after the opening of Ladakh to tourists in 1974 that the study of its society and culture again picked up, notably with studies by the Cambridge undergraduate expedition (1977, 1979), Martin Brauen (1980a, b) and two expeditions to Zangskar in 1980 and 1981 organised by John Crook, Henry Osmaston and Robert Attenborough. A subsequent flurry of doctoral theses, books and articles accompanied the formation of the IALS and the organisation of its colloquia. Situating Ladakhi Society As noted by John Bray in his introduction to Ladakhi Histories (2005: 2), it is difficult to unambiguously define Ladakh, whether it be in historical, political or cultural terms. He also notes that scholarly research on Ladakh is very much interdisciplinary. The complexity and diversity of processes, elements and forces that constitute any society or community requires that good scholarship draw on more than a single discipline. This is necessary for even a rudimentary understanding of any specific aspect of society and culture. Questions, methodologies, perspectives and audiences matter. Even if many anthropologists would stress that a holistic approach is what sets them apart from other scholars, hardly any today would maintain that a single study could provide a comprehensive and conclusive analysis of a given social or cultural topic. Although publishers might like them to do just that, not many anthropologists would unblinkingly assign to their monographs titles such as Part of his research was later revisited by John Crook and Tsering Shakya (1994). An interesting exception was the English Buddhist monk, Lobzang Jivaka. With the help of Kushok Bakula Rinpoche, he was granted permission to study Buddhism at Ridzong Monastery in the 1960s. His remarkable lifestory is discussed in Kennedy (2007a, b). 10 11

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were common in the past, such as The Nuer (Evans-Pritchard 1940) or The Ladakhi (Mann 1986), as if the people, communities and societies in question could be so easily defined, demarcated and described, and formed homogeneous wholes. The days when one could imagine Ladakh as having a single culture, economy, ecology and political system are long gone, exorcised by the complexity that detailed ethnographic studies of communities, households, individuals, regions, professional groups, kinship and marriage, and so forth, have brought to light. As Kaplanian points out in his chapter in this volume, we know today that the phaspun is a different creature in Stod than it is in Sham or in Zangskar. This is not to suggest that no generalisations are possible, but that social and cultural reality in Ladakh resists subsumption of all the diversity of experience and practice in social and cultural matters under a singular model, whether derived from Tibetan or Indian precedents or otherwise. This interrogation of received categories has been an important element in the anthropology of Ladakh since the 1980s. Two issues that have raised considerable debate, not least during IALS colloquia, are the representations of Ladakh as culturally Tibetan and as essentially Buddhist. While no-one would deny the strong cultural, linguistic, religious and historical relationships between Tibet and Ladakh, as John Bray (1991: 119) has pointed out, the tendency has been for these ties to obscure its relations with its other neighbours. Bray’s article was the first to emphasise the importance of situating Ladakh in its contemporary South Asian context. Ravina Aggarwal (1994, 1997, 2004), Smriti Srinivas (1998) and Martijn van Beek (1996, 1998b, 2000b, c), among others, have since shown the extent to which Ladakhi society, development, politics and practices of identification are significantly shaped by their Indian and, indeed, global contexts. A similar charge of myopia has been levelled at those responsible for the popular and scholarly tendency to regard Ladakh as a purely or authentically Buddhist society. Again, the point of criticism is not to deny the profound significance of Buddhism, but to take seriously the fact that the institutions, beliefs and rituals practised by the Buddhist populations have indigenous and Indic, as well as Tibetan Buddhist, roots and have, over the centuries, evolved particular regional forms and significance. Even more importantly, almost fifty percent of the population—and perhaps more today—are Muslims. Since the late 1980s, partly in response to the escalation of communal violence in Ladakh, Muslims in the region have received a great deal more scholarly

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attention. Nicola Grist was the only anthropologist of her generation to conduct extensive fieldwork among both Buddhist and Muslim villagers in both Leh and Kargil districts. She worked passionately to create greater visibility for the Shi’ite communities of Suru. Although there is a growing body of work on Muslims in Ladakh and on BuddhistMuslim relations,12 only little long-term research has yet been done in Kargil district. Some research is now in progress, while a couple of scholars with research experience from Baltistan have also begun visiting Ladakh in recent years. Perhaps the softening of the Line of Control that separates Ladakh and Baltistan may foster an increase in such scholarly border-crossing. Today, most scholars working in Ladakh are aware of the need to question received categorisations and to study Ladakhi society across, for example, religious and regional boundaries. Yet relatively few actually do so. Why? One contributing factor is the way in which the academy divides the world. Ladakh, as we have argued, fits poorly in terms of conventional area studies boundaries. Although in many ways part of ethnographic Tibet (Samuel 1993), contemporary Ladakhi society, in particular, can only very partially be understood in the context of traditional Tibetan studies. Similarly, although contemporary Ladakh is in many ways shaped by modern India and its location in Jammu and Kashmir, a South Asian studies background offers but limited preparation for research in Ladakh. Academically speaking, Ladakh is marginal and a poor fit within either sub-discipline.13 Consequently, scholars who work in Ladakh often need to place themselves either within the terms and themes of Tibetan and Buddhist studies, which favour the study of Ladakh as a Tibetan society, or within those of South Asian studies. In the latter case there is often little or no appreciation of the themes and terms of Tibetan studies scholarship which are crucial for the understanding of Ladakhi societies. Consequently, much of Ladakh studies remains marginal to both regional traditions of scholarship. In practice, therefore, some scholars predominantly engage the field of Tibetan studies (for example, Dollfus, Gutschow, Mills, Pirie and

12 On the Muslims of Ladakh, see Francke (1929), B.R. Rizvi (1986), Ghani Sheikh (1991, 1995), Dollfus (1991b, 1995a, b), Grist (1995, 1998, 2005), Srinivas (1995, 1997, 1998), Emmer (1996, 1999), Pinault (1999, 2001) and J. Rizvi (1999). 13 Indeed, the editors and publisher of the present volume had some discussion about whether it should be placed in the Tibetan Studies library or Brill’s Indological library.

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Riaboff ), while others have arguably engaged more with debates within South Asian studies (including Aggarwal, Srinivas and van Beek). Situating one’s work in the context of one or the other regional field has important implications for the themes and debates one engages with, as well as for the manner in which Ladakhi society and culture are understood and represented. To the extent that the fields of South Asian and Tibetan studies address common theoretical issues this disjuncture becomes less of a problem. The growth of anthropological studies within the wider Tibetan region has fostered just such a process of convergence, as scholars have come to grapple with common themes, such as processes of state formation, rapid economic and demographic change, minority-majority issues, and religion in officially secular nationstates. This makes discussions among scholars working in different parts of ethnographic Tibet easier and more productive and also enables them to engage more constructively with those working in other parts of South (and, indeed, Inner) Asia. Studying Modern Ladakh Early ethnographic work on Ladakh tended, we have suggested, to focus on village communities and had the flavour of what has been called ‘salvage anthropology’: the attempt to record information about ‘traditional’ societies before they disappear under the onslaught of modernity. To some, such as Crook (1980: 140) and Norberg-Hodge (1997: 196), features of Ladakhi society in 1974 could be taken as representative of traditional society. These accounts did not fully acknowledge the fact that Ladakh in 1974 was already very much a product of what we may gloss as modernisation processes, including the expansion and deepening of Indian state influence and intervention in the administration, economy and education, the impact of the closing of international borders, the occupation of Tibet, and India’s conflicts with Pakistan and China. Planned interventions aimed at developing Ladakh were initiated at least as far back as the tenure of Wazir W.H. Johnson in the 1880s. By the early twentieth century, detailed government surveys were carried out to assess the economic and social conditions of the population and to determine possible avenues for government intervention in order to ‘uplift’ the people. Campaigns against ‘social evils’, promotion of modern education, horticulture and handicraft production were all the subject of government initiatives, as well as major missionary and

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local activist concerns in the 1930s. Well before India’s independence, then, development and change were a central part of administrative and political activities in Ladakh, just as demands for different types of government intervention were put forward by newly formed local interest organisations, such as the Ladakh Buddhist Education Society, later the Ladakh Buddhist Association. After 1947, conflicts with Pakistan, and later with China, over Ladakh and Kashmir, ensured that Ladakh received an even greater amount of official attention. Strategic considerations led to a number of important infrastructure development projects, such as the construction of the Leh-Srinagar road, which was opened in 1962. As India’s national development strategy evolved, Ladakh became a recipient of a growing range of subsidies and planned interventions, from the distribution of subsidised food to education, public health services, government employment, electricity, and so forth. Early post-1974 research on Ladakh was largely shaped by contemporary trends in Tibetan and Himalayan studies. An important theme was the social and ritual organisation of village communities. Important discussions developed around themes that had already been flagged by the Moravians, such as the nature and function of the phaspun and kinship structures (Brauen 1980b; Phylactou 1989; Sander 1983a), the household (Phylactou 1989), and gender relations. Buddhism, popular religion, rituals and myths were among the topics explored in depth, particularly by Martin Brauen (1980a), Sophie Day (1989), Pascale Dollfus (1989, 1991a, 1994) and Patrick Kaplanian (1981, 1988). If the same themes were found in Tibetan and Himalayan studies, however, these scholars soon identified forms of social organisation and cultural practices distinctive to the region, particularly with respect to kinship and household organisation, spirit possession and life-cycle rituals. By the early 1980s, the topics of development and social change began to attract increasing attention (Crook 1980; Raza and Singh 1983; Goldstein and Paljor 1987). Changes in agriculture, the mainstay of the bulk of Ladakh’s population were the subject of a number of studies, including the groundbreaking work of the late founder and long-term president of the International Association for Ladakh Studies, Henry Osmaston (Osmaston 1985, 1994, 1995).14 Tourism had been

On agriculture, see Asboe (1947), Singh (1981, 1995), Darokhan (1999), Mankelow (1999) and Norberg-Hodge et al. (1989). On irrigation and water management see Labbal (1995, 2000), Gutschow (1997a) and Mankelow (2003), as well as Tiwari and Gupta in this volume. 14

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growing rapidly, bringing more than 17,000 visitors to Ladakh by 1984, having a significant impact on village and urban economies, as well as on the environment (Pitsch 1985; Goering 1990; Michaud 1991; Sood 2000; Gillespie 2006). Critical voices, including newly formed non-governmental organisations, such as the Ladakh Nutrition Project (LNP) and Ladakh Ecological Development Group (LEDeG)—both founded by non-Ladakhis—also began to express concern over the rapid transformation of popular culture, livelihoods and social norms. In particular, the campaign of the director of the Ladakh Project and founder of LEDeG, Helena Norberg-Hodge, against the application of conventional development models had a significant impact on debates inside Ladakh, as well as beyond. Ancient Futures (1991), her account of traditional Ladakhi society and the overwhelmingly negative changes, as she saw them, that development was bringing about, was received with a considerable degree of scepticism by locals as well as outsiders (Nawang Tsering 1994; van Beek 2000a).15 Yet even those who disagree with her diagnosis and proposed remedies, generally acknowledge that her work has been instrumental in drawing attention to the desirability of a greater, and more reflexive, Ladakhi voice in determining the form and trajectory of development in the region. The assertion of Ladakhi interests and the demand for a greater say in political and administrative matters led, in the late 1980s, to a major political crisis, as the Ladakh Buddhist Association spearheaded what became, at times, a violent agitation for regional autonomy. Simultaneously with the descent of Kashmir valley into armed struggle for secession from India, clashes between Buddhist and Muslim activists and the imposition of a social boycott on the Shi’ite and Sunni communities promoted a spate of research on community relations and religious identification, Ladakhi politics, and more recently on the management and settlement of disputes (Crook 1980, 1991, 1999; Bray 1991; Srinivas 1995, 1997, 1998; van Beek 1996, 1997, 1998a, 2000b, 2004; Emmer 1996, 1999; Bertelsen 1997a, 1997b, 1997c; Aggarwal 2004; Pirie 2006a, 2006b, 2006c, 2007). Local understandings of and practices related to health and illness have attracted the interest of researchers from an early date. Beliefs about supernatural causes of illness, rituals to avert or cure afflictions

The original version of the book was published in Danish and Swedish in 1988. A Ladakhi translation of the English edition was published in 1995 (Norberg-Hodge 1988, 1995). 15

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and the role and training of traditional practitioners, including oracles, have been studied by a number of researchers, in central Ladakh (Kaplanian et al. 1988; Kuhn 1988; Day 1989; Schenk 1995; Crook 1997, 1998; Boesi and Cardi 2003; Pordié 2002, 2003, 2007a, 2007b, 2008; Dollfus 2005–6), in Zangskar (Gutschow 1997b), among the nomads of Rupshu (Rösing 2003) and most recently among the ’Brog pa of the Da-Hanu area (Kloos 2004, 2005). After the opening of the Manali road in 1989 and subsequently of the areas around Tsokar and Tsomoriri, studies of the nomadic communities of Rupshu and Kharnag in Ladakh became possible, adding much to our understanding of the relationships between farming and pastoral communities (Ahmed 1996, 1999, 2002, 2004; Bhasin 1996; Rösing 2003; Dollfus 2004; Goodall 2004a, 2004b; Ahmed and Harris 2005). Zangskar became the subject of a coordinated, multi-disciplinary project, led by John Crook, Henry Osmaston and Robert Attenborough in the early 1980s, which resulted in a well-known edited volume (Crook and Osmaston 1994), containing detailed studies of the demography, geology, ecology, agriculture, religion and social structures of Stongde village. Subsequently, there has been work on popular religion and kingship (Riaboff 1997a, 1997b) and Kim Gutschow, in particular, has contributed to our understanding of Zangskari society and culture, landscape and, above all, Buddhist nuns (Gutschow 1995, 1996, 1997b, 1997c, 1998, 2000, 2004). Although popular Buddhism and, more recently, Buddhist identification, have received a good deal of attention, there continue to be relatively few detailed studies of monastic Buddhism. The notable exceptions are Singh (1977), Goldstein and Paljor Tsarong (1985), Paljor Tsarong (1987), Grimshaw (1992), Crook and Tsering Shakya (1994), Mills (2000, 2003, 2007) and Gutschow (2004). At the same time, the analysis of contemporary Ladakhi society, economy and culture by Ladakhi scholars has been steadily increasing (see contributions in Osmaston and Nawang Tsering 1997; Dodin and Räther 1997; van Beek et al. 1999; Bray and Nawang Tsering 2007). Local scholarship has historically been dominated by studies of Buddhism, folklore, and regional history,16 but there is an increasing focus

16 There is a strong and important local tradition of historical scholarship, which includes Gergan (1976), Lobsang Zodpa and Nawang Tsering (1982), Tashi Rabgias (1984), Nawang Tsering Shakspo (1988, 1997, 1999), Khan (1997) and Sheikh (2006),

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on development, health, education and ecological issues, while the IALS colloquium held in Kargil in 2005, saw a considerable number of papers presented on the history, society and culture particular to that region. New Research on Modern Ladakh The chapters in this volume illustrate the vitality of the research being carried out in Ladakh in the early twenty-first century, within both anthropology and related disciplines. They demonstrate the continuing importance of well-developed themes within the literature, as well as new topics of research. Certain theoretical discussions are continuing, while new ones are emerging, often linked to wider debates within the academy. The first two groups of papers, History and Identity, consider Ladakh in a regional perspective. As such, they complement and build upon the themes of John Bray’s Ladakhi Histories, but with a focus on continuity and change, the main themes of the current volume. The first two papers illustrate some of the historical influences that flowed through Ladakh in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, as a result of political change, conquest, colonialism and partition, but also in the form of new technologies. Trade was a major factor in the dissemination of new ideas and influences, as illustrated by the important work of Janet Rizvi (1985, 1999), and Bray’s chapter discusses the institution of begar, the transport labour tax that made such activities possible over the immense distances of the Himalayas. Bray outlines the historic occurrence of begar throughout the Tibetan plateau, where the maintenance of effective communications has been, and still is, of vital importance for all forms of centralised government. His chapter builds on the work of Nicky Grist (1994) by analysing, in particular, the changes in the begar system brought about during the colonial period. Interestingly the chapter by Schmidt, later in the volume, indicates the importance of begar in the neighbouring region of Baltistan, a historically important trading destination for Ladakh. Ahmed’s chapter discusses the history of carpet weaving in Ladakh, and the influence on it of Central Asian trade. She illustrates one of the ways in which new technologies, here the vertical frame loom for weaving carpets, penetrated the region. One enterprising individual as well as in Buddhist studies, including Nawang Tsering (1979), Thupstan Paldan (1990a, b) and Jamyang Gyaltsen (1995).

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learned to use the loom in the early twentieth century by examining the carpets that came from Tibet and talking to Tibetan traders. This is, however, an example of a new technology which was not, ultimately, to catch on and Ahmed compares similar experiences with recent attempts to promote weaving in the region. The next group of papers, Identities, illustrates the heterogeneous nature of the region generally known as ‘greater Ladakh’ and the important interactions that have always occurred between the Ladakhis and members of the surrounding regions. Grist is one of the few researchers to have concentrated on the Muslims of the Kargil region, who are still under-represented in the literature. The chapter in this volume contains extracts from her doctoral thesis (Grist 1998) and illustrates the effects of urbanisation in Kargil and the emergence of an administrative elite, following the establishment of Kargil as a separate Block with its own administration in 1979. It discusses the effects such changes are having in the Suru valley, where agriculture is still the predominant means of subsistence, but where new economic opportunities are emerging and new forms of power, status and gender relations are being negotiated. Riaboff investigates the links between Zangskar and the region of Paldar, across the Himalayas to the south-west. Her chapter describes the routes that were followed over some of the highest and most dangerous passes in the region. She illustrates the historical connections forged through migration, as well as through trade. This adds further detail to the outline of trading patterns already discussed by Rizvi (1999). It is ironic that it is with the coming of better communications to Ladakh, as a whole, and its more secure integration into the rest of Jammu and Kashmir and India through the road and air links with Srinagar, Jammu and Delhi, that the old routes should, effectively, have been abandoned. Ladakh’s former links with the regions to the south, and west, like Paldar, have, as a consequence, practically been cut. The second group of papers, Ritual and Kinship and Gender, engage with several of the most important themes that have characterised the anthropology of Ladakh: local religious and ritual practices, the pantheon of the local deities and the region’s distinctive kinship organisation. These themes, discussed in the context of modernity, are complemented by the consideration of the amchi medicine system, health and gender issues. As in the chapter by Ahmed, Dollfus’s study focusses on a single, well-known and dynamic individual. Sonam Gompo was one of the onpos, the astrologers, who still play a central role in the ritual lives of

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the Ladakhi populations, determining appropriate and auspicious dates for life-cycle rituals, major festivals and agricultural events. Her chapter emphasises the importance of the lineage, rgyud, in establishing authority among the onpos, as it is among the amchis, a factor pointed out by Pordié, in his chapter in this volume. Lineage is one of the means by which knowledge is transmitted and continuity in ritual skills and practices has traditionally been ensured. Dollfus’s chapter ends, however, with a reflection on the processes of modernity in Ladakh, which she credits with the fact that this onpo’s son is not interested in continuing the practices of his father. The declining importance of his work in modern society is apparent. The papers by Mills, Pirie and Pordié, however, indicate the continuing centrality of cosmological and ritual practices, in the form of spirit possession, the New Year festival and amchi rituals. They demonstrate the continuing ontological importance of such ritual practices, as well as their centrality to community structures and medicine practices. Mills discusses spirit possession, a phenomenon which remains significant in the region, especially, and perhaps surprisingly, amidst the modernity of urban Leh. Among the clients of certain well-known lhamos, female spirits mediums, are often to be found Muslims and Hindus from other parts of India, including members of the army, as well as tourists and other westerners. Mills’s chapter builds on a substantial body of literature on spirit possession in Ladakh (Day 1989; Kaplanian 1990; Crook 1997, 1998; Srinivas 1997), drawing comparisons with studies from Tibet (Aziz 1976; Dreyfus 1998). He reconsiders the concept of possession in the context of wider philosophical debates about mind-body dualism. He, thus, uses the Ladakhi example to contribute to wider discussions within psychiatric anthropology about notions of possession and its social, cultural and religious framework. Pirie examines one of the most important ritual events within the Ladakhi calendar, Losar, the New Year festival. Although losing many of its ritual elements in the urban centre, the festival retains its vitality in many villages. Pirie builds on discussions by Brauen (1980), Kaplanian (1981) and Dollfus (1987) to examine the ritual as a classic ‘rite-of-passage’, one which highlights structural tensions between the socio-political and cosmological worlds of the villagers. As Brauen (1980: 114–16) and Rigal (2000) have already pointed out, there are parallels between the events of Losar and festivals that occur in the Hindu Kush region of Pakistan. Pirie describes how the Ladakhi festival incorporates the allegorical narrative of a historical figure who made his way along

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the Indus river from its source, bringing cultural influences into Ladakh, indicating an institutional memory of historic links between Ladakh and regions beyond the Tibetan plateau to the west. The paper also illustrates the discussions of tradition and modernity, continuity and change which occur amongst the villagers themselves. Pordié’s chapter builds on the growing body of literature on amchi medicine in Ladakh, amongst which his own works take a central place. Here, he develops an analysis of the Ladakhi experience of development and its manifestation in a traditional ritual for the empowerment of medicines. The chapter contains a careful analysis of the ritual, as it took place on the Changthang plateau in 2006; but Pordié also demonstrates the way in which the meaning and significance of development for the Ladakhi amchis is played out in the events that surround it. The amchis’ relations with westerners, both development workers and filmmakers, were negotiated by them in accordance with their traditional practices of religious patronage. Contrasting the westerners’ views of the ‘authenticity’ inherent in the ritual, Pordié demonstrates the ways in which the amchis advance their own views of development. Thus, they unite this vision and their ritual preoccupations with the power of the Buddha and the efficacy of Tibetan medicine. The chapters in the section on Kinship and Gender contribute to, and also move on from, well-developed themes concerning kinship in Ladakh, supplementing this literature with new discussions of gender and the links between gender issues and health. Kaplanian engages with one of the debates that has been central to a distinctively Ladakhi anthropology, the nature of the phaspun, a form central and unique to Ladakhi kinship organisation. Building on previous debates (Brauen 1980; Kaplanian 1981), he reconsiders the phaspun in the context of Levi-Strauss’s concept of the ‘household society’, which has been applied to Ladakh by both Phylactou (1989) and Dollfus (1989). He argues that, in fact, the household society model does not fit the Ladakhi case. Rather, there are two distinct groups, the phaspun, which operates as a descent group organised on patrilineal lines, and the household, which is the basis for village social organisation and is organised on topological lines. He suggests that the complex relations between the two, which are apparent during life-cycle rituals, represent the Ladakhi solution to the universal problem of marriage in patrilineal societies and the need for the woman to leave the patriclan. The chapter by Chin, Dye and Lee considers family relations in Ladakh, by contrast, in the context of health issues. The authors

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examine ethnographic data from Zangskar about women’s health and child mortality in order to reconsider certain models employed in public health research for explaining the determinants of child mortality in developing countries. They are able to use this material to make recommendations for future health programmes in the region. The themes of modernity and development are clearly brought out in the last group of papers in the volume, those on agriculture. Three studies from Leh, Zangskar and Baltistan demonstrate the processes of adaptation and resistance, continuity and change which take place in the region, as different communities are affected, to varying degrees, by new forms of social and political organisation, changing demographics, the introduction of new agricultural technologies and economic opportunities. In Zangskar, Mankelow outlines the strategies adopted by local farmers after the introduction of chemical fertilizers. In a detailed empirical study, he discusses the ways in which they have experimented with the new fertilizers and adapted their farming techniques accordingly, balancing the benefits of ease of application and taller crops against a perceived decline in soil quality and that of the resulting grains. These findings are analysed in the context of changing marriage and inheritance practices. In a parallel with Grist’s discussions of Kargil, Mankelow considers the ways in which these new agricultural techniques and, in particular, the need for cash to pay for fertilizer have social significance in the context of the new forms of status that can be acquired within the cash economy. Schmidt also traces the links between land use and social structures, here in the context of Baltistan. In his detailed study of changing patterns of land use through the twentieth century he traces the connections between resource use patterns and the effects of changing political configurations. Like Bray, in his chapter in this volume, he demonstrates the effects of the colonial period on political organisation, going on to consider the subsequent changes brought by post-colonial politics on centuries-old practices. He concludes that land use patterns are both robust and flexible, able to adapt to changing political, ecological and demographic conditions. This chapter also demonstrates striking continuities with many Ladakhi institutions. As well as begar, these include lora and res, the systems for sharing agricultural and pastoral tasks and managing communal property, through which communal agricultural activities are organised, despite the very different social and political contexts.

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The twin themes of continuity and change are, perhaps, most neatly illustrated in the paper on irrigation patterns in Leh by Tiwari and Gupta. Water is one of the scarcest resources in Ladakh and its distribution is a perennial source of conflict and struggle. That the disputes that flare up each summer are contained and limited to a relatively low level is testament to the continuing importance and practical functioning of the complex irrigation systems found in the region. These still control the distribution of water in agricultural areas, including the large parts of Leh where there are still fields and vegetable gardens and where the system is possibly more complex than anywhere else in Ladakh. As the authors describe, several villages effectively coordinate their water use into a single system under the control of locally-elected water officials. They trace the mechanics of distribution, discuss its ritual background and management, including the evidence of deliberate change in response to altered use patterns in recent years. Considering the rapidly and dramatically changing social and political climate of Leh, they demonstrate the continuing influence of the locally selected water officials, who operate substantially beyond the control of the regional government, but with its recognition and support. The Politics and Practice of Scholarship Writers such as Helena Norberg-Hodge adopted a selective perspective on Ladakhi society to create a powerful narrative about change. Development is presented as an ominous force destroying what was a harmonious, happy and wealthy society, indeed a model for the world. A dramatically opposed picture is painted by R.S. Mann (1986, 2002), who suggests that Ladakh is a frontier region bogged down in tradition and religious prejudice, insufficiently developed by the forces of modernity and change. The politics of such projects may be relatively easy to identify and, hence, dismissed by some as of limited scholarly relevance. Nevertheless, practically all scholarship on contemporary Ladakh is capable of entering a politicised public realm in which representations of Ladakh have powerful effects on the people who live in the region. This is most obviously the case with studies of Ladakhi politics and communal relations, but topics such as the Ladakhi language and its development (Zeisler 1999), demographic development, fertility and birth practices (Wiley 1997, 2004), health and medicine (Goldstein et al. 1983; Lee 2000, 2001; Pordié 2003; Tsering Norboo and Tsering

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Morup 1997), gender relations (Reis 1983; Aggarwal 1995, 2002; Fatima 1999; Hay 1999; Spalzes Angmo 1999) and class or caste discrimination (Erdmann 1983; Rather 1997, 2000)17 are all issues that can stir up fierce responses. Scholars from all disciplinary backgrounds must, we suggest, rise above the political tensions that are coming to dominate the region, just as they must avoid the stereotypes and assumptions created by past generations of scholars, writers and travellers. It is our duty always to question our own choice of topic for study, our methods, as well as the categories we first reach for in our analyses and the images we are initially inclined to construct in our narratives. As our survey of research on Ladakhi society and culture shows, however, successive generations of researchers have addressed previous lacunae and blind spots. Many scholars have made efforts to address the shortcomings that they themselves identified in their earlier critiques of the regional scholarship. The growing presence, marginal though it continues to be, of local scholars and particularly of younger Ladakhi graduates, may well foster research in geographical areas hitherto largely unstudied (for political or pragmatic reasons) as well as on issues that are regarded as important by local scholars and public opinion in the region itself. Acknowledgements John Bray helped in numerous ways, Isabelle Riaboff edited the contributions in French, Henk Thoma made available and adapted his map of Leh Valley, Ea Rasmussen drew maps of Ladakh and the wider region and Jill Sudbury and Eva Pirie assisted with the editing. We thank them for their help and the authors for their contributions, their patience and assistance in bringing this volume to completion. References Aggarwal, Ravina. 1994. From Mixed Strains of Barley Grain: Person and Place in a Ladakhi Village. PhD thesis: Indiana University.

17 Although the term ‘caste’ is not often used in writing on Ladakh there are those, such as Aggarwal (2002), who consider that it is the most appropriate way to categorise the distinction made between commoners (mi mangs) and the lower classes or ‘outcastes’ (rigs ngan), who include blacksmiths and musicians.

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——. 1995. Shadow Work: Women in the Marketplace in Ladakh, India. Anthropology of Work Review 16: 33–38. ——. 1997. From Utopia to Heterotopia: Towards an Anthropology of Ladakh. In H. Osmaston and Nawang Tsering (eds), Recent Research on Ladakh 6. Bristol: University of Bristol. ——. 2002. Trails of Turquoise: Feminist Enquiry and Counter-Development in Ladakh, India. In K. Saunders (ed.) Feminist Post-Development Thought. London and New York: Zed Books. ——. 2004. Beyond Lines of Control: Performance and Politics on the Disputed Borders of Ladakh, India. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Ahmed, Monisha. 1996. “We Are Warp and Weft”: Nomadic Pastoralism and the Tradition of Weaving in Rusphu. DPhil thesis, University of Oxford. ——. 1999. The Salt Trade: Rupshu’s Annual Trek to Tso Kar. In M. van Beek, K. Bertelsen and P. Pedersen (eds), Ladakh: Culture, History, and Development between Himalaya and Karakoram. Aarhus: University Press. ——. 2002. Living Fabric: Traditions of Weaving Among the Nomads of Ladakh Himalaya. Bangkok: Orchid Press. ——. 2004. The Politics of Pashmina: The Changpas of Eastern Ladakh. Nomadic Peoples, 8(2), 89–106. Ahmed, Monisha and Clare Harris. 2005. Ladakh: Culture at the Crossroads. Mumbai: Marg Publications. Asboe, Walter. 1932. Disposal of the Dead in Tibet. Man 32: 66–67. ——. 1938. Social Festivals in Ladakh Kashmir. Folk-Lore 49: 376–89. ——. 1946. Pottery in Ladakh, Western Tibet. Man 46: 9–10. ——. 1947. Farmers and Farming in Ladakh. Journal of the Royal Central Asian Society 34: 186–92. Aziz, Barbara. 1978. Tibetan Frontier Families: Reflections of Three Generations from D’ing-ri. New Delhi: Vikas Publishing House. van Beek, Martijn. 1996. Identity fetishism and the art of representation: the long struggle for regional autonomy in Ladakh. PhD thesis, Cornell University. ——. 1997. The Importance of Being Tribal, or: the Impossibility of Being Ladakhis. In T. Dodin and H. Räther (eds), Recent Research on Ladakh 7. Ulm: Universität Ulm. ——. 1998a. True Patriots: Justifying Autonomy for Ladakh. Himalayan Research Bulletin 18: 35–45. ——. 1998b. Worlds Apart: Autobiographies of Two Ladakhi Caravaneers Compared. Focaal 32: 51–69. ——. 2000a. Lessons from Ladakh? Local Responses to Globalization and Social Change. In J.D. Schmidt and J. Hersh (eds), Globalization and Social Change. London: Routledge. ——. 2000b. Beyond Identity Fetishism: ‘Communal’ Conflict in Ladakh and the Limits of Autonomy. Cultural Anthropology 15: 525–69. ——. 2000c. Dissimulations: Representing Ladakhi ‘Identity’. In H. Driessen and T. Otto (eds), Perplexities of Identification: Anthropological Studies in Cultural Differentiation and the Use of Resources. Aarhus: University Press. ——. 2001. Rahul Sankrityayana and Early Buddhist Organisation in Ladakh. Ladakh Studies 16: 23–27. ——. 2004. Dangerous Liaisons: Hindu Nationalism and Buddhist Radicalism in Ladakh. In S. Limaye, M. Malik and R. Wirsing (eds), Religious Radicalism and Security in South Asia. Honolulu: Asia-Pacific Center for Security Studies. van Beek, Martijn and Kristoffer Brix Bertelsen. 1997. No Present without Past: the 1989 Agitation in Ladakh. In T. Dodin and H. Räther (eds), Recent Research on Ladakh 7. Ulm: Universität Ulm. van Beek, Martijn, Kristoffer Brix Bertelsen and Poul Pedersen. 1999. Ladakh: Culture, History, and Development between Himalaya and Karakoram. Aarhus: University Press.

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Bertelsen, Kristoffer Brix. 1997a. Early Modern Buddhism in Ladakh. In T. Dodin and H. Räther (eds), Recent Research on Ladakh 7. Ulm: Universität Ulm. ——. 1997b. Our Communalised Future: Sustainable Development, Social Identification and Politics of Representation in Ladakh. PhD thesis, Aarhus University. ——. 1997c. Protestant Buddhism and Social Identification in Ladakh. Archives de Sciences sociales des Religions 99: 129–51. Bhasin, Veena. 1996. Transhumants of Himalayas: Changpas of Ladakh, Gaddis of Himachal Pradesh and Bhutias of Sikkim. Delhi: Kamla-Raj Enterprises. Boese, Alessandro and Francesca Cardi. 2003. The variability of Tibetan materia medica and its identification criteria: the case of Ladakh, India. Atti della Società Italiana di Scienze Naturali e del Museo Civico di Storia Naturale di Milano 144(2): 211–30. Brauen, Martin. 1980a. Feste in Ladakh. Graz: Akademische Druck- und Verlagsanstalt. ——. 1980b. The Pha Spun of Ladakh. In M. Aris and Aang San Suu Kyi (eds), Tibetan Studies in Honour of Hugh Richardson. Warminster: Aris and Phillips. Bray, John. 1988. A Bibliography of Ladakh. Warminster: Aris and Phillips. ——. 1991. Ladakhi History and Indian Nationhood. South Asia Research 11(2): 115–33. ——. 2005. Ladakhi Histories: Local and Regional Perspectives. Leiden: Brill. Bray, John and Nawang Tsering Shakspo. 2007. Recent Research on Ladakh 2007. Leh: J & K Academy of Art, Culture and Languages. Cambridge Undergraduate Ladakh Expedition. 1977. Cambridge University, unpublished. Cambridge Undergraduate Ladakh Expedition. 1979. Reports on Ladakh 1977–1979. Cambridge University, unpublished. Crook, John. 1980. Social Change in Indian Tibet. Social Science Information 19: 139–66. ——. 1991. Buddhist Ethics and the Problem of Ethnic Minorities: the Case of Ladakh. In C. Wei-Hsun Fu and S.A. Wawrytko (eds), Buddhist Ethics and Modern Society. New York: Greenwood Press. ——. 1997. The Indigenous Psychiatry of Ladakh, Part 1: Practice Theory Approaches to Trance Possession in the Himalayas. Anthropology and Medicine 4: 289–307. ——. 1998. The Indigenous Psychiatry of Ladakh, Part 2: Narrative and Metanarrative in the Cultural Control of Dissociative Status in the Himalayas. Anthropology and Medicine 5: 23–43. ——. 1999. The Struggle for Political Representation in Ladakh. Bulletin of the Royal Institute of Inter-Faith Studies 1: 137–60. Crook, John and Henry Osmaston (eds). 1994. Himalayan Buddhist Villages. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Crook, John and Tsering Shakya. 1994. Six Families of Leh. In J. Crook and H. Osmaston (eds), Himalayan Buddhist Villages. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. ——. 1994. Monastic communities in Zangskar: location, function and organisation. In J. Crook and H. Osmaston (eds), Himalayan Buddhist Villages. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Csoma de KZrös, Alexander. 1834. Essay towards a dictionary, Tibetan and English. Calcutta: Baptist Mission Press. Cunningham, Alexander. 1854. Ladak, Physical, Statistical and Historical. Delhi: Sagar Publications. Dargyay, Eva. 1982. Tibetan Village Communities: structure and change. Delhi: Vikas Publications. Darokhan, Mohammed Deen. 1999. The Development of Ecological Agriculture in Ladakh and Strategies for Sustainable Development. In M. van Beek, K. Bertelsen and P. Pedersen (eds), Ladakh: History, Culture and Development between Himalaya and Karakoram. Aarhus: University Press. Day, Sophie. 1989. Embodying Spirits: Village Oracles and Possession Ritual in Ladakh, North India. PhD thesis, London School of Economics. Dendaletche, Claude and Patrick Kaplanian. 1985. Ladakh, Himalaya Occidental: Ethnologie, Ecologie. Pau: Centre Pyrénéen de Biologie et Anthropologie des Montagnes. Dodin, Thierry and Heinz Räther (eds). 1997. Recent Research on Ladakh 7. Proceedings of the 7th Colloquium of the International Association for Ladakh Studies. Ulm: Universität Ulm.

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——. 1987. De-encapsulation and change in Ladakh. In M. Raha (ed.) The Himalayan Heritage. Delhi: Gian Publishing House. Goldstein, Melvyn, Paljor Tsarong and Cynthia Beall. 1983. High altitude hypoxia, culture and fecundity/fertility: a comparative study. American Anthropologist 85: 28–50. Goodall, Sarah. 2004a. Rural-to-urban migration and urbanization in Leh, Ladakh: a case study of three nomadic pastoral communities. Mountain Research and Development 24: 220–27. ——. 2004b. Changpa nomadic pastoralists: differing responses to change in Ladakh, North-West India. Nomadic Peoples 8(2): 191–99. Govinda, Anagarika. 1966. The way of the white clouds: a Buddhist pilgrim in Tibet. London: Hutchinson. Grimshaw, Anna. 1992. Servants of the Buddha: winter in a Himalayan convent. London: Open Letters. Grist, Nicola. 1994. The Use of Obligatory Labour for Porterage in Pre-independence Ladakh. In P. Kværne (ed.) Tibetan Studies. Proceedings of the 6th Seminar of the International Association of Tibetan Studies. Oslo: Institute for Comparative Research in Human Culture. ——. 1995. Muslims in Western Ladakh. The Tibet Journal 20(3): 59–70. ——. 1998. Local Politics in the Suru Valley of Northern India. PhD thesis, Goldsmiths College, University of London. ——. 2005. The History of Islam in Suru. In J. Bray (ed.) Ladkahi Histories: Local and Regional Perspectives. Leiden: Brill. Gutschow, Kim. 1995. Kinship in Zanskar: Idiom and Practice. In H. Osmaston and P. Denwood (eds), Recent Research on Ladakh 4 and 5. London: School of Oriental and African Studies. ——. 1996. The Power of Compassion or the Power of Rhetoric? A report on Sakyadhita’s 4th International Conference on Buddhist Women. Himal 9(6): 18–20. ——. 1997a. ‘Lords of the fort’, ‘Lords of the water’, and ‘No lords at all’: the politics of irrigation in three Tibetan societies. In H. Osmaston and Nawang Tsering (eds), Recent Research on Ladakh 6. Bristol: Bristol University Press. ——. 1997b. A Study of ‘Wind Disorder’ or Madness in Zangskar, Northwest India. In T. Dodin and H. Räther (eds), Recent Research on Ladakh 7. Ulm: Universität Ulm. ——. 1997c. Unfocussed Merit-Making in Zangskar: A Socio-Economic Account of Karsha Nunnery. The Tibet Journal 22(2): 30–58. ——. 1998. Hydro-Logic in the Northwest Himalaya: Several Case Studies from Zangskar. In I. Stellrecht (ed.) Karakorum-Hindukush-Himalaya: Dynamics of Change. Köln: Rüdiger Köppe Verlag. ——. 2000. Novice Ordination for Nuns: The Rhetoric and Reality of Female Monasticism in Northwest India. In E.B. Findly (ed.) Women’s Buddhism, Buddhism’s Women: Tradition, Revision, Renewal. Boston: Wisdom Publications. ——. 2004. Being a Buddhist Nun: The Struggle for Enlightenment in the Himalayas. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Hay, Katherine. 1999. Gender, Modernisation and Change in Ladakh. In M. van Beek, K. Bertelsen and P. Pedersen (eds), Ladakh: Culture, History, and Development between Himalaya and Karakoram. Aarhus: University Press. Heber, A.R. and K.M. Heber. 1976 (1926). Himalayan Tibet and Ladakh. New Delhi: Ess Ess Publications. Icke-Schwalbe, Lydia and Gudrun Meier. 1990. Wissenschaftsgeschichte und gegenwärtige Forschungen in Nordwest-Indien. Dresden: Staatliches Museum für Völkerkunde. Jäschke, H.A. 1881. A Tibetan-English dictionary. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Jamyang Gyaltsan (’Jam dbyangs rgyal mtshan) 1995. Dgon rabs kun gsal nyi snang (The History of Ladakh Monasteries). Leh: All Ladakh Gonpa Society. Kantowsky, Detlef and Reinhard Sander. 1983. Recent Research on Ladakh: History, Culture, Sociology, Ecology. München: Weltforum Verlag. Kaplanian, Patrick. 1981. Les Ladakhi du Cachemire. Paris: Hachette.

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VISIONS OF LADAKH: NICOLA GRIST, 19 APRIL 1957–26 AUGUST 2004 Sophie Day Dr Nicola Grist introduced me to Ladakh and enabled my subsequent and much longer visit in the early 1980s.1 Her tragic and untimely death prompted my visit to Leh and Kargil in the summer of 2005, where I was able to visit her close friends and to give a talk in her honour at the 12th Colloquium of the International Association for Ladakhi Studies. This paper is based on that presentation.

On her first, almost accidental, visit to Ladakh in 1976, soon after its borders were opened to foreigners, Nicky fell in love with the region and dedicated much of her life to it. While an undergraduate at Cambridge University she took part in two expeditions to the region, in the summers of 1977 and 1978, and contributed to the writing of the subsequent reports (CULE 1 and 2). After graduating from Cambridge, Nicky lived near Leh for more than two years, made many friends, worked as a teacher, primarily in Lamdon school, and volunteered for Save the Children Fund. She spoke Ladakhi well and continued anthropological research, for example, into histories of trading and the Kesar myth that meme in Mir house in Gompa village told us both over many a long winter evening in 1981. She also gathered comparative material outside the Indus valley, travelling to Zanskar, Suru and elsewhere in the wider Ladakhi diaspora such as Delhi and Nepal. Gaining a British research council grant for doctoral research in 1993, Nicky shifted her primary research site from the Indus to the Suru valley. She returned as a volunteer teacher and then member of the management committee at Noon public school in Taisuru, in the upper Suru valley. Nicky completed her thesis at Goldsmiths’ College, University of London, in 1998. Nicky enjoyed simply being in Ladakh, whether teaching English, digging potatoes, or whiling away the long evenings in gossip. She was accompanied at times by her two children, Laurie and Jimmy, and one

1 Dr Sophie Day conducted doctoral research on oracles and possession in Ladakh. She later supervised Nicky Grist’s doctoral research. Eds.

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of the few complaints she made during a long illness was her inability to visit her Ladakh friends—so far away. Although ill health prevented travel, Nicky continued to sit on the International Association for Ladakh Studies (IALS) advisory committee. When she was admitted to Kings Hospital for the last time on her 47th birthday, 20 April, 2004, she was in the process of editing the papers appearing in this collection, which Fernanda Pirie and Martijn van Beek subsequently valiantly took on. In Kings, Nicky campaigned successfully for air conditioning to be installed on the ward, relished the visits of Ladakhi friends residing locally, and died in hospital four months later. Nicky was a brilliant fieldworker. This made the greatest difference to the anthropology she produced. She not only published in learned journals but worked as an activist and an advocate. Nicky’s consummate fieldwork derived, at least in part, from her commitment to reciprocal long-term relationships and collaboration. A broad, generous humanism coloured her anthropology and meant that she saw no merit in separating applied and practical issues from more theoretical questions; they could not properly be divided without becoming either sterile and irrelevant, on the one hand, or easily co-opted by powerful interest groups, on the other. In consequence, Nicky was unable to take received opinion at face value or to reach easy conclusions: she based all her publications on empirical data collected painstakingly over more than two decades. Questioning Stereotypes Nicky’s passion about the history of Ladakh, its position within the broader Himalayan region and processes of incorporation within the nation state, was equally a passion about the situation today and, in particular, relations of inequality. From her first fieldwork, she questioned deeply-held convictions among locals and foreigners alike about the past and the present, including the construction of the apparent Shangri-la of traditional times, apparently egalitarian relationships among kin and neighbours and, of course, a series of stereotypes about Ladakhi Muslims and Buddhists. Central to her work was the question of what it meant to be an indigenous Ladakhi. Who is included and who excluded? A series of representations are entailed, many with long histories, such as the two I now quote, and cited by Nicky in different publications (Grist 1979,

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1998). These two examples of her analysis of the stereotypes commonly applied to Ladakhi communities illustrate Nicky’s ethically engaged and politically committed anthropology in which the study of social process was central, whether this extended over the hundreds of years in which Islam was established in Ladakh or was restricted to the developmental cycle of a single household. Mir Izzet Ullah, who went to Ladakh with the English traveller William Moorcroft in the early 19th century, wrote of middle-ranking Buddhist households, The country yields but little profit, so much that owing to the scanty soil and crop, the poorer people have the practice of one woman being married to several brothers, the children all being supported by the elder . . . It is also allowable for the eldest son, if he pleases, to exclude his own father from the possession of the property and to cut off the other sons from their share. (1843: 289)

However, Nicky concludes in the report produced from the Cambridge undergraduate expeditions, We hope to show that he had misinterpreted what he saw as the working of the inheritance scheme to make it seem much harsher than it really was. (Grist 1979: 224)

Moorcroft and his colleague George Trebeck wrote of the Suru valley during their visit in 1821, In each of these [villages] was an akhund, or village school-master, and one or two individuals who could speak Persian or Hindustani. Every village had its mosque, and not a single Lama’s house or sculptured pile made its appearance. Islamism is evidently making rapid strides, and there is every reason to expect that before long Ladakh will be entirely a Mohammedan state. (Moorcroft and Trebeck 1837, Vol. 2: 27–28)

Nicky wrote in 1995, [ I am] concerned that the treatment of Himalayan Muslims as a separate subject should not lead to any misconception in readers’ minds that Muslims form separate communities in the region. This matter is particularly pertinent for anyone engaged in the academic study of Ladakh, where recent years have seen considerable anti-Muslim feeling among some Buddhists in (the then) Leh tehsil, and a tendency to regard Muslims as outsiders when talking about Ladakh. Unfortunately . . . the adoption of such a view seems to have been reinforced by a concentration of academic studies on Buddhists and Buddhist religion in Ladakh. Quite unintentionally the impression has been given that ‘real’ Ladakhis are

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sophie day Buddhists and that Muslims and Muslim practice are impostors in their own land. (Grist 1995b: 59)

It was partly in response to this concern that Nicky shifted her primary research site from the Indus to the Suru valley when she embarked on her doctoral project. Suru Valley: The Village of Taisaru Nicky’s PhD thesis (Grist 1998) explores the role of the school in local politics and, in particular, the position of the yokmapa, a faction that had become increasingly concerned with secular education as an avenue towards government jobs and grants. The yokmapa were the largest of three important interest groups in the region, interacting with a second Shi’ite group, the gomapa, and the local Sunni community. The private school movement has been important all over India. Around Leh, most children are now privately educated. In Kargil District, Nicky dated this movement to the 1980s and mentioned about a dozen private schools in the mid-1990s. The Noon public school was an extension of the yokmapa, at least in the mid-1990s. Were we—in other parts of Ladakh and elsewhere—to know as much about this school, village and valley as we knew about other parts of Ladakh, Nicky suggested, there would be less scope for misunderstanding. Her doctoral thesis describes how the inhabitants of Suru (Surupa) had once been Buddhist but not in the sense associated with the centralised institutionalisation of Buddhism to the east during the 17th century and subsequently. There were no monastic buildings in Purig and the Noorbakshism that developed has been considered somewhat comparable to the loosely structured Buddhism of the times. As the Tibetan state lost power to its west, Muslim states became more influential. For example, the Mughals at times had a loose control over Baltistan and Ladakh. Persian rulers were closely linked with the Silk Route on which both Baltistan and Ladakh were sub-routes (Momen 1985: 309; Yurur 1993: vii). But Suru was relatively unimportant politically, marginal to these Muslim powers that were waning in India anyhow by the 19th century, and discouraged more than Buddhism under Dogra rule. Although the ancestors of many aghas settled in Ladakh over a period of several hundred years, it was not until early in the 20th century that the yokma and goma agha lineages were established in Taisuru, during an influx of

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Shi’ite preachers in the Suru valley. Grist (1998, 1999) describes how the three factions developed from these ancestral lineages. When Nicky first visited Suru in the early 1980s, she found that the yokmapa were still associated with millenarian, apparently other-worldly, activity anticipating the coming mahdi. The height of millenarian activity appeared to have occurred during the 1960s and to a lesser extent in the 1970s. By the 1990s, it had virtually disappeared and yokmapa were busy competing with Sunni elites for white-collar employment. What had happened? Nicky suggested two central conclusions. The first relates to our understanding of politics. Nicky argued that the yokmapa were not a traditional, disorderly, irrational organisation adapting to modern conditions as some suggested. They had always been involved in both politics and religion, including varieties of Islam practice, on the one hand, and electoral politics and education, on the other. During the millenarian movement, Suru was cut off from the outside world, not only from the Indian state but also from other connections that were severed at Partition. The region then faced a period of rapid development as a road was built and jobs created. The yokmapa responded by joining the competition for resources and attempting to gain access to the new economy. For example, parents expressed a general desire to send children to the Noon public school so that they could get jobs. As Nicky described, yokmapa relationships with gomapa and local Sunnis changed as differences over religion were replaced by competition over access to the Indian state. Of course, the state did not provide jobs for all and the situation was scarcely made easier by the continual threats to peace and stability in the region, associated as they have been with the withdrawal of democratic politics in Jammu and Kashmir, periodic famines and lack of resources. In the early 1990s, the budget for Kargil tehsil was about half that of Leh. Secondly, the yokmapa were as modern as anyone else, just as they always had been. Nicky presented a sophisticated analysis of historical representation in support of this claim. She offered a record of the past that was an attempt to reconstruct subaltern perspectives and to understand history from below, as it were, and to locate that history alongside other histories. She showed, too, how such a record was also a history of the present, which would change according to circumstance. Nicky looked at popular traditions in Suru, including the oral accounts recorded by Hashmatullah Khan (1939), and asked why they had disappeared. Some time between the early 20th century

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and the 1990s, as these factional interest groups developed, previously important histories were forgotten. Nicky suggested the reason lay in the changing significance of Islam, land and labour. Surupa were organised in clans, pa or zat, descended from a single apical ancestor. These clans were landholding units on which individuals were buried. The pa were subdivided into phaspun, smaller patrilineal groups of households who share out plots of land, which remain important in Taisuru. The larger clans have virtually disappeared among Shi’ites in the area because they have been replaced by a different kind of kinship group, namely endogamous factions under the aghas located within a different religious history associated especially with matam or mourning ceremonies. Earlier in the 20th century, histories told of the pa or clans, origin stories of particular village kinship groups with a common graveyard, spanning around five generations. By the mid-1990s, histories were about the yokmapa, the gomapa, the Sunni group and their interrelationships. Kinship and History Nicky was endlessly fascinated by kinship as a form of history about locality, land and labour. Indeed, she had prepared an abstract for this current collection, which she was editing during her illness, Two important current themes in the collective history of the Sunnis are that until recently they were poor, as they have smallish landholdings, but that by means of education and employment their situation has improved; and that through intermarriage and a common origin story, they have come to regard themselves as all being related. I examine the role of kinship in building this shared history and sense of membership of a group among the Sunnis. In so doing, I will show that education and employment are now crucial to the Sunnis’ sense of themselves as a group, and have to some extent superseded land as bases of kinship. Ironically, their success in these fields and move away from the land has been a contributing factor in political discourses in the area that have regarded them as not being indigenous Ladakhis.

This abstract spoke of the different senses of kinship among Sunnis in the valley who, unlike Shi’ahs, identified still as members of a single large kinship group and used their zat name rather like an English surname. They traced diverse routes into the area from Kashmir in the 14th century, through the 17th century shawl trade, and as refugees from Chinese Turkestan in the 19th century. Known as khache, they were invited periodically into government administration and known

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as skilled craftsmen. Traditionally, there was considerable intermarriage with other Ladakhi groups. Within Kargil tehsil, Sunnis constitute a small minority: 95% of the Muslims are Shi’ah. Nicky’s abstract and background research demonstrate clearly that claims to indigeneity are complex and contested within a given religious community as much as across some notional boundaries. This raised the question of whether there are fewer or more differences among Muslims than between Muslims and Buddhists or other Ladakhi communities, and from whose perspective, and in which situation those differences are manifest. Nicky’s baseline for comparison came from Matho, Gompa and other Indus valley villages as well as Saspochey. In the 1970s, she had asked questions comparable to those that preoccupied her in Suru in the 1990s, involving the old chestnut of polyandry illustrated by the citation (above) from Mir Izzet Ullah. In Matho, unlike Taisuru, land was relatively fixed; it was difficult to clear new land, and water was in short supply together with pasturage. Productivity depended on balancing closely the land, labour and water associated with a particular named household as well as wider systems of reciprocity. Middle-ranking households or trongpa tried to conserve labour and resources such as land through restricting marriages in the household to one per generation, marriages that occasionally and usually temporarily took the form of polyandry. Nicky’s interest in social process, however, precluded the reduction of Buddhist farming to the practice of polyandry. Property such as land and houses did not pass through individuals but were husbanded within a given household. People came and went from a marriage just as they came and went from the household. Practices to conserve the household varied by social strata. In Matho, for example, Nicky found huge disparities in wealth: some landholdings were ten kanal and others 300.2 At the extremes, monogamy was far more common since poor people could not feed a large household and rich people aimed to reconstitute property dispersed across the region through marital alliances. Yet, division of the household was uncommon; in more than 200 houses that then made up Matho, only one had divided property in the late 1970s, by appealing to the Hindu Law of Succession Act of 1956. Commonly, such divisions follow disputes between brothers. But new houses were still coming into existence.

2

Eight kanal equals one acre.

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Nicky looked closely at these other households, khangpa, or new houses which were not fully incorporated into the village organisation and rented, perhaps from a monastery, or cleared new land. These houses did not have to fulfil the same labour obligations as trongpa although, over time, they often joined the village system so as to achieve full household status. New houses were made by Muslims and Buddhists, indeed, they might contain individuals from both communities who had been shed, as it were, by their parent households. The image of Buddhist polyandry associated with a fixed household status was a very partial one, as were the parallel stereotypes about Muslim kinship and marriage. In a 1993 article, Nicky wrote, Roughly speaking, the popular notion about Ladakh is that the Buddhist population has generally been slow to grow due to polyandry, the large number of unmarried adults, and the relatively late age of marriage of women; whereas the Muslim population has grown rapidly due to the fact that all the children of a household marry, sons divide the families’ land between them and set up their own households, and women marry very young; and that this increase has been compounded by marriages of Buddhist (or ex-Buddhist) women with Muslim men, the offspring of which are Muslims. (Grist 1993: 80)

Nicky’s work demonstrated that Muslims did not necessarily have large families because of the incidence of divorce or because of the general poverty that led to high child mortality. In the Suru area, landholdings were smaller; in the mid-1990s, virtually half the size per capita of the Leh region, but this was compensated by good water, wood and pasturage. Nor did Surupa necessarily divide their land. Often parents retired to a khangchung as in Buddhist households. Brothers farmed together and often remained unmarried or became single. As among Buddhist households, the eldest brother often stayed on the farm while younger brothers took waged jobs elsewhere in Ladakh or the plains. Sisters rarely claimed any land on marriage. Family size differed little among Muslims and Buddhists. Endogamy in some cases, and more among Sunni than Shi’ah, implied the marriage of relatives. If Muslims disapproved of the practice of polyandry, Buddhists considered it incestuous to marry a relative but, looking broadly at the processes enabling households to balance the demands of labour, cultivable land and income from wages in order to reproduce themselves, these strategies might be compared directly as key survival strategies.

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Comparisons I do not want to labour this comparison for there are as many differences as similarities between these regions and communities. Nicky’s work demonstrates that the household as an institution is less important in Suru than the Indus valley and, around Leh, it is stressed more among the middle-ranking Buddhist agriculturalists than in lower or higher social strata. The phaspun is more important around Suru. Comparison can degenerate into what Leach—a major figure of the Cambridge tradition in which Nicky was schooled—called butterfly collecting (Leach 1961), that is, counting blue butterflies against white or spots against stripes. Such comparison can become mere cataloguing unless the framework is delineated with full attention to time, circumstance and place; a framework that I believe Nicky has offered us in her dedication to the analysis of process. At Cambridge, Nicky was schooled in an anthropology of process, subsequently often called practice. In this perspective, structures were never fixed but developed within lifespans, within household cycles as constituent units formed, dissolved and re-formed, and within wider histories of state process and economic change. It was only in such a perspective, she argued, that you could establish both the differences and continuities between various Ladakhi individuals, households and communities. It was only within such a framework that you could conceive of a comparative Ladakhi anthropology. The enterprise depended first on comparable data, then on even-handed representation and, finally, detailed analysis. Nicky’s vision of Ladakh included Muslims as well as Buddhists, women as well as men, children as well as adults, Kargil as well as Leh. She has left a legacy that is of signal importance in directing further research and writing. The themes that preoccupied her serve as a paradigm for Ladakhi studies more generally and help us think creatively about the structural problems causing concern. These include pressures on land and the delicate ecology, the sustainability of alternative incomes, and the increasing constraints on some inhabitants such as women. Nicky felt that outsiders with an interest in Ladakh have a particular responsibility to uphold an inclusive vision; this should direct research to areas that have been underrepresented and to advocacy on behalf of those at the bottom of the heap or, indeed, altogether excluded. Were the voices of all Ladakhis to be heard and respected, were Surupa able to represent themselves in the same way as other inhabitants

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of the region and to attract equal sympathy, Nicky would no doubt have pursued her research on the similarities and differences of history, household, labour and kinship. Equally, new questions would have suggested themselves. Now that land is less a source of value and the government economy has become a substitute, are Muslim and Buddhist households growing more similar? In the context of communal tensions associated with contemporary transformations in practice and belief of both Buddhism and Islam (and indeed other representative traditions in Ladakh), what has happened to women? There are trends suggesting increasing control over women in the household and workplace. Given the state economy, is there a new stratification or division of labour between urban and rural areas? If so, what are the implications for rural development? Nicky worked in Muslim and Buddhist Ladakh; she also worked in urban and rural settings, among the relatively wealthy and the poor, in development projects, schools and fields. Her work has shown us that these differences are as constitutive of Ladakh and as relevant to future stability and security as that which has been offered as the defining difference that constitutes Ladakh today, namely religious difference. In the context of the Indian state, local demands that deploy communal idioms are more likely to be acknowledged than others since they are so tightly embedded in state structures and derive, at least in part, from the major employers, holders of force and developers in Ladakh. While it is possible that federalisation and/or increased regional autonomy will ease tensions, so too will recognition of the strongly ideological nature of religious difference, and the relevance of other factors that cut across this division and indeed constitute important continuities across the region. Acknowledgements My thanks are due to John Bray, who provided a bibliography of Nicola Grist’s publications, in addition to those cited in the text. Nicky has inspired a memorial fund, now established in her memory, dedicated to use in the Suru valley. At the time of writing, funds have been used for two projects: the purchase of a generator for the Noon School to enable children to use computers, and raw materials for weaving shawls as part of an income-generating scheme for women in Kargil. I hope this fund will help keep alive memories of Nicky and her

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vision for Ladakhi studies. Those interested in contributing are asked to contact Nicky’s parents, Jill and John Grist at [email protected] References Cambridge Undergraduate Ladakh Expedition. (CULE 1). Cambridge University, unpublished. (The expedition members were Hilary Dewhurst, Peter Farrington, Nicola Grist, Maria Phylactou and Jill Reynolds. Contains unsigned essays on demography, kinship, marriage and inheritance; polyandry; childhood; the village economy; the monastery.) Cambridge Undergraduate Ladakh Expedition. Reports on Ladakh 1977–1979. (CULE 2). Cambridge University, unpublished. (Contains essays by Peter Farrington, Maria Phylactou, Patrick Kaplanian, Nicola Grist and Jean-Pierre Rigal.) Grist, Nicola. 1979a. Traditional Stratification. In CULE2. Unpublished typescript, 209–17. ——. 1979b. Kinship, Marriage and Inheritance. In CULE2, Unpublished typescript, 218–29. ——. 1979c. Polyandry, Marriage and Land Tenure. In CULE2, Unpublished typescript, 230–44. ——. 1979d. Village Organisation. In CULE 2, Unpublished typescript, 245–50. ——. 1985. Ladakh, a Trading State. In Patrick Kaplanian and Claude Dendaletche (eds), Ladakh, Himalaya Occidental: Ethnologie, Ecologie. Pau: Centre Pyrénéen de Biologie et Anthropologie des Montagnes, 91–102. ——. 1990. Land Tax, Labour and Household Organisation in Ladakh. In Gudrun Meier and Lydia Icke-Schwalbe (eds), Wissen-schaftsgeschichte und gegenwärtige Forschungen in Nordwest-Indien. Dresden: Museum für Völkerkunde, 129–40. ——. 1993. Muslim Kinship and Marriage in Ladakh. In Charles Ramble and Martin Brauen (eds), Anthropology of Tibet and the Himalaya. Zurich: Volkerkundemuseum der Universitat Zurich, 80–92. ——. 1994. The Use of Obligatory Labour for Porterage in Pre-independence Ladakh. In Per Kværne (ed.), Tibetan Studies. Proceedings of the 6th Seminar of the International Association of Tibetan Studies. Oslo: Institute for Comparative Research in Human Culture, 264–74. ——. 1995a. Moorcroft’s Contribution to Ladakh Studies. In Henry Osmaston and Philip Denwood (eds), Recent Research on Ladakh 4 & 5. London: School of Oriental and African Studies; Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 327–36. ——. 1995b. Muslims in western Ladakh. Tibet Journal 20(3): 59–70. ——. 1997. Kinship Groups and History in Suru—Ladakh. In Thierry Dodin and Heinz Räther (eds), Recent Research on Ladakh 7. Ulmer Kulturanthropologische Schriften Band 8. Ulm: Abteilung Anthropologie, Universität Ulm, 169–76. Also published in People of the Himalayas. Ecology, Culture, Development and Change ed. K.C. Mahanta, Journal of Human Ecology, Special issue No. 6. Delhi: Kamla-Raj Enterprises, 129–32. ——. 1998. Local Politics in the Suru Valley of Northern India. Goldsmiths, University of London, Unpublished Ph.D thesis. ——. 1999. Twin Peaks: the Two Shi’ite Factions of the Suru Valley. In Martijn van Beek, Kristoffer Brix Bertelsen and Poul Pedersen (eds), Ladakh: Culture, History and Development between Himalaya and Karakoram. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 131–52. ——. 2002. Book review: Horse of Karbala. Muslim Devotional Life in India, by David Pinault. Ladakh Studies 17 (September 2002), 36–38. Khan, Hashmatullah. 1939. Tarikh Jammun, Kashmir, Laddakh aur Baltistan. Lucknow: Noor Ahmad Malik and Mohammed Tegh Bahadur.

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Leach, E.R. 1961. Rethinking Anthropology. (LSE monographs on social anthropology, no. 22) London: The Athlone Press. Momen, Moojan. 1985. An Introduction to Shi’i Islam: the History and Doctrines of Twelver Shi’ism. New Haven: Yale University Press. Moorcroft, William and Trebeck, George. 1837. Travels in the Himalayan Provinces of Hindustan and the Panjab, in Ladakh and Kashmir, in Peshawar, Kabul, Kunduz and Bokhara, H.H. Wilson (ed.) 2 vols. London: John Murray. Ullah, Mir Izzet. 1843. Travels beyond the Himalaya. Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 7: 283–342. Yurur, Ahmet. 1993. Introduction to The Balti, B.R. Rizvi. Delhi: Gian Publishing House.

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I. HISTORICAL TRENDS

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CORVÉE TRANSPORT LABOUR IN 19TH AND EARLY 20TH CENTURY LADAKH: A STUDY IN CONTINUITY AND CHANGE John Bray Historically, obligatory or corvée labour was an intrinsic part of the tax system in Ladakh, Tibet, Kashmir and throughout the Himalayan hill states. Obligatory labour included work that was of communal benefit, for example the repair of roads, bridges and temples, as well as the carriage of goods for senior political and religious figures. On the Indian side of the Himalayas, the most common Persian/Urdu—and later English—generic term for these activities was begar. In Ladakh, the word khral covered tax, tribute, duty and labour obligations. There were specific terms for particular types of tax (for example, ’bru khral, tax paid in corn; dngul-khral, tax paid in silver), while the word for compulsory porterage was ’u-lag. In an earlier paper, Nicola Grist (1994) analysed the obligatory transport system in pre-1947 Ladakh, highlighting its political and ritual aspects. She showed that at the local level, transport begar was partly an enactment of the social and regional hierarchy. At the state level, Ladakh and Tibet recognised mutual obligations to provide transport labour for key missions travelling between their territories. Grist (1994: 272) therefore argued that begar/’u-lag “provided a mechanism by which they implicitly recognised each other’s legitimacy and status”. This paper builds on Grist’s earlier work, and is dedicated to her memory. Its main aim is to show how begar evolved in line with changes in the regional power structure in the course of the 19th and early 20th centuries. The paper points to continuity in that it shows how obligatory labour was rooted in the institutions of the pre-1834 Ladakhi monarchy. It points to change in that it shows how begar was modified in accordance with evolving Dogra and British interests in the course of the 19th century. The paper therefore serves as a case study of the practical workings of British indirect rule in one part of the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir. The overall pattern shows many examples of oppression, but also of resistance, bargaining and appeals to higher authority.

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john bray Obligatory Labour Under the Ladakhi Monarchy

The political and economic institutions of the Ladakhi kingdom provided a social foundation on which later regimes continued to build. The kings of Ladakh claimed descent from the ancient Tibetan monarchy. Although Buddhist religious leaders never held as much direct power as they did in Lhasa under the Dalai Lamas, the political system had much in common with that of central Tibet, as well as other Himalayan states such as Lo/Mustang and Bhutan. The Taxation System The Ladakhi economy depended on a combination of agriculture, pastoralism and trade. The king was himself the most important trader in Ladakh, and customs duties formed a major part of his income. At a more humble level, villagers were able to supplement a precarious agricultural income by serving as porters on the trade routes between Kashmir, Tibet and Central Asia. The single most profitable trade good was wool carried from the highlands of eastern Ladakh and Tibet to Kashmir. Arguably, the most important ‘export product’ of central and western Ladakh was the labour of porters carrying the wool. In an economy that was only partly monetised, the most important taxes were in labour and kind.1 Specific regions produced certain goods for the royal court. For example, the villagers of Nubra provided wood. Villagers provided corvée transport for the king as well as senior officials, monks and state traders. There was a grazing tax of one sheep out of ten in the Nubra and Drangtse regions (Mohammad 1908: 6). Spiti was part of Ladakh until 1846 and paid an annual tribute in the form of cash, iron bars and grain (Barnes and Lyall 1889: 146). Other labour obligations included the gathering of rock soda from Nubra, and sulphur and borax from Puga in the Rupshu region. All these were exported to Kashmir.

1 The tax system under the Ladakhi monarchy is discussed by Cunningham (1854: 268–75), Mohammad (1908: 6), Gergan (1977: 604–17) and Petech (1977: 153–63).

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Local Organisation of Corvée Labour As in Tibet, transport labour was organised through a system of passports and staging posts.2 The king or a senior official would issue a passport (lam-yig in Tibetan; parwana in Urdu/Persian). Local governors, assisted by village headmen, organised groups of villages to take responsibility for ’u-lag services at the various staging posts along the main transport routes. Depending on the precise terms of the passport, the bearer was entitled to the supply of a specified number of riding and pack animals. As Grist points out, the first Western reference to this system in Ladakh comes from the writings of the Italian Jesuit Ippolito Desideri who travelled through Ladakh in 1715: King Nyima Namgyal issued him with a passport entitling him to transport services as far as Tashigang on the borders of Tibet (Desideri 1937: 81). At the village level, corvée labour responsibilities were allocated by household. In Ladakhi villages, households were and are organised into ‘main houses’ (khang-chen), where the heads of the family live, and subsidiary houses (khang-chung) inhabited by older relatives and other dependents. As in Tibet, corvée labour was primarily understood as a form of taxation on land (Carrasco 1959). According to different sources across Ladakh, transport labour obligations fell specifically on the khang-chen.3 Grist (1994: 268) therefore argues that the performance of begar —though burdensome—was in part a mark of the status of a household. According to most sources, landless people and the inhabitants of subsidiary houses were not themselves obliged to provide transport labour, although the heads of khang-chen might well employ them to serve in their place.4

2 On Tibet, see in particular Carrasco (1959), Cassinelli and Ekvall (1969) and Goldstein (1971). Jahoda (2003: 152–65) presents a comparative view of obligatory labour in Spiti, Tibet and Ladakh. He criticises the interpretations presented in Grist (2004), arguing among other things that Grist’s use of the term ‘free labour’ reflects the perspective of those at the top of the social and political hierarchy: those who were compelled to perform the labour would scarcely have described it as ‘free’. 3 For references to the khang-chen and corvée labour, see: Barnes and Lyall (1889: 115) for Spiti; Ramsay (1890: 78–79) for central Ladakh; and Riaboff (1998) for Zangskar. 4 However, Cunningham (1854: 269) says that “the poorer classes who were unable to pay in either money or kind, were obliged to pay by bodily service as labourers”.

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john bray Hierarchies, Resistance and Oppression

Corvée labour, and the rituals that accompanied it, were an expression of social hierarchy. A 16th century dispute over King Tsewang Namgyal’s authority in the Dha-Hanu region illustrates how these hierarchies could be both extended and contested. The king summoned the people of Hanu, who until then had been closer to the Maqpon (ruler) of Skardu, to assist in the construction of a road (Vohra 1989: 2; Sonam Phuntsog 1999: 380). According to local legend, their leader Apo Thoshali refused, and the king ordered his followers to immure him in the foundations of a bridge. Apo Tho-shali continued to declare his defiance as the bricks reached his waist and then his neck, and until only his voice could be heard before he finally expired. Impressed by his sacrifice, the king conceded that the people of Hanu would be exempted from obligatory labour as long as they recognised his supremacy: the one restriction was that they should from now on speak Ladakhi rather than ’brog-skad. Even where there was no overt resistance, there can be little doubt that the ’u-lag system at times involved considerable hardship. Moorcroft and Trebeck (1837), who stayed in Ladakh in 1821–1822, provide an eyewitness account from Dras. The villagers there suffered particularly badly because of their location near the notoriously treacherous Zoji pass and because the village was the joint property of the king of Ladakh and the malik or chief landholder of the neighbouring part of Kashmir. Referring to one of the Ladakhi ministers, Moorcroft writes: The Nuna Khalun was at Dras when I arrived for the purpose of building a fort, and, whilst in the district, had exacted fifty sheep, besides a large quantity of butter, milk and firewood, for the use of himself and his attendants. The visits of the Malik are equally costly, and the people are further liable to be pressed as porters and labourers for either landlord, not only for their personal service, but for that of all travellers and merchants, for the pecuniary profit of their superior. In a year of brisk traffic this has been known to amount to about fifteen thousand pounds, of which the Chamal, or head farmer, and the Karpun, or local governor, manage to pocket about one third, transmitting the remainder, in equal portions, to the Raja and the Malik, the poor peasants receiving no compensation whatever for their labour, loss of time and injury to their own lands. (1837: 41–42)

The pattern of local officials taking advantage of the system for their own benefit was to be repeated in later administrations.

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International Connections As Grist (1994: 272) notes, the transport labour network extended across international boundaries. In Ladakh, the most important example was the triennial lo-phyag mission (anglicised variously as ‘Lopchak’, ‘Lapchak’ and ‘Lochak’) to Lhasa. This was set up at the conclusion of the Ladakh-Tibet-Mughal war of 1679–1684, as a result of which Ladakh lost its territories in Rudok, Guge and Purang in what is now Western Tibet.5 Under the terms of the Treaty of Tingmogang in 1684, the king of Ladakh agreed to send a mission to Lhasa every three years, timing its arrival to coincide with the New Year festival. The lo-phyag was required to bring a prescribed set of gifts: one kha-btags greeting scarf, ten bags of gold dust, one pound of saffron, four pieces of coloured pattu (woollen cloth), and one or two pieces of cotton cloth.6 However, in addition to its political/religious significance, the mission also played an important commercial role. The same was true of the reciprocal cha-pa (Chaba—‘tea man’) mission which set out from Lhasa to Leh every year. Both missions benefited from corvée transport consisting of 260 baggage animals plus riding animals on either side of the border, and this meant that their trading functions were even more profitable.7 As will be seen, the economic impact and political significance of the lo-phyag mission was to be a source of some controversy among British officials at the end of the 19th century. Early Dogra Rule (1834–1857) In 1834 Ladakh was invaded by the armies of Raja Gulab Singh of Jammu and, after a series of campaigns and rebellions, it finally lost its independence in 1842. Gulab Singh was a feudatory of the Sikh 5 For the historical background to the Ladakhi lo-phyag see Petech (1977: 78), Bray (1990) and Rizvi (1999: 159–81). 6 H. Ramsay to Parry Nisbet, 23 June 1889. British Library Oriental and India Office Collection (OIOC), L/P&S/7/57. These gifts were prescribed by earlier tradition: a similar list is outlined by Petech (1977: 78). 7 The figure for the number of riding animals comes from an 1899 report (Kennion to Resident in Kashmir. 8 November 1899. OIOC L/P&S/7/125). This quota was based on earlier tradition. Petech (1977: 78) cites 200 loads of goods and twenty-five riding horses.

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empire centred on Lahore. However, during the First Sikh War in 1846 he skilfully aligned himself with the British. Under the terms of the Treaty of Lahore in March 1846, the British detached Kashmir from the Sikh empire. A week later, through the Treaty of Amritsar, they rewarded Gulab Singh by granting him Kashmir in return for a payment of Rs 7,500,000. Gulab Singh thereby combined his new and existing territories to become the first Maharaja of the unified state of Jammu and Kashmir ( J&K), including Ladakh. Gulab Singh’s immediate priority was to make maximum use of the economic opportunities afforded by his new political ascendancy. The Sikh administration in Kashmir had been oppressive enough, involving extensive use of begar. Rather than reforming the system, Gulab Singh tightened it to extract maximum economic benefit. During the final year of Sikh rule, the total revenue of Kashmir reportedly had amounted to Rs 339,200: in the first year of Gulab Singh’s administration it rose to Rs 843,000 (Khan 2002: 63). The Maharaja became notorious for his avarice and, according to a British traveller in the mid-1850s, Kashmiri peasants hoped for British intervention: “Oh! Sahib! When is the Company’s reign to commence?” (Rai 2004: 59). As will be seen, similar sentiments were also expressed in Ladakh. A Double Colonialism The Dogra invasion marks one of the most important turning points in Ladakhi history in that it bound the region once and for all to a South Asian polity rather than to Tibet or Central Asia. In particular, it broke the link between the kingdom’s political rulers and Tibetan Buddhism. Gulab Singh’s interest in the region was and remained primarily economic: he wished to gain control of the lucrative wool trade that fed Kashmir’s shawl industry. Ladakh’s peripheral status is underlined by the fact that neither Gulab Singh nor any subsequent reigning Maharaja actually visited the region. For most of the people of Ladakh—and indeed Kashmir—Dogra rule amounted to an external, effectively ‘colonial’, authority. Similarly, the British were at first only marginally interested in the affairs of Ladakh. In sponsoring the creation of Jammu and Kashmir, their prime objective was to establish a compliant buffer state along India’s northern frontier without going to the expense of running it. The Treaty of Amritsar established the “supremacy of the British government” but, unlike in many other princely states within the Indian

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empire, it did not provide for the appointment of a British Resident to guide the Kashmir administration.8 In 1852 Gulab Singh agreed to the appointment of a British Officer on Special Duty whose official role was to look after the interests of travellers in Kashmir. However, he only stayed in Srinagar for part of the year, and his influence was limited compared to that of a full-ranking Resident. British involvement in Ladakh was, at first, even more limited. Continuities in Ladakh In part because of Ladakh’s peripheral status, there was considerable social continuity at the local level. The former ruling family moved out of the palace of Leh, but were granted a jagir in Stok village, on the opposite side of the Indus valley. The king—or the ‘ex-king’ as he was now widely known—retained his position at the apex of the Ladakhi social hierarchy, and returned to the Leh palace each year to preside over New Year festivals. He also retained certain customary ’u-lag rights. An enquiry later in the 19th century showed that the Stok branch of the royal family was still entitled to twenty baggage animals on annual trading expeditions to Tibet, while the subsidiary Matho branch was entitled to fifteen animals.9 Despite these continuities, the Dogra administration was a source of considerable hardship for ordinary villagers. The pattern was similar to Kashmir in that the Dogra administration took over the existing system and, rather than making fundamental changes, reinforced it to extract maximum economic benefit. This reinforcement included taking over the king’s trading role as well as his rights to begar. So, for example, the Durbar now put up the initial capital for—and reaped the profits of—the triennial lo-phyag mission to Tibet. There were initial difficulties in 1852 when the Ladakhis refused to provide corvée transport for a Tibetan government trader carrying brick tea to Ladakh—presumably a reference to the cha-pa mission. However, in 1853 Kalon Rigzin of Ladakh and Basti Ram (the Dogra governor of Ladakh) negotiated an agreement with the Tibetan authorities in Gartok (Shakabpa 1984: 328–29). This confirmed the traditional

8 The precise nature of the relationships between the princely states and the Government of India varied widely. For an authoritative survey see Ramusack (2004). 9 Kennion to Resident in Kashmir. 8 November 1899. OIOC L/P&S/7/125.

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arrangements for providing transport for Tibetan government traders as well as providing for the continuation of the lo-phyag. Contemporary travel accounts are similar to those from Kashmir in that they point to extensive local hardship. One such account comes from the Moravian missionaries Eduard Pagell and Wilhelm Heyde who travelled to Ladakh in 1855: they reported that large numbers of Ladakhis had fled to British India to escape Gulab Singh’s taxes (Pagell and Heyde 1860: 126). For example, there were about twenty houses in the village of Hanupata, but all but two were empty. The two missionaries reported that there was considerable traffic on the main road from Leh to Srinagar, and that the goods being carried included salt en route from the Tibetan border regions to Kashmir. However, the salt was being carried not for private merchants, but for the government: Gulab Singh is the first trader in the land, and two to three times a year the farmers and livestock-owners are forced with their animals to carry salt or other trade goods for a certain distance. In part, this appears to be a feudal obligation (Frohne), and in part an unjust compulsion (ungerechter Zwang) on the part of the government. Without our asking, people often complain about the heavy burdens placed on them by Gulab Singh’s trade. (Pagell and Heyde 1860: 132; my translation)

The missionaries’ distinction between a ‘feudal obligation’ and an ‘unjust compulsion’ may have reflected a general Ladakhi view that the begar system was legitimate in itself, but that Gulab Singh’s administration was exploiting it beyond acceptable limits. Hunters and Travellers Meanwhile, Ladakhi villagers had to contend with an entirely new set of afflictions: British tourists and officers on leave. As early as the 1840s, British officers had discovered the attractions of the Kashmir Valley and they quickly extended their reach to Ladakh because of its potential as a source of hunting-trophies. Many of these travellers exploited the begar system, or seized goods from villagers without payment. In 1855, Johann Dettlof Prochnow, a German priest in the service of the Church Missionary Society (CMS), described an encounter with two such tourists who had travelled via Ladakh to Kinnaur: We met here two gentlemen coming from Ladak and Kashmir, one a medical man, the other a lieutenant of one of the Queen’s regiments.

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The latter had taken a poor girl away with him from Spiti, the daughter of a blacksmith, and at every village behaved in a most outrageous way, paying very inadequately for the work and labour he exacted from the poor villagers in carrying his things, and beating them violently. At every village we came to we heard bitter complaints. (Prochnow 1855: 42)

Despite such stories, Heyde and Pagell state that the Ladakhis “longed for the English government” (sehnen sich hier sehr nach der englischen Regierung) in the hope that it would lead to a more equitable administration. Many individual British officials were sympathetic: One officer who was conducting a survey in Ladakh, and for that reason spent over two years in Leh, once called Basti Ram into the bazaar. There he used the coarsest language to reproach him for his bad government, and the oppression that he permitted against the inhabitants of the land, all the while shaking him vigorously by the beard. (Pagell and Heyde 1860: 142; my translation)

However, this episode points to an ambivalence that was part of a wider pattern of British behaviour. Such denunciations would have had no lasting impact as long as the official’s presence in Ladakh was purely temporary. Similarly, many senior officials had condemned Gulab Singh’s style of government, and even remonstrated with him personally. However, both as a matter of policy and under the terms of the Treaty of Amritsar, the British did not wish to go to the expense of sustained intervention in the Maharaja’s internal affairs. As long as the Government of India stuck to the principle of indirect rule, remonstrations by individuals were unlikely to make much practical difference. During the early period of Dogra rule, as Rai (2004: 58) observes, British observers “concurred that Gulab Singh was execrated throughout Kashmir, but declared in one voice that they could do nothing about it”. The Reign of Maharaja Ranbir Singh (1857–1885) Like his father, Maharaja Ranbir Singh wished to retain the maximum degree of autonomy while formally acknowledging his loyalty to the British imperial crown. In his relationship with the Government of India, he repeatedly tried to extend the limits of his independence, while British officials tried to restrain him. His reign continued the main patterns established under Gulab Singh, but also pointed the way to future reforms.

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john bray The British Joint Commissioners in Ladakh

The Maharaja’s attempts to practise an independent foreign policy were a particular source of concern to the British at a time when Eastern Turkestan (now Xinjiang) was politically unstable (Warikoo 1989, 2005). Partly in order to inhibit independent Kashmiri communications with Turkestan, the British established a second official presence in the state with the 1867 appointment of Dr Henry Cayley as Officer on Special Duty in Leh. This posting was initially intended as an experiment. However, in 1870 the British signed a formal agreement with Ranbir Singh providing for the appointment of a British Joint Commissioner in Leh on a permanent basis. The British Joint Commissioner had two main roles. First, together with the J&K Wazir-i-wazarat (governor), he was to supervise the Central Asian trade and adjudicate in any disputes that involved non-J&K citizens. Secondly, he was to obtain information regarding events in Kashmir, Yarkand and Central Asia, and forward it to the Government of India. The British Joint Commissioners only resided in Leh during the summer months when the trade season was at its height. Begar came within their remit inasmuch as it was part of the overall transport system, although it seems that they did not at first seek to change the workings of the system. Early Revenue Reforms Meanwhile, the J&K wazirs had begun to review the revenue system. Mehta Mangal Singh, who was governor of Ladakh in the 1860s, revised the existing system without changing its basic structure (Chohan 1983: 200). In 1871 Frederic Drew, an Englishman who briefly served as the J&K wazir in Ladakh, tried to abolish the provision of begar for official missions (that is, the lo-phyag and the cha-pa) between Ladakh and Tibet, replacing them with a system of cash payments (Aitchison 1874: 360). However, in 1872 begar was reinstated, apparently in order to regain the support of western Tibetan officials who otherwise might be inclined to sell wool to middlemen carrying it to British India rather than Kashmir. Drew’s successor was W.H. Johnson, another Englishman, who served in Ladakh until 1883. Johnson discovered that many of the more influential people in Ladakh had bribed Mehta Mengal’s officials to reduce their tax assessment (Chohan 1983: 201; Francke 1926: 144). He therefore initiated a fresh survey, intending to overhaul the

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revenue system completely. However, presumably at the instigation of the beneficiaries of the existing corrupt system, a Ladakhi delegation appealed to the Maharaja. They offered to pay an increased revenue of four annas in the rupee, as long as the survey was withdrawn. The Maharaja accepted this proposal and Johnson left Ladakh soon afterwards. Notwithstanding his defeat, a group of Ladakhis appealed to the Maharaja to appoint a successor of the same calibre. Their petition noted that Drew and Johnson had provided a degree of protection from their hunting compatriots: . . . nobody has ever made any complaints and they never had any quarrels with other officials who came here for hunting. They not only worked hard, but also looked after the subjects with great compassion and tact. Earlier, the Sahibs not only took away all the edibles and animals for load without paying anything, but they also used to punish the people for no reason. (van Beek 1996: 210, citing a letter in the State Archives Repository in Jammu)

In 1885 Radha Kishen, who succeeded Johnson as wazir, tried to implement a new revenue settlement, including a completely new measurement of all landowners’ properties. His proposals included the abolition of all begar except for the lo-phyag and cha-pa missions (Chohan 1983: 202). British Joint Commissioner Ney Elias reported that Radha Kishen had been trained in settlement work in Punjab, and thought highly of his professional competence and fairness.10 However, his proposals were again defeated after a Ladakhi delegation travelled to Jammu to appeal to the Maharaja. Captain Henry Ramsay, who served as British Joint Commissioner in Ladakh from 1885 to 1891, attributed this defeat to the opposition of “Lámas who hold a large amount of land and are already exempt from all ‘forced labour’ ” (Ramsay 1890: 47). Reform in Lahul, Spiti and Kulu While reform had been stalled in Ladakh, British officials had made progress in the neighbouring regions of Lahul, Spiti and Kulu, which came under direct British rule. A.F.P. Harcourt (1871: 84), who served as Assistant Commissioner in the region in the 1860s, acknowledged that the burdens of begar had increased, both because of growing demands for road construction and other public works, and because of the rise 10 Royal Geographical Society, London. Ney Elias Collection. NE/18. The New Revenue Settlement in Ladak. 4 August 1885. Pencil draft.

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in the number of travellers en route towards Simla or Ladakh. He did not think that it was practical to abolish the system, but it could at least be regulated. Harcourt’s reforms included a commitment that government would demand no begar for new public works during the months when most agricultural work was done; it would try to secure willing labour before resorting to begar; labourers would be paid regular wages; and services would be supplied to travellers at rates defined by a written scale. His approach anticipated the reforms that were later adopted in Ladakh. A Traveller’s Tale The experiences of Andrew Wilson, a British journalist who travelled through Spiti, Lahul and Zanskar in 1873, illustrate how transport begar worked in practice on both sides of the boundary between British India and Jammu and Kashmir. His account makes clear that villagers saw begar as a burden and would do what they could to resist it. So, for example, in one village in Spiti, Wilson reports that the headman was “both insolent and exorbitant” in the prices he demanded for food and labour. Apparently emboldened by Harcourt’s reforms, he dismissed Wilson’s protests: Oh! If you want me to use force, by all means take what you want for nothing and I shall report the matter to the commissioner in Kúlú. (Wilson 1875: 162)

Wilson managed to make him produce his official list of prices and, thus, to agree to what he considered to be a reasonable rate. However, he had further problems in Darcha, the last Lahuli village before the high pass to Zanskar. Wilson had secured the services of a “policeman so-called” to help him recruit porters. This approach proved to be ineffective: . . . the policeman soon came back to my tent in a bruised and bleeding condition, complaining that the people of the village had given him a beating for his interference. (Wilson 1875: 214)

Wilson did manage to recruit porters, but they tried to run away while crossing the pass. In Kharjak, the first village in Zanskar, he was treated with greater respect. The headman gave him a rupee to touch as a symbolic act of obeisance, and furnished his servants with horses for the next two days’ journey “purely out of the hospitality of a mountaineer” (Wilson 1975: 240). However, his difficulties returned

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when a new set of porters tried to abandon his party on the path to Dras: he suspected that they wanted to stay away from the area because a Yarkand envoy was passing through on his way from Constantinople. The Kashmir authorities had impressed as many as 3,000 coolies to carry his goods to Leh, presumably in the interests of Ranbir Singh’s foreign policy. The porters had each been given Rs 5 to pay for rice on the journey, but they did not expect further payment (Wilson 1875: 284–85). On the final stages to Kashmir, Wilson’s own porters stayed with him for longer than required in order to avoid the worse fate of being captured by the envoy’s party. Regulation and Reform in the Late 19th and Early 20th Centuries The death of Maharaja Ranbir Singh in September 1885 marked the beginning of a period of increased British intervention in Kashmir affairs. In accordance with a pre-arranged plan, Oliver St John, the Officer on Special Duty, announced that the British had decided to appoint a Resident in Kashmir; he himself would be the first holder of the post. The new Maharaja, Pratap Singh, had no choice but to accept if the British were to recognise his accession. In April 1889 the Government of India further tightened its control by pressing the Maharaja to transfer administrative authority to a Kashmir State Council consisting of his two younger brothers and two Kashmiri officials. The Resident was not a member of the Council, but it was expected to listen to his advice.11 This arrangement continued with modifications until 1905 when the Maharaja officially resumed his former powers, albeit still subject to the advice of the Resident. One of the main reasons for increased British intervention was heightened concern about the security of India’s northern frontier in the light of Russian expansion in Central Asia. However, the justification that was given most emphasis at the time was the need to reform a corrupt and inefficient administration which had caused immense suffering to its inhabitants, notably in the 1878–79 famine in the Kashmir valley.

11 For recent analysis of the political machinations that accompanied these interventions, see in particular Yasin (1984) and Rai (2004: 128–82). For a contemporary view, which was highly critical of the Government of India, see Digby (1890). Digby reprints parliamentary papers outlining the government’s official position.

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Even then, the British insisted on the principle of indirect rule. In April 1889 Foreign Secretary Sir Mortimer Durand wrote to Parry Nisbet, the then Resident, instructing him to remember that “the Government of India has no desire to turn Kashmir into the semblance of a British district” (Yasin 1984: 160). Durand continued: It is altogether against the wishes of the Government to interfere unnecessarily with the customs and traditions of a Native State, or to force upon it the precise methods of administration obtaining in British territory. Administrative efficiency is not the only object to be attained in such cases, nor indeed the principal object.12

In the event, the British were instrumental in pushing through a series of important reforms, notably the Kashmir revenue settlements carried out by A. Wingate and Walter Lawrence between 1889 and 1895. Nevertheless, there was a continuing tension between the principle of ‘administrative efficiency’ and the avoidance of ‘unnecessary interference’. Similar tensions emerged in differing British views on begar in Ladakh. Captain Ramsay’s Denunciations of Ladakhi Begar From October 1885 to March 1891, the British Joint Commissioner in Ladakh was Captain Henry Lushington Ramsay. Ramsay belonged to the ‘forward school’ of British officialdom: he argued for Government of India intervention—regardless of local custom or precedent—whenever its interests demanded. At the same time, he demonstrated what appears to have been a genuine concern for the welfare of the people of Ladakh. In his view, these two interests were compatible: “the English name in India” depended on the Government of India’s willingness and ability to ensure sound administration in the territories over which it exercised influence. Ramsay’s views on begar are summarised in his Western Tibet (1890). He described it as a “vicious system”, noting that Ladakhis objected to it more than to anything else in the Dogra administration (Ramsay 1890: 47). Strictly speaking, only landholders were subject to begar, but

12 Resistance to ‘unnecessary interference’ in the affairs of princely states, and the view that achieving administrative efficiency was not the ‘principal object’ or the ‘only object to be attained’, seems to have become part of the Political Department’s official orthodoxy following the departure from India of Lord Curzon (Viceroy from 1899 to 1905). The same phrasing occurs almost verbatim in the early 20th century Manual of the Political Department and in a speech made by Curzon’s successor, Lord Minto, at Udaipur in 1910 (Coen 1971: 69, 95).

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the Kashmir authorities did not observe this restriction closely. The land tax was heavy, but at least it was fixed. By contrast there was no limit to begar, and “no one can be certain for a day that he will not be seized as a beygari . . .” Ramsay expanded on these views in two sets of correspondence which were passed up the hierarchy to the Resident in Kashmir, then to the Government of India in Calcutta/Simla, and finally to London. In June 1889, he gave a detailed report on the lo-phyag.13 His main concern was with the diplomatic aspects of the mission. The Tibetan authorities provided the mission with free transport on the basis of the lam-yig issued by the ex-Raja rather than the parwana issued by the Wazir. However, the Tibetan correspondence affected to ignore the fact that Ladakh was now part of J&K which itself was a British feudatory. Ramsay therefore argued that the lo-phyag should be abolished, and the ex-Raja pensioned off—at least for a time—to Kashmir or Garhwal. These moves would protect British interests while at the same time benefiting Ladakhi villagers who would be relieved of the burden of providing transport for the lo-phyag. Ramsay turned to the more local aspects of begar in a series of letters written in the summer of 1890.14 The context was that he had lost confidence in Col. Parry Nisbet who, as Resident, was the superior officer to whom he reported. He therefore wrote direct to the Government of India denouncing Nisbet’s incompetence and the J&K government’s maladministration. Ramsay supported his denunciations by citing examples of begar and other abuses of power. Ramsay’s first example comes from Goond on the Kashmir side of the Zoji pass on the road to Ladakh. He criticised the system whereby European travellers were entitled to impress porters to carry loads over the pass when it was still covered by snow: they received four annas for each stage, and six annas for crossing the pass, but nothing for the return journey.15 By contrast, indigenous traders had to pay a higher rate of twelve annas or a rupee per stage and the porters would only agree to go when the weather was favourable. In Tashgam, in an account resembling the report by Pagell and Heyde thirty-five years earlier, Ramsay reported another use of begar: Ramsay to Nisbet. 23 June 1889. OIOC L/P&S/7/57. OIOC L/P&S/7/64. No. 1197. 15 Adair (1899: 104–6) explains why British hunters insisted on crossing the pass so early in the season: there was intense competition to be the first to set up camp in the best hunting areas. 13 14

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john bray I here found a large quantity of sulphur lying in the store-house waiting for the arrival of some 400 ponies required to transport it to Kulan (5½ marches off ) in the Sind valley, from which place it would be taken by Kashmir ponymen, to Jammu. The sulphur came from Puga in Ladak: it was brought by “begar,” and the authorities believe that it will be taken down all the rest of the way by “begar.” Some sepoys had come to fetch the sulphur, and the district officials were about to make a raid on the Dras and Kartsey villages to seize the ponies required. Not only were the unhappy villagers to supply ponies gratis, to go 5½ marches, and to return the same distance without being paid, but they were even to bring their own bags in which to transport the sulphur.16

A third example was the postal service. Postal runners were supposed to receive a nominal salary of two rupees and eight annas a month, but this money was paid once a year in arrears “through the agency of a Darogah, who of course mulcts each man of a few rupees”.17 No one would serve voluntarily at this rate and omissions in the state budget meant that the postal service on lines other than the main Leh-Srinagar route was “now absolutely, and admittedly, unpaid”. The postal service therefore also amounted to a form of begar. Ramsay accused Nisbet himself of exploiting begar labour, for example when transporting his personal goods from Jammu to Kashmir, and his overall conclusion was that “the present regime, with its magnificent Resident, and its costly Council, is a gigantic failure which should be swept away”.18 Not surprisingly, the Government of India stopped short of such a drastic response. Ramsay was accused of insubordination because of his intemperate language in his correspondence with Nisbet. After further discussions in Calcutta, he was transferred to Bhopawar, a minor princely state in central India. Nisbet also was replaced in the winter of 1890. The Government’s view was that the Ramsay/Nisbet dispute was based primarily on personal animus. Summing up the policy issues in a despatch to London, the Viceroy took the view that begar “had survived in Kashmir chiefly owing to the remoteness of the country and its defective communications”.19 Its sudden abolition would “throw Ramsay to Under-secretary of the Foreign Department, 6 June 1890. OIOC L/P&S/7/64. No. 1197. 17 Ramsay to Under-secretary of the Foreign Department, 1 July 1890. OIOC L/P&S/7/64. No. 1197. 18 Ibid. 19 Government of India to Secretary of State. 30 March 1892. OIOC L/P&S/7/65, No. 1105. 16

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out of gear the whole machinery of Government”. The solution was gradual reform. Further Debates on Begar and the Lo-phyag There was no immediate official response to Ramsay’s report on the lo-phyag, but in 1899 Captain R.L. Kennion, the then British Joint Commissioner, returned to the issue. Kennion’s enquiries showed that the lo-phyag and cha-pa missions were entitled to the supply of 260 baggage animals on either side of the border. In addition, several other parties had similar, smaller entitlements.20 These included: the two Tibetan governors of Gartok who were entitled to thirty baggage animals and two riding ponies on trading journeys to and from Leh; Haji Nasir Shah, a member of one of the leading trading families in Leh, who had the right to ten baggage animals; Hemis monastery, which was entitled to sixty baggage animals and five riding ponies to accompany the main lo-phyag; and several other monasteries on occasional visits to and from Tibet. In the same report Kennion echoed Ramsay’s analysis by arguing the system was “vicious in principle”. Moreover, the numbers of baggage animals demanded were only a partial measure of the burden on local villagers. In addition, “. . . it is universally the case that on each occasion of impressment the individuals who escape only do so by means of payment of blackmail”. Kennion argued that the abolition of begar would be very desirable “in the interests of good Government”, but noted that there were wider diplomatic issues. The lo-phyag was one of the few channels of communication with Lhasa and it would be unwise to discontinue it unilaterally. Sir Adelbert Talbot, the Resident in Kashmir, likewise emphasised the difficulties of reforming the system in his covering letter to the Government of India: To Western ideas the system of Kar bégar is very repugnant but it must be remembered that it has existed in these frontier countries from time immemorial, and that the utmost we can expect to do is to minimise the hardships of free labour by giving the people some form of compensation, for there is little chance that coolies can be dispensed with until roads are put into much better order than they are now.21

Kennion to Resident in Kashmir. 8 November 1899. OIOC L/P&S/7/125. Talbot to Government of India Foreign Department, 31 May 1900. OIOC L/P&S/7/125. 20

21

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Talbot’s comments anticipated the eventual solution adopted by J&K and British officials. After further correspondence between two Joint Commissioners and their respective governments, it was decided that the Kashmir government should pay for the transport of the lo-phyag and cha-pa missions on the stages between Leh and Gartok on the outward journey, and between Chushul and Leh on the return journey. The rates would be fixed at six annas per stage for each baggage animal.22 The Tibetan authorities continued to provide ’u-lag for the rest of the lo-phyag’s journey in Tibet until the 1940s (Radhu 1981: 57). The 1908/1909 Ladakh Revenue Settlement In 1908 and 1909, Chaudhri Khushi Mohammad, the wazir of Ladakh conducted a new and more thorough revenue settlement, and this was reviewed by W.S. Talbot, the J&K Settlement Commissioner. This settlement marked the final stage in the official regulation of begar. The overall policy was that the government should retain its established right to begar but that begaris should be paid according to a set rate. So, for example, Mohammad (1908: 16) notes that Ladakhi zamindars (farmers) had received no payment for gathering soda from near Panamik in the Nubra valley as well as sulphur and borax from Pugah in Changthang. In future they should be paid for their labour. Mohammad (1908: 39) describes the porterage system as the “standing administrative difficulty of this country”. Villagers had been able to earn a certain amount of money from porterage and this meant that they were more prosperous than their Balti neighbours. However, there was a shortage of pack animals and: . . . the groups of villages ordered to maintain different stages are unequal in regard to the number of Assamis23 and strength of pack animals and hence the incidence of Begar is very unevenly distributed among the different villages (ibid).

A further problem was exemptions from begar (Mohammad 1908: 40). Large numbers of people had been given exemptions “by every competent

File on ‘Kar Begar in Ladakh 1902’. Government Archive, Leh. Assami was a term adopted from Punjab for farmers who were state tenants but had hereditary occupancy rights. Mohammad (1909: 72) reports that Ladakhi farmers “unanimously accepted the status of an assami provided that it did not interfere with their hereditary possession of the soil.” The introduction of this terminology illustrates van Beek’s (1996: 130) observation that Indian rather than Tibetan or British practice had become the reference point for officials in Ladakh. 22 23

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and incompetent authority” at different levels of government and these disrupted the system by reducing the number of people available for work. Mohammad argued that exemptions should be restricted to: individuals provided with a sanad (diploma/charter) by the state government; kardars (heads of groups of villages) and lambardars (village heads); widows, the infirm and children who had no able-bodied male relatives; and people taken into state service. Mohammad considered setting up a state transport system, but decided that this would be too expensive. After extensive enquiries regarding the number of transport animals and assamis liable to begar in the villages along the Treaty Road, he finally drew up revised groupings of villages appointed to supply labour and transport at fixed rates along each stage. This list was approved by the Settlement and British Joint Commissioners (Mohammad 1909: 71). The transport begar system, as revised in 1908/1909, remained in force until shortly after independence. Each village would take turns to perform transport duties, and hence it was also known as the res system—res meaning ‘turn’ in Ladakhi/Tibetan ( Jaeschke 1881: 535; Mohammad 1908: 39). Joldan (1985: 65) cites the example of the villages surrounding Nyemo, where every khang-chen had to supply a man and a pony to be ready on duty at Nyemo for one month every four months—a total of three months a year. The maximum number of fifty ponies would be available only when the British Joint Commissioner was travelling: under British/Dogra rule, as in earlier periods, the right to draw on corvée transport labour was a marker of high status. On other days during the summer months, fifteen to twenty ponies would be available, and fewer in winter. The system was used by officials, but travelling merchants normally made their own arrangements. Similarly, the informants of Janet Rizvi (1999: 249) in Dras say that twenty-five horses were kept in readiness for officials. They noted that begaris were paid only for actual porterage, not the time spent waiting, and that part of the fees tended to ‘stick to the fingers’ of the lambardar responsible for supervising the system locally. Transport begar remained a much resented duty, even though the worst abuses had now ended. Conclusions and Wider Perspectives Many aspects of the evolution of corvée transport labour discussed in this paper are specific to Ladakh, but they also reflect wider historical themes that are apparent in other Himalayan areas.

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In his study of the central Tibetan village of Samada, Goldstein (1971: 26) shows that corvée transport played a critical role in the Tibetan political system because it enabled the central government to maintain “communications with all points in the polity with a minimum of personnel and expense”. Goldstein also observes that corvée transport tax was particularly burdensome for the Samada villagers because it could be demanded at any time of the year, and there was no limit to the number of animals that might be required. Both points apply equally to Ladakh. Cassinelli and Ekvall (1969: 251–54), who studied the Sakya (Sa skya) region of Tibet, acknowledge the oppressive aspects of ’u-lag and other forms of corvée labour, but argue that these were mitigated by the fact that the Sakya administrative structure was relatively small, and that this made it easier for local ‘subjects’ to appeal to the regional leadership. The administration, in turn, had an interest in ensuring that the system was not too arduous, or subjects might abscond to other regions, thus removing a vital asset—human labour—which was in short supply. ’U-lag was an integral part of the socio-political structure, sanctioned by custom and therefore widely accepted. Again, similar observations apply—at least in part—to transport services in Ladakh. Until the present day, villagers have continued to perform such services for monks—or to pay others to perform them on their behalf—as part of their sbyin-bdag religious affiliations with local monasteries. For example, Grist (1994: 268) cited the contemporary example of Markha valley khang-chen going on expeditions to collect goods from Rupshu for Hemis monastery. Riaboff (1998) reported that certain chun-pa (small households) in Zangla still provided porterage services for Karsha monastery when large numbers of monks travelled for major rituals. Similarly, Pirie (2002: 170) noted that contemporary villagers from Photoksar continued to provide transport for visiting for both monks and government officials, and that they referred to this practice as begar. These continuities show that transport labour for monks has had wide social acceptance. At least some of the time, it is likely that this acceptance also applied to services performed for secular leaders and officials, provided that their demands fell within prescribed limits. However, the system clearly was open to abuse, both in Tibet and Ladakh. For example, Radhu (1981: 272) writes of a senior Tibetan official whose requirements for corvée labour were so demanding that villagers viewed his arrival as a calamity. Similarly, Moorcroft’s report of the sufferings of the villagers of Dras in 1821 shows how oppressive

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the system could be in Ladakh, even during the Ladakhi monarchy. Travellers’ accounts suggest that the begar system became still more oppressive—both in Kashmir and Ladakh—during the early years of the Dogra regime in the 1850s and 1860s. As noted above, Heyde and Pagell’s reference to the salt trade in 1855 implies a distinction between ‘feudal obligation’—which may have been considered legitimate—and extra impositions that were unjust. Similarly, Grist (1994: 268) suggests that Ladakhis only found it acceptable to perform begar “up to a point”, and she cites a 19th century British traveller to Chushul whose porters would accept no inducement to continue beyond the limits prescribed by custom. In practice, of course, government orders backed by the threat of force meant that villagers had little option but to go well beyond what they considered to be just and fair. In cases of perceived injustice, various strategies were open to them. In the early years of Gulab Singh’s rule, many Ladakhis migrated to British India. Another option was to appeal to higher authority, whether this was the wazir, the British Joint Commissioner, or even—as in the case of the letter following Johnson’s withdrawal in the 1880s—the Maharaja. A third, similar approach was to seek the patronage of a local figure of authority. As Mohammad (1908: 40) noted, wazirs, tehsildars and kardars all claimed the right to grant exemptions from begar.24 In some cases, they may have done so on their own initiative. In other cases, they may have acted in response to a bribe. And in yet other cases they may have issued demands for begar in order to receive bribes for lifting them.25 If all else failed, there were still semi-covert means of resistance. In his analysis of the portering economy in Baltistan, Macdonald (1998) points to elements of both ‘push’ and ‘shove’ in the local power structure. The ‘push’ came from those at the top of the hierarchy, the ‘shove back’ came from the porters who found their own means of resistance. These included sabotage, deception or refusal to understand instructions,

24 Another, slightly different example of protection/patronage comes from the Moravian missionary A.H. Francke (1901). Reporting from Khalatse on the Leh-Srinagar road, he noted that there had been few conversions, but there was no doubt that the villagers benefited from his presence, and one visible sign was an increase in the chicken population. Previously, villagers had been at the mercy of passing travellers who would seize food and other goods without payment. If necessary, the villagers could now ask Francke to intervene, and this meant that they had an extra incentive to rear chickens for sale. 25 According to Wingate’s preliminary settlement report in 1888, this strategy was common in Kashmir (Digby 1890: 185).

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feigning to be sick, community withdrawal, tough bargaining and work stoppage. Wilson (1875) and other sources testify to the adoption of similar strategies in the Ladakh region. The regulation of the begar system following the Ladakh settlement in the early 1900s undoubtedly made improvements, but still there were problems with the way that the system worked in practice. In 1905 the British Joint Commissioner and the wazir found that junior officials had been taking supplies from villagers without payment and they warned that such practices must cease.26 The reminiscences of the Ladakhi politician Sonam Wangyal (1997) suggest that these kinds of abuses continued until the end of the Dogra regime. He reported that travelling officials often beat villagers and rarely paid for ponies or for “butter, milk, firewood, vegetables and other local products”. The picture that emerges is of a system that was imperfect at every level, but which met the minimum requirements of the British and Dogra leaders at the top of the power hierarchy. People in the middle, such as junior officials, found means of adjusting or of turning the system to their advantage. The one consistency, despite the reforms of the early 20th century, was that the main burdens fell on ordinary Ladakhi villagers. Acknowledgements I gratefully acknowledge assistance in locating unpublished sources, as well as comments on earlier drafts, from Martijn van Beek, Tsering Dhondup, Isrun Engelhardt, Alex McKay, Abdul Ghani Sheikh and Fernanda Pirie. References Archival Sources British Library Oriental and India Office Collection L/P&S/7/57, NO.126. China and Kashmir. Existing Relations Between Ladak and Lhassa. L/P&S/7/64, No.1197. Correspondence concerning Captain Ramsay’s denunciations of Col. Parry Nisbet and the begar system.

26 British Joint Commissioner to Wazir, 9 May 1905. File on ‘Orders issued by the Wazir-Wazarat and British Joint Commissioner from 1902.’ Government Archive, Leh.

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L/P&S/7/65, No. 1105. Allegations of Capt. Ramsay against Col. Nisbet. Reply of the Government of India. L/P&S/7/125, No.891. Captain Kennion’s correspondence on the lo-phyag. Government Archive, Leh File on ‘Kar Begar in Ladakh 1902.’ File on ‘Orders issues by the Wazir-Wazarat and British Joint Commissioner from 1902’. Royal Geographical Society, London Ney Elias Collection. NE 18. The New Revenue Settlement in Ladakh. 4 August 1885. Pencil draft report. Published Primary Sources Adair, F.E.S. 1899. A Summer in High Asia. London: W. Thacker. Aitchison, J.E.T. 1874. Handbook of the Trade Products of Leh. Calcutta: Wyman and Co. Barnes, C.G. and J.B. Lyall. 1889. Report of the Land Revenue Settlement of the Kangra District, Punjab. Lahore. Digby, William. 1890. Condemned Unheard. The Government of India and H.H. the Maharaja of Kashmir. London: Indian Political Agency. Rpt. ed. New Delhi: Asian Educational Services, 1994. Harcourt, A.F.P. 1871. The Himalayan Districts of Kooloo, Lahoul and Spiti. London. Reprint ed. 1972. New Delhi: Vivek Publishing House. Mohammad, Chaudhri Khushi. 1908. Preliminary Report of Ladakh Settlement. Jammu. ——. 1909. Ladak Tahsil. Lahore. Moorcroft, William and George Trebeck. 1837. Travels in the Himalayan Provinces of Hindustan and the Panjab, in Ladakh and Kashmir, in Peshawar, Kabul, Kunduz and Bokhara. Edited by H.H. Wilson. 2 Vols. London: John Murray. Pagell, Eduard and August Wilhelm Heyde. 1860. Reisebericht der zum Zweck einer Mission unter den Mongolen ausgesendeten Brüder Pagell und Heyde. Gnadau: im Verlag der Buchhandlung der evangelischen Brüder Unität bei C.H. Pemsel. Talbot, W.S. 1909. Review of the Assessment Report of the Ladakh Tahsil. Lahore. Wilson, Andrew. 1875. Abode of Snow. Edinburgh/London: Blackwood. Secondary Sources van Beek, Martijn. 1996. Identity Fetishism and the Art of Representation: the Long Struggle for Regional Autonomy in Ladakh. PhD thesis, Cornell University. Bray, John. 1990. The Lapchak Mission from Ladakh to Lhasa and the Government of India’s Foreign Policy in the Second Half of the Nineteenth Century. Tibet Journal 15(4): 75–96. Carrasco, Pedro. 1959. Land and Polity in Tibet. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Cassinelli, C.W. and Robert Ekvall. 1969. A Tibetan Principality. The Political System of Sa sKya. Ithica/New York: Cornell University Press. Chohan, Amar Singh. 1983. Historical Study of Society and Culture in Dardistan and Ladakh. New Delhi: Atlantic Publishers. Coen, Terence Creagh. 1971. The Indian Political Service. A Study in Indirect Rule. London: Chatto and Windus. Cunningham, Alexander.1854. Ladak. London: W.H. Allen. Desideri, Ippolito. 1937. An Account of Tibet. Ed. Filippo de Filippi. London: Routledge. Francke, August Hermann. 1926. Antiquities of Indian Tibet. Vol. 2. Calcutta: Archaeological Survey of India. Gergan, Joseph. 1976. La dvags rgyal rabs chi med gter. Edited by S.S. Gergan. Srinagar.

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Goldstein, Melvyn. 1971. Taxation and the Structure of a Tibetan Village. Central Asiatic Journal 15(1): 1–27. Grist, Nicola. 1994. The Use of Obligatory Labour for Porterage in Pre-independence Ladakh. In P. Kvaerne (ed.), Tibetan Studies. Proceedings of the 6th Seminar of the International Association of Tibetan Studies. Oslo: Institute for Comparative Research in Human Culture. Jäschke, Heinrich August. 1881. A Tibetan-English Dictionary with Special Reference to the Prevailing Dialects. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Jahoda, Christian. 2003. Sozio-ökonomische Organisation in einem Grenzgebiet tibetischer Kultur: Tabo-Spiti Tal (Himachal Pradesh, Indien)—Geschichte und Gegenwart. Ein Beitrag zum Konzept der “peasant societies.” Ph.D thesis, University of Vienna. Khan, Mohammed Saleem. 2002. The History of Jammu and Kashmir 1885–1925. Srinagar: Gulshan Publishers. Macdonald, Ken. 1998. Push and Shove: Spatial History and the Construction of a Portering Economy in the Karakoram Himalaya. Comparative Studies in Society and History 40: 287–317. Petech, Luciano. 1977. The Kingdom of Ladakh c950–1842. A.D. Rome: IsMEO. Pirie, Fernanda. 2002. The Fragile Web of Order. Conflict Avoidance and Dispute Resolution in Ladakh. DPhil thesis, University of Oxford. Prochnow, Johann Dettlof. 1855. Upper Kunawur. Church Missionary Intelligencer 6: 42. Radhu, Abdul Wahid. 1981. Caravane tibétaine. Paris: Fayard. Rai, Mridu. 2004. Hindu Rulers, Muslim Subjects. Islam, Rights and the History of Kashmir. Princeton: University Press. Ramsay, H. 1890. Western Tibet: a Practical Dictionary of the Language and Customs of the Districts Included in the Ladakh Wazarat. Lahore: W. Ball. Ramusack, Barbara. 2004. The Indian Princes and their States. New Cambridge History of India. Part III. Vol. 6. Cambridge: University Press. Riaboff, Isabelle. 1998. Taxes and Corvées in Zanskar (Western Himalayas). Manorial and Monastic Estates. Paper presented at the 8th seminar of the International Association for Tibetan Studies at Bloomington. Rizvi, Janet. 1999. Trans-Himalayan Caravans. Merchant Princes and Peasant Traders in Ladakh. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Shakabpa, Tsepon W.D. 1984. Tibet. A Political History. New York: Potala Publications. 1st ed. Yale University Press, 1967. Sonam Wangyal. 1997. Political Evolution in Post Independence Ladakh. In T. Dodin and H. Räther (eds), Recent Research on Ladakh 7. Ulm: Universität Ulm. Vohra, Rohit. 1989. An Ethnography of the Buddhist Dards of Ladakh. Ettelbruck, Luxembourg: Skydie Brown International S.A. Warikoo, Kulbushan. 1989. Central Asia and Kashmir: a Study in the Context of Anglo-Russian Rivalry. New Delhi: Gian Publishing House. ——. 2005. Political Linkages Between Kashmir, Ladakh and Eastern Turkestan During the 19th Century. In J. Bray (ed.) Ladakhi Histories. Local and Regional Perspectives. Leiden: Brill. Yasin, Madhavi. 1984. British Paramountcy in Kashmir. 1876–1894. New Delhi: Atlantic Publishers.

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CARPET WEAVING IN LADAKH AND THE INFLUENCE OF SONAM PALJOR Monisha Ahmed Marco Pallis, one of the few scholars of Ladakh to write about material culture there in the first part of the twentieth century, made a passing reference in his book, Peaks and Lamas, that has long interested me in my research on textiles in the region: “. . . at Kalatze [ Khalatse], . . . lived the only man with any reputation for weaving rugs” (1946: 296). Who was this man, albeit nameless, and why did Pallis single him out? Presumably he must have been living and making carpets in Khalatse when Pallis passed through the village in 1933. In an essay entitled “The Tibetan Carpet Weaver”, Walter Asboe also writes about a carpet weaver in “. . . the upper reaches of the Indus, . . .” as “. . . the only one of his kind in the whole of Little Tibet” (1950: 36).1 It is most likely that both Asboe and Pallis are referring to the same person, a man I have been able to identify as one Sonam Paljor. This paper discusses carpet weaving in Ladakh and the importance of his role in the development of this craft. Carpets in Ladakh Carpets (tsug-gdan or just gdan) are a ubiquitous sight throughout Ladakh. As floor coverings they serve a decorative purpose as well as providing warmth in homes and tents, monasteries and mosques. They are used as sleeping mats and to sit on whilst doing a number of household chores. The best rugs are kept for guests or used as floor coverings in private chapels. Typically made in sizes of three by six feet, smaller rugs serve as saddle coverings, while longer ones are used in monasteries for monks to sit on while they pray. Usually woven from wool, with a thick pile, their deep colours and simple geometric designs give them their own appeal.

1 Walter Asboe was an English missionary with the Moravian Mission, who lived in Ladakh from 1939 to 1947.

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Figure 1. Nomadic woman weaving a rug on the backstrap loom. Rupshu, 2006. Photograph by Monisha Ahmed.

Until about the 1930s, carpets or rugs using the knotted pile technique were mainly made by nomadic women in north-eastern Ladakh (Figure 1). These were woven on backstrap looms in three equal strips that were later stitched together (for a description on nomadic carpet weaving see Ahmed 2002: 122–24).2 The edges were either hemmed or knotted with woollen fringes. The fibre used was sheep and/or yak wool; acrylic and cotton yarns were not widely used until the 1950s. Nowadays, thick cotton thread is generally used for the warp. Because of the extensive colour palette offered by acrylic yarns they are widely used for weaving designs into the rugs. While it is not known when rugs were first made on the backstrap loom in Ladakh, it is certain that single piece carpets or rugs woven on the vertical frame loom were largely unknown before the first part of the twentieth century.3 Pallis wrote about this and Tonyot Shah, whom 2 Myers also mentions that the Tibetans at quite an early date “. . . must have begun to weave a type of pile textile, perhaps on a simple backstrap loom . . .” (1984: 22). 3 Kuløy suggests that while it is difficult to date the origin of weaving in general in Tibet, the production techniques of the carpet-making tradition can be dated back at least to the fifth century A.D. As evidence of this he mentions that a “10th Century silk thanka or temple banner from the Tunhwang caves shows two rugs or mats . . .”

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Pallis met in Leh, told me that, “carpets were not made in Ladakh till the 1940s; they were imported from Tibet and Yarkand”.4 Thus, single piece carpets were certainly available there but when this trade started is difficult to determine. Lying at the crossroads of high Asia, Ladakh was situated squarely between some of the great mercantile towns of south and central Asia (Rizvi 1983: 75). Trade flourished there, from the time the Namgyal dynasty was established in Ladakh in the tenth century to modern times. While there is no recorded evidence that indicates when exactly this trade first started in Ladakh, paintings on monastery walls and ceilings have become a source of information regarding the historical development of textiles in Ladakh as artists were generally free to follow the fashions and modes prevalent in their times. Some of the earliest examples come from the murals at the Sumtsek, one of the three temples forming the monastery complex at Alchi, which dates from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. While examples of floor coverings are evident in some of the paintings at the Sumtsek, it is not clear that these are knotted rugs. Examples of figures sitting on animal skins are evident in some of the murals, for example the dhoti of Manjushri (Goepper 1996: plates on pages 107 and 108). There are also examples of floor coverings that have a single coloured background interspersed with circular thig-ma (tie-resist dyeing) patterns (Goepper 1996: plate on page 49). But these are probably flat-woven, rather than knotted, rugs.5 It could be that these were made in Ladakh, or came from Tibet, as tie-resist dyeing continues to be done in Ladakh and woollen rugs such as the ones seen in the Alchi murals are still found and made there. From the sixteenth century and definitely during the seventeenth century when the first trade treaties were signed, Ladakh was established as a key staging post on Central and South Asian trade routes. Amongst the carpets imported into Ladakh, the most popular were those from

showing us that the usage of rugs was not unknown (Kuløy 1982: 68). Denwood dates the introduction of the vertical loom and basic techniques of carpet weaving to the sixth and seventh centuries, and states that “By the eleventh century carpet weaving was well-established as a folk craft among the villagers and some nomads in western and southern Tibet . . .” (1974: 93). 4 Interview with the late Tonyot Shah, Leh, April 1992. 5 These are also probably made in three pieces, similar to knotted rugs made on the backstrap loom, but this is difficult to discern from the paintings. However, those currently made in Ladakh consist of three equal pieces.

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Yarkand (Moorcroft 1841: 322–26).6 Tonyot Shah mentioned that his family brought carpets from both Tibet and Yarkand to sell in Leh. Amongst the merchandise he saw selling in Leh Bazaar, Dainelli writes about “. . . beautiful carpets from Khotan, their dark blue backgrounds scattered with stylized red flowers and with a charming velvety sheen on them” (Dainelli 1933: 272). Many fine examples of carpets from Tibet, Yarkand, and China still survive in Ladakh’s homes, mosques and monasteries (Figure 2), partly because they were preserved as symbols of prestige, and also because the climatic conditions in the region are such that they have largely been free from damage by light, moisture and insects. Sonam Paljor and Walter Asboe While it is not known with any certainty when the weaving of knotted rugs on the backstrap loom began in Ladakh, the introduction of the Tibetan vertical frame loom for weaving carpets is generally attributed to Sonam Paljor. Born in the village of Khalatse, sometime in the beginning of the twentieth century, Sonam Paljor Bandepa was considered a versatile man: He was always doing one thing or the other, with wood or cloth or wool. He was a good carpenter. He could also speak a little English and Urdu, read Bodhi. He was a clever man.7

It is said that Sonam Paljor learnt to weave carpets on a Tibetan frame loom by examining carpets that came from Tibet and talking to Tibetan traders visiting Ladakh about the manner in which the loom was constructed and method by which the knots were tied.8 Some people in Ladakh claimed that he had been to Tibet and learnt the craft there, but Daniel Thangpa, one of his students who was also from Khalatse and very close to him, negated that:

6 Apart from carpets, felt floor coverings (numdahs) from Yarkand were also popular in Ladakh. 7 Interview with Daniel Thangpa, Khalatse, July 1998. 8 While the construction of the backstrap and frame loom differ, the manner in which the knots are tied for making the pile is the same on both looms. For a detailed description on the construction of the vertical loom see Denwood (1974: 26–29).

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Figure 2. Abdul Hakim Shanku shows some of the carpets from Yarkand purchased by his father from Yarkandi traders in Leh bazaar in the early 1930s. Chushot, 2002. Photograph by Monisha Ahmed.

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monisha ahmed He learnt by opening up [unravelling] a small Tibetan carpet. He never went to Tibet. He opened one line at a time and saw what was there, and he learnt from that. In the same way he learnt how to tie the knots.

By seeing a range of carpets, mainly those amongst the merchandise of traders passing through Khalatse, he learnt a variety of designs (Figure 3). It is said that he used to make his own loom, prepare his own threads for weaving and his own colours for dyeing. The Moravian Missionaries who came to Ladakh at the end of the nineteenth century from England and Germany had a significant influence on the development of textiles there.9 In 1939 Walter Asboe started an Industrial School in Leh where weavers could work, train others to weave and design and market their produce (Ahmed 2002: 24).10 As the local priest in Leh, Asboe visited Khalatse several times, since the Moravian Mission has a small church there.11 It was probably on one of these visits to the village that Asboe saw Paljor. He writes: Going through a village [ I am presuming this is Khalatse] in the upper reaches of the Indus, I saw a man squatted in front of a wood frame with two wooden rollers, one at the top and one at the bottom of it. Black yarn had been wound round these rollers to the width of about four feet. Tsaywang had already woven about one foot of a carpet in different colours making an agreeable design which at once attracted my attention. (Asboe 1950: 36)12

As a result of their meeting, Asboe invited Sonam Paljor to teach carpet weaving at the Industrial School in Leh: It occurred to me that in order to preserve this art of carpet making, I would have to get him to teach two or three youths, so I employed him at a good wage to do this. (ibid.: 37)13

9 For instance, the wives of Moravian Missionaries introduced knitting in the region; soon after coming to Ladakh they set up a Knitting and Sewing school in Leh (Bray 1985: 52–53). 10 Amongst his other achievements was the introduction of the fly shuttle loom into Ladakh and the training of women to work on it, which was considered a break from tradition as women were prohibited from weaving on foot-operated looms. 11 The Moravian Missionaries built their first church in Ladakh at Khalatse towards the end of the nineteenth century. 12 Asboe refers to the carpet weaver as Tsaywang (1950: 36–37). However, family members I met of his in Khalatse, as well as Daniel Thangpa, said his name was Sonam Paljor. Apart from a discrepancy in names the events both report are similar so I take it that Asboe’s Tsaywang and Sonam Paljor are one and the same person. 13 I interviewed three of Sonam Paljor’s students: Aba Palle, David Gaphael and Daniel Thangpa.

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Figure 3. Daniel Thangpa holds up one of Sonam Paljor’s carpets. Khalatse, July 1998. Photograph by Monisha Ahmed.

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Sonam Paljor taught carpet weaving at Asboe’s school till Independence, after which it closed down. Asboe then gave all the equipment to the Indian government who, in 1955, set up government-sponsored handicrafts training centres, many of whose instructors had first worked or trained with Asboe. Sonam Paljor was one of them and he stayed on in Leh for a while teaching carpet weaving at the Handicrafts Industries. When he retired he returned to Khalatse. He continued to do some work, but it became increasingly difficult as Paljor developed leprosy. His wife left him and they had no children. Although he lived in his parent’s home, his brothers threw him out of the house. He went to the monastery for refuge but the monks also turned him away. Sadly, a few years after returning to Khalatse, Sonam Paljor committed suicide. Carpet Weaving in Contemporary Ladakh Although nomadic women in Ladakh continue to weave rugs on the backstrap loom, the legacy of Sonam Paljor has not endured. While Walter Asboe and Paljor had envisioned that if the latter taught others the craft it would then spread to villages throughout Ladakh, evidently this has not been the case. Carpet weaving in Ladakh continues to be confined to the government-run Handicraft Centres there; at the Centre in Leh there are about three vertical frame looms in operation. Perhaps this is because procuring the raw material, understanding the intricacies of laying out a design on graph paper and the operational costs of setting up the loom are too much for individuals to bear. There is also competition from traders selling cheaper carpets made in Punjab (mainly Ludhiana) from commercial yarns. Also carpets made at the Tibetan Handicraft Centres in India are easily available in Leh.14 Thus, while carpets continue to be widely used and appreciated in Ladakh, they are still brought into the region much as they were in the past.

14 However, the Tibetan carpet making unit at Choglamsar has shut down, asserting a lack of raw material as the reason. This is because wool used to come from Changthang but nowadays the nomads are keeping more goats than sheep, because of the lucrativeness of the price of pashmina, and so there is a fall in wool production.

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References Ahmed, Monisha. 2002. Living Fabric: Weaving among the Nomads of Ladakh Himalaya. Bangkok: Orchid Press. Asboe, Walter. 1950. “The Tibetan Carpet Weaver” in Lama and Laity of Little Tibet (part 1). Unpublished manuscript. Bray, John. 1985. A History of the Moravian Church in India. The Himalayan Mission— Moravian Church Centenary 1885–1895. Leh, Ladakh, India: 27–75. Dainelli, Giotto. 1933. Buddhists and Glaciers of Western Tibet. London: Kegan Paul. Denwood, Philip. 1974. The Tibetan Carpet. Warminster: Aris and Phillips. Goepper, Roger. 1996. Alchi, Ladakh’s Hidden Buddhist Sanctuary—The Sumtsek. London: Serindia Publications. Kuløy, Hallvard K. 1982. Tibetan Rugs. Bangkok: White Orchid Press. Myers, Diana K. 1984. Temple, Household, Horseback: Rugs of the Tibetan Plateau. Washington: The Textile Museum. Moorcroft, William and George Trebeck. 1841. Travels in the Himalayan Provinces of Hindustan and the Punjab (1819–1825). 2 vols. London: John Murray. Pallis, Marco. 1946 (4th edition). Peaks and Lamas. London: Cassell. Rizvi, Janet. 1983. Ladakh—Crossroads of High Asia. Delhi: Oxford University Press. ——. 1999. Trans-Himalayan Caravans: Merchant Princes and Peasant Traders in Ladakh. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

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II. REGIONAL IDENTITIES

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URBANISATION IN KARGIL AND ITS EFFECTS IN THE SURU VALLEY Nicola Grist Note from the editors: Nicola Grist’s doctoral thesis, Local politics in the Suru valley of northern India (1998), concerns the relations between three Muslim factions, two Shi’ah and one Sunni, in the upper Suru valley of Kargil District.1 A major source of tension between the Sunnis and one of the Shi’ah factions in the 1990s concerned the fact that in the past two decades many Sunnis had gained secular educational qualifications and white-collar government jobs. This chapter contains edited extracts from chapters one, four and seven of Nicky’s thesis and concerns the development of the urban economy and an urban administrative elite and their effects on the different factions in the upper Suru valley.

Background My research centres on Suru Block, one of the eight administrative sub-divisions of Kargil tehsil.2 The Suru valley contains three Blocks and Suru Block, itself, is fifty kilometres from Kargil, to which it has been connected by a motorable road since 1978. Taisuru, Namsuru, Panikhar and Prantee are the main settlements in the Block, while Parkachik is further up the valley towards Zanskar. Due to heavy winter snowfall the Block can only be reached on foot or by helicopter for several months in the winter and early spring. The area is still predominantly agricultural and nearly all the permanent households have at least a small plot of irrigated land, which they farm using mainly manual labour. The staple crops are barley, wheat, peas and a few vegetables and the extensive pastures support bovines, sheep, goats and horses. The Shi’ahs in Sankhoo and Suru Blocks nearly all belong to two factions, the yokma-pa and goma-pa, respectively, which mean ‘lower’ and ‘upper’. Both have, at their core, a lineage of sayyids who claim descent

1 Nicola Grist first visited Suru in 1981. She carried out the fieldwork on which her thesis is based during three visits, totalling sixteen months, in 1993 and 1994. Eds. 2 A tehsil is an administrative division which has its own local administration.

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from the family of the Prophet Mohammed’s daughter Fatima (Glassé 1991: 26). In Kargil tehsil, male sayyids have the title agha and women are called archo. In each faction there is a leading agha who is the local guide. The leading aghas have studied for many years in the Shi’ah centres of Iraq and Iran, and are literate in Farsi and Arabic. The leader of the yokma-pa is Agha Sayyid Mohammed, known as Agha Miggi Ort, while Agha Najibul is the leader of the goma-pa. Both live in Taisuru. The Sunnis do not have any religious leaders in this area. The politics of the wider region and of the Indian nation state both have a profound effect on politics in Suru. Discourses concerning Muslims and Shi’ahs in the colonial and post-colonial state and, more specifically, in Ladakh itself, as well as the ‘development project’ that is inherent to the state in India (Kohli 1990: 298, Chaterjee 1993: 200–19), affect interactions between Suru people and the government institutions and economy. The governmental economy is the main supplier of capital, jobs and infrastructure in Kargil tehsil as there are few other business opportunities or large capitalist enterprises. In the 16th and 17th centuries, the area was apparently made up of small chiefships, the most prominent of these being Kartse. In the early 18th century this was incorporated into the chiefship of Purig, which covered most of western Ladakh. By 1758 Purig had been permanently incorporated into the Ladakh kingdom and Leh was established as the centre of power and trade (Petech 1977: 105, 110). From the 15th century onwards the people of Baltistan, Ladakh’s north-western neighbour, converted from Buddhism to Islam, as did a large proportion of the population of western Ladakh. A link between political and religious affiliation was common in this area, and the incorporation of Purig into the Ladakh kingdom left it relatively disadvantaged economically and politically and without any major involvement in trade, except as the supplier of carriers for the caravans. Ladakh remained an independent kingdom prior to the 1830s, when it was conquered by the Dogras from Jammu who, by 1847, came to rule over large parts of the surrounding area, including Kashmir and Baltistan (Rizvi 1983: 67; Lamb 1991: 8). The Dogras themselves came under British influence very soon after their conquest of Ladakh. Trade continued but the regime was relatively harsh and its people were subjected to heavy taxes, which included having to provide corvée labour for the major routes (Bamzai 1987: 150ff; Grist 1994; Sonam Wangyal 1997: 486). The Dogras appear to have been particularly harsh to Muslims, including the nobles of Purig, who rebelled several times.

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At the time of Independence, Jammu and Kashmir was effectively left out of the Partition agreement leading India and Pakistan to fight a war over the region. There is now a cease-fire line dividing the two countries, which runs very close to Kargil. It is still a matter of dispute and heavily militarised on both sides. Subsequent wars and skirmishes have meant that Ladakh has continued to be of strategic importance to the Indian government and the people of Ladakh live with a constant threat of hostilities, which included the shelling of Kargil in 1997. Government and army activity, as well as the building of the road and the opening of Ladakh to (mainly foreign) tourists from 1975, have combined to bring enormous economic changes to the area. In 1979 Kargil was made into a tehsil in its own right with its headquarters at Kargil town and there was more government activity and employment. However, this has slowed down in the last decade, with the effect being felt first in Leh tehsil, and more recently in Kargil. The numbers of people who now obtain state-recognised educational qualifications, combined with a lack of other economic opportunities and the relative lack of development in farming, has led to serious unemployment in the district as a whole. Since the late 1980s, the conflict in Kashmir has caused huge disruption in the state and many deaths. In Kargil tehsil tourism has severely declined as most foreigners are unwilling to travel through the Kashmir valley; hence many of the hotels that were built in Kargil town in the 1980s are now empty. Similarly, business opportunities have been severely curtailed, leaving the government as the main source of nonagricultural employment in the area. Sunnis, Education and the Government Economy With the exception of landless widows, all Suru families have some land and practise both agriculture and animal husbandry. In the past, land holdings were much larger as the amount of cultivable land has not increased much in the 20th century, while the population clearly has. People in Suru told me that a household of average size needs about twenty kanals and many households have less than they need. The village of Thulus, on the bank of the Suru river, provides a good example of the peasant economy. Most households have at least

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one cow or dzo-mo (mdzo mo),3 a cow-yak cross-breed, which gives milk, although not necessarily all the year, and several sheep and goats, as well as either a horse or dzo (male cow-yak cross-breed) for ploughing and other tasks. In Thulus each house has on average two and a half bovines, five sheep and goats and half a horse, but one had only two goats. Nearly all the men in Suru used to go and labour in Punjab and Himachal Pradesh in the winter until the 1980s. This kind of work is now done in Ladakh itself, as there are more jobs in government projects. However, men usually only go labouring in the summer, for about two months of the year, as the rest of the time they need to be doing their own agricultural work. Moreover, labouring is both extremely arduous and poorly paid. In 1994 the wages were about Rs 60 a day, giving about Rs 1,500 a month.4 This compares with government salaries that start at about Rs 1,000 a month, are paid all year and often do not involve much work. Labouring work is, thus, only undertaken by people from poorer households and is considered rather demeaning. A man from Namsuru village told me that there are only ten households out of more than one hundred from which the men now take labouring jobs and implied that these are the poorest households. In the 1920s, which is the earliest living memory in Suru, the only salaried government employees were the patwari and a policeman. There was also a zeldar who was in charge of res5 and the collection of taxes for the whole Block. The last zeldar was a man from Namsuru, who was alive in 1981 and had a large landholding, which had partly been granted by the government. The village headmen were given a small share of revenue collections and both they and the zeldar could obtain tips (baksheesh) from travellers for whom they arranged coolies. Prior to the 1930s there were only a few literate people in the Block, most of them clerics. Since 1957, when three Sunni men from Panikhar qualified as teachers, there has been a great increase in education in both the Block and the tehsil. In 1973 a Boys’ High School was opened in Panikhar and by then all the villages had primary schools. By 1994 there were twenty-eight primary schools in Suru Block, three middle

3 Indigenous words are transcribed according to local pronunciation, with the Wylie (1959) transcription in brackets for Tibetan terms. 4 In 1994, the rupee was valued at 31 to the US dollar and about 48 to the UK pound. 5 Res is the obligation, usually a rotating one, to take the livestock to the mountain pastures.

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schools, one lower high school (up to ninth class) and girls’ and boys’ high schools in Panikhar and Prantee respectively. Despite the increasing availability of government education since the 1930s, other changes in the economy came much later. Firstly, the road from Kargil to Suru was opened in 1978, and eventually extended as far as Padum in Zanskar, which caused a great increase in small-scale commerce in the area. By the time I visited Suru in 1981 there were several shops in the small bazaar that was growing up along the road. By 1993 there were about thirty shops in Panikhar itself, and about twenty in Taisuru and one or two in other villages. There has also been a great increase in government employment and activities funded by government money, due to the establishment of Kargil as a separate tehsil with its own headquarters in 1978. There is still a shortage of sufficiently qualified local people to fill the more senior government posts. For example, in Suru Block, several of the senior teachers in the boys’ and girls’ high schools are from other parts of Kashmir. However, where possible, jobs are filled by locals and below a certain level all employees are from the tehsil. For white collar jobs, candidates are required to have minimum educational qualifications, such as a tenth class pass, in order to be a teacher. There are also many unskilled government jobs, such as chaprassies ( janitors) in schools and offices, and manual labourers in the animal husbandry and other departments. In addition to permanent government jobs, many other opportunities have been created in areas like construction. For example, there are a number of Suru men who now call themselves contractor (tikadar). This can mean anything from supplying furniture for a school to building a major construction, such as a hydro-electric project. Anyone can become a contractor, as it requires no educational qualifications. These new opportunities have enabled some Suru people to substantially increase their prosperity in the last two decades, particularly those living in and around Panikhar and Prantee. There is an important difference between Sunnis and Shi’ahs, however, namely that Sunnis have mainly obtained secular education and taken government jobs, whereas Shi’ahs have tended to eschew government education and are not well represented in most areas of government employment. The division of land holdings has also left many households without sufficient land for their household’s needs and there has been very little effective development of agriculture. The value of local barley and

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wheat have fallen relative to other prices and the increasing monetization of the economy has made cash a necessity for everything from bus fares to (government subsidised) ‘ration’ rice. In addition, there are very few non-government jobs in this area. This is partly because of Ladakh’s remote geographical location and the cost of transport, which has made many types of business unfeasible. Since the late 1980s Kargil has also been badly affected by the Kashmir conflict, which has severely curtailed business activities in the State. Unlike Leh tehsil, it does not have a large tourist industry. The consequence is that most households in Suru are poor, evidence of which can be seen in their relatively high rates of mortality and disease as compared even to other parts of Ladakh. Sunnis, Secular Education and Government Employment There are several reasons why Sunnis have entered enthusiastically into the government economy. The first, and one of the most important, is that they were less ideologically tied to the land than Shi’ahs. Despite the aghas’ own outside origins, the whole reference of Shi’ahs’ practical kinship is local. Women are discouraged from travelling far from their own land and hence the preferred partner is someone physically close. For ordinary people, however, there is no particular preference for relatives and marriage with them is thought to risk future rifts in the event of divorce. For Sunnis the opposite is the case, as the preferred partner is a person in another region, but a relative. This kinship pattern partially results from the laws in Kashmir, which prevented people from being permanently tied to land until the end of the 19th century. The consequence is that for Sunnis the kinship group is more enduring and important than their location. Both they and Shi’ahs say that Sunnis entered government employment because they had less land than Shi’ahs. There is some truth in this, since there are a number of Sunni zats that do not have much land.6 However, until recently, there was usually a large amount of land in Suru available for leasing and Shi’ahs without land have not done the same. Sunnis have managed to substantially improve their economic position by taking advantage of the opportunities that the state offered and 6 Zat is a Kashmiri term used in Suru to denote a Sunni kinship group equivalent to the pa of the Shi’ahs. See Grist (1998: 60, 136–37). Eds.

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using their new position to form patronage relations with Shi’ahs. One of the reasons they have been so successful in this is that in the past the Shi’ite majority did not compete with them for government benefits and resources. In the next section I look at some of the reasons this has been the case and offer some suggestions as to why the situation has changed in the last few years. Shi’ahs, Secular Education and Government Employment In Kargil tehsil the numbers attending school have increased enormously in the last decade, although there is a high drop-out rate (Kargil Youth Voluntary Forum 1993).7 Class

Girls

Boys

Total

1st–5th Primary 6th–8th Middle 9th–10th 11th–12th All classes

5,327 1,037 283 95 6,742

6,176 2,453 897 445 9,971

11,503 3,490 1,180 640 16,813

Numbers of children attending school in Kargil Tehsil. The population of the tehsil was 86,000 at this time.

In the villages we surveyed in Suru, nearly all children of primary school age are now attending school. Sunnis were already sending all their children to school in the early 1980s, so the great increase has been because Shi’ahs have also started sending their children en masse. This high rate of school attendance, particularly in a relatively remote rural area, is unusual in India as a whole, in which only a quarter of children complete primary school (Drury 1993: vii; Census of India 1991). One of the reasons is undoubtedly that the special status of Jammu and Kashmir in the Indian Union and the strategic importance of Ladakh means that the State government (with Central Government funding) provides free education and medical services on a scale not available in most parts of India. As recently as the mid 1980s, Shi’ahs in Suru were not very interested in secular education for a number of reasons. One was their historical lack of involvement with the government—of whatever period—and

7

See also Kaneez Fatima (1999). Eds.

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their experience of state power as an external and coercive force. Hence, they did not regard schools as being benign providers of education, but as just another example of an arbitrary and cruel imposition of an external authority. Several men associated with the school said that they had been treated very badly by the teachers and some of them said that they had abandoned their studies as a result. This reluctance to engage with government institutions also had resonances with some of the anti-secularist ideas coming from the Shi’ite centres in the 1960s and 1970s, which were a result of the erosion of influence of the clergy, due to a rapid and divisive process of state-led modernisation (Cole and Keddie 1986: 22). By the 1970s some of the Shi’ite leaders in Kargil tehsil were apparently discouraging their followers from being involved in secular education and also discouraged the use of Urdu and English, the main languages of government. This suspicion continued until very recently in some quarters. Another reason Shi’ahs did not send their children to school was that their main focus was the land, both symbolically and economically, and they did not want to spare their children from agricultural work. It is significant, in this respect, that those who entered secular education earlier, such as the family of the Sangra akhun (a village-level cleric), were entitled to milaks for their agricultural labour, reducing their labour needs.8 Another major difference between Sunnis and Shi’ahs can be found in the different focus of their leadership and role models. Because Sunni leaders possessed secular education and had links with the governmental economy, both were seen as attainable and desirable. Shi’ite leaders stressed the attainment of merit through religious education and donation. Higher status could be obtained through going on hajj or sending a son to study in a Shi’ite madrassa in the Middle East. I would suggest that in the 1970s and 1980s Shi’ahs entered the government economy in a largely instrumental way to get money to finance their religious activities, particularly to go on hajj. There were few government jobs that could be obtained without educational qualifications and most Shi’ahs do not seem even to have had the expectation of obtaining a government job at that time. However, by the late 1980s the situation was changing rapidly. This was firstly because of the divi-

8 Mi lag is a local term for a labourer. It also refers to free labour provided as a kind of corvée to families of aghas, akhuns and shaikhs. See Grist (1998: 79) for a more detailed discussion. Eds.

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sion of land and the undermining of the agricultural economy. The increasing monetisation of the economy meant that many households were forced to look for alternative sources of income. An additional factor in the last decade of the century was the escalation in bride price (rintho). Men in Suru and elsewhere in the tehsil no longer want to go labouring and the majority of government jobs are rather undemanding, both in terms of workload and attendance at work. So, to some extent, Shi’ahs were forced to obtain educational qualifications in order to get government employment, not because they particularly value the education itself. As a Suru woman once remarked to me: “Urdu and English are good for getting a job but Arabic is the language which is close to our hearts.” People’s expectations of access to a government job are rising rapidly. An important reason for this is that in the last 20 years or so people in Kargil tehsil have witnessed the state in an unusually generous mood and as the main source of waged jobs and other cash opportunities. This seems to have given them the impression that the state can and will provide. Moreover, all political parties and most politicians make promises to provide more government facilities and jobs, even through this may be extremely unrealistic. However, just as Shi’ahs have entered secular education in large numbers, the idea that educational qualifications, particularly pre-university ones, give access to a government job is becoming increasingly unrealistic. The rapid increase in government employment in the late 1970s and 1980s had almost completely stopped, and in 1994 there had been a freeze for the previous three years on any new appointment in the education department. The government’s response was to increase the educational qualifications required for government jobs so that by 1993 it was necessary to have passed tenth class even for unskilled jobs. At the same time, the number of students obtaining qualifications is increasing rapidly, both because of the larger numbers now attending school and because of a great escalation in the scale of bribery. The result is that there is now a growing unemployment problem in Kargil tehsil, where people talk of 7,000 or more unemployed. By 1994 this situation was exacerbated by the disruption in Jammu and Kashmir, which had caused a decrease in business opportunities. This situation has strong resonances with an article by Degregori on highland Peru, an area that has similarities with Suru (and Ladakh) in terms of its history of external domination and current peripherality to the centres of power. There education is regarded as a ‘black box’, the

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contents of which are not very important, but which must be obtained to get access to the resources of the state. It is similar, he says, to cargo in a cargo cult (Degregori 1991: 241). Conclusion Sunnis in Suru have moved from being relatively poor, as recently as twenty years ago, to being an emergent administrative elite in the 1990s. Shi’ahs were not interested in secular education when it was first introduced, remaining more interested in their own Shi’ite world and system of merit and status. Some of them did take unskilled government jobs, but they seem mainly to have engaged in agriculture, supplemented by labouring, trading and shop-keeping. In the last decade of the century, however, changing economic conditions have meant that many more Shi’ahs are seeking government jobs. Since these can only be gained by possessing secular education, this has caused a corresponding rush for education at any cost. This tendency has been exacerbated in Suru and Kargil tehsil by the rapid introduction of the government economy, the constant raising of expectations by all political parties and local factors, which mean that the government is virtually the only employer. Most people’s desire is not for education per se, but for the qualifications that they think will entitle them to a job. One of the consequences of Sunnis’ early and successful move into government education and jobs, particularly in education itself, is that they have increasingly been able to obtain services such as free labour from Shi’ahs and are starting to make claims of social superiority over them. Agriculture and the Urban Bureaucracy There is an emerging administrative elite in Kargil tehsil that is largely urban in outlook and residence, although it includes a minority from rural areas like Suru. Increasingly, there is a social divide between them and the mass of ordinary people who are still primarily involved in the agricultural economy. Attitudes to agricultural work are changing as the possession of secular education and government employment are increasingly associated with higher status. Such changes are symptomatic of a more general restructuring of the social geography in Suru. Changes are, for example, taking place in kinship and the organisation of the household. One is that masculinity

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and male authority within the family group are being redefined. There is also a noticeable change in patterns of speech and address and an increased use of honorific terminology, especially for those who have government jobs. Hence, there is an emerging social divide within Suru, which corresponds to divisions between the peasant agricultural economy and that of the government and administration, to divisions between rural and urban areas and to a gender divide. This affects the access to resources of women and peasants and leaves them effectively disenfranchised in the conduct of development policies. It also has important consequences for the ability of the yokma-pa leaders (one of the Shi’ah factions in Suru) to represent the interests of their members in Kargil and to turn their undoubted authority in Suru into effective action when dealing with the administration.9 Agriculture, Locality and Urbanisation Farming still remains the primary economic activity in Suru Block, providing the main source of livelihood for most households, particularly in the villages away from the Panikhar area where there are far more people with government jobs. All land-owning households in Suru still farm, even those that have a considerable income from other sources. However, attitudes to agriculture are changing. The withdrawal from agricultural labour is seen as a sign of status in Kargil and the trend is increasing in Suru. In Kargil itself, a significant proportion of the families of the administrative elite do not have land, either because they come from villages or because they were never an agricultural family. It is now rare for either women or men from this group to engage in agricultural work, besides tending small vegetable and flower gardens next to the house. As one young Suru woman remarked: “Of course women in Kargil have fair skins, because they just sit at home smearing cream on their faces 24 hours a day.” They also usually do not expect their children to help with the household work, as women would in the village. Although Agha Miggi Ort and other important religious leaders do not engage in much manual labour, there is no implication in his family’s general attitude to suggest that it is demeaning. However, the withdrawal from agricultural work among certain men in Suru is now

9

See Grist (1998, 1999) for discussions of the Shi’ah factions in Suru. Eds.

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becoming much more widespread, as it is associated with being modern and of higher status, particularly for men. In Panikhar there are now a number of families in which the men and teenage boys no longer do farm work. Ali’s Hotel, the only tea-shop/restaurant in Panikhar, is a major focus for such men, particularly the younger ones. For most of the long summer afternoons, there is usually a small gathering from Panikhar and the surrounding villages, particularly young men with government jobs, who come after work. Meanwhile the women in their households do not visit the hotel and will often be engaged in agricultural tasks until dusk. The older men tend to sit by shops and along the bazaar, often minding their grandchildren. A few of the households that are more engaged in the non-agricultural economy are starting to withdraw from agriculture altogether. For example, neither Haijji Mirza nor his son Haddi are engaged in agricultural work and the main part of their farming is done by Mehdi, a man who they adopted from Parkachik when he was a child, and his wife, who live in the lower part of the house. Nargis, Haddi’s new wife from Kargil, will not be required to do agricultural work, as is the case of the other wives from the Kargil administrative elite in Panikhar. In fact, all of the couples in such marriages effectively live in Kargil rather than Panikhar. In 1994, it was noticeable that the majority of people who were moving out were Sunnis, largely because more Sunnis had government jobs and were in a position to aspire to the administrative elite. However, Shi’ahs, such as Haijji Mirza’s family, were also making closer ties with Kargil. The drift to Kargil has partly occurred because of a social preference on the part of aspirants to the administrative elite, but the organisation of the administration itself also plays an important part in this mobility. The majority of the administration of the tehsil is situated in Kargil and government employees in the higher grades spend most of their career there or in its environs. People from Suru are having to spend more time in Kargil, and even further afield in Srinagar, for work, education and business. So a significant number of people from Suru now have a (usually single-roomed) lodging in Kargil, where one or more family members stay a good deal of the time. The rural people who spend time in Kargil are predominantly male, but there are a growing number of young women from Suru, both Sunnis and Shi’ahs, who have gone to study in 11th and 12th class in the Girls’ Higher Secondary School. The older people in their

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families usually insist that they spend a good deal of their time back in the village, both during periods of intense agricultural activity and in the winter. However, educated young men and women are almost universally uninterested in agriculture as a possible occupation, which will inevitably lead to the further marginalisation of the agricultural economy. Thus, they join the swelling ranks of the urban students and unemployed who are becoming more disgruntled at their position, as was illustrated by demonstrations during the election of 1996, but for whom it is difficult to see a role in the foreseeable future. Changes in the Household and Gender Roles The change of emphasis away from agriculture and towards a more self-consciously modern style is also reflected in changes in the architecture and organisation of houses, particularly in Panikhar. When I first visited in 1981/82 the houses in the village were small and single storey, built in a cluster at the centre of the village. Internally, most only had a small, simple kitchen with a rudimentary central hearth, although some had a room for receiving guests and occasionally one or two other small rooms. These living quarters were usually raised off the ground and reached by stone steps, the lower part of the house consisting of stables for the animals. Since the mid-1980s many houses have been built in the new style. The majority are in Panikhar and Prantee, but there are now several in other villages. These are initially made with a single storey and a further floor is added later. They are normally constructed of stone and concrete, as opposed to the stone and mud-brick of the older houses, and they usually have large windows and several rooms, often including a glass room which catches the winter sun, and a bathroom. In Panikhar and Prantee, in particular, a number of these new houses do not include animal shelters, since people now often keep the old house to use as an animal shelter and barn. This physical separation of people from animals and the other paraphernalia of the agricultural economy is significant and is also reflected in a growing fashion towards orderliness and cleanliness. Among those who espouse the new style there is a tendency to compare it favourably with that of the average Suru house. A woman from the village of Chushot, near Leh, who was married to a man in Panikhar in about 1970, described what Suru seemed like to her when she first arrived there:

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nicola grist You would not believe how dirty it was. You know that when you go into a house in Leh that everything is clean. The pots are all washed and set out nicely on the shelves. Well, here everything was filthy, the animals lived in the kitchen with the humans and nothing was ever washed. They used to cook the food in the same pan that they had used before without washing it—ever. The whole village was filthy and, as you know, most of it still is. Even when you look at houses like X (a Sunni household which is now relatively wealthy and has a large smart house), they were exactly the same then too.

This emphasis on orderliness and cleanliness in the newer houses is frequently commented on by the women that live in them, particularly Sunni women from Panikhar. Several of them said that neighbouring villages were dirty and they would question my willingness to visit houses there. In such households, there is a noticeable increase in authority, order and differentiation between people, which to some extent corresponds with the increasing order in the house itself. Aspirants to the administrative elite are much more likely to treat their servants as social inferiors; whereas even in the aghas’ households they are treated as social equals. This is just one indication that within most households, differentiation and authority were relatively weak in the past and continue to be so. Although, in theory, authority is mainly vested in the household head, people nearly always referred to their parents, rather than just their father, when decision-making was discussed. Most peasant households work as a team, with both adults and children working with little prompting. A striking degree of co-operation also marks the motherin-law—daughter-in-law relationship, which is often quite cordial and close. However, this lack of differentiation and notions of authority within the household are changing. There is a particularly marked shift in the way that masculinity is constructed. A number of Suru men stressed to me that in Islam it is one of the most important duties of the father—as opposed to the mother—to feed and educate his children. Previously, their major priority was to fulfil religious duties and to go on ziarat.10 Some men are also attempting to exert authority over their wives and children and to create a new role for themselves as patriarch—not always completely successfully. One reason for this is the recent trend towards universal marriage and the division of households in each generation. 10

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Pilgrimage to Shi’ah holy sites. Eds.

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Nowadays, there is much greater emphasis on the household as a unit and many contain a single adult male. As a result, authority and masculinity within the household have had to be renegotiated. This is particularly marked among men who aspire to the administrative elite. Formal behaviour that would normally be reserved for certain public gatherings is now often found in the intimacy of the immediate family. In several households of my acquaintance, all the women and girls whisper when male authority figures are present. Similarly, men may insist on sitting in a guest room or other special place and being served food and tea in a more ceremonial and respectful way. When a guest arrives it is not unusual to hear a man bossing his wife about preparing tea in order to assert his authority. Such men are likely to subscribe to the ideal of the Islamic male who has authority and provides for his family. They also commonly comment on this, describing themselves as being more moral as compared to the more profligate ordinary people in Suru. It is striking that this kind of behaviour is much more common among men who have government jobs and who are absent from the household because their work or posting is elsewhere. These attitudes were also most common among Sunni men, although they were also the views of some Shi’ahs. In these families, the notion of ‘the agha will tell me off’ (agha kha tse’a) is being replaced by ‘my father/brother will tell me off’. Thus, there seems to be a shift of authority away from the agha into the household. There are also some significant changes of attitude taking place among women who have government education. Nearly all employed women work in relatively junior positions, either as teachers or in the medical service. Although they enjoy a degree of respect and enhanced status in Suru, they are still restricted in their movements and normally expected to do a large amount of agricultural work. The government policy is to place women in jobs near their homes as much as possible. Nevertheless, it is difficult for a woman to aspire to higher levels of education and employment. As a result, they have to limit their field of activity to the house and the village. One of the places where their relative wealth and status can be expressed is in the house itself and this can be seen in their kitchens, some of which have elaborate shelving and many utensils, much in the style of a Leh kitchen. Similarly, these women dress smartly and wear brightly coloured clothes made of synthetic materials, whereas peasant women usually wear dark coloured clothes, some of which are made of local wool. Thus, at a time when Suru men’s field of activity

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is expanding and, most importantly, finding a focus in the town and outside Suru, most women remain relatively restricted to the rural and domestic domains. In Kargil itself, there is now a sizeable older generation of women who have been teachers for several decades and there are many younger women with government jobs. The older women, in particular, have a good deal of freedom in how they run their lives. Nevertheless, there is a noticeable difference in the access of women to the most public and political spaces. For example, there are no women activists at all in the political or religious parties locally and local women do not visit cafes or restaurants in Kargil, nor wander too much in the bazaar. This gendering is not a standard or inevitable process, however. In Leh gender relations are very different and the role of educated women is not the same. Of course, men in Suru went outside the area to labour, study and trade in the past, whereas women stayed in the village, so the gendered ordering of space was there before. However, at that time men’s primary focus was on the village and local area, whereas now, for some of them at least, it has shifted towards the town and the wider urban context. The emergence of the elite woman who has a salary and a relative amount of control over her life is a common phenomenon in India and elsewhere. Similar processes have been described by a number of writers, who have recognised the importance of gender in processes of modernisation, urbanisation and the creation of a national elite (Connell 1987: 119; Sangary and Vaid 1989; Chatterjee 1993: 127). However, the majority of peasant women do not have the same opportunities and, to some extent, their position is worsening. Changing Modes of Speech in Public Interactions In Leh, variations in vocabulary and terms of address are used extensively to express status difference. There is an elaborate honorific vocabulary used with or between people who are of high status, or to whom the speaker wishes to show respect, which is widely used in public contacts. In Suru, by contrast, you normally use the same form of words irrespective of whom you are speaking to or about. A very limited honorific vocabulary is used solely for aghas and their families. People in Suru have, however, started to use a limited number of honorific loan-words from the Leh dialect, particularly when speaking to male members of important agha families. This usage is of recent

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adoption, by all accounts, and the terms are used patchily and often incorrectly. The most enthusiastic use of these words was by some of the archos (women of the agha families) when speaking to the aghas in their own families. Most people still use the more egalitarian style of speaking and some people now subtly emphasise that they do as a sign of resisting these changes. Normal speech is also extremely direct in its content, as well as its form. Despite the fact that both gender and age are undoubtedly important organising principles, these distinctions do not imply differences of status. For others, honour is based on the individual having gained a particular status such as haijji or government servant. Thus, to a large extent, status is not ascribed by birth, but is to do with learning or employment status. There is an increase in the use of the terms for higher-status new occupations, for example, which are not used for people with low-status government jobs. There has been a similar shift to the use of Urdu words in everyday speech, particularly among the educated members of Sunni families in Panikhar and Prantee. In these families, the normal kinship terminology is being replaced by Urdu, which is seen as more sophisticated and respectful. Originally I wondered whether these families had always used a greater admixture of Urdu, because of their putative origins in Kashmir. However, most older and uneducated people—especially women—still normally only use the Suru dialect words. In Kargil town the use of honorific titles and more formal modes of address has become much more widespread than in Suru. For example, the term kacho was in the past only used for men from the handful of hereditary noble families of Kargil tehsil, but it is now used as a respectful title for Shi’ah men from the bureaucratic elite. The term sahib is usually used for Sunnis of similar status. Going to Town—the Bus Journey to Kargil and the Changing Political Geography of Suru A high degree of mobility is not new to Suru people. Nevertheless, I would argue that the trend away from agriculture as an occupation and towards the town in the last two decades represents a significant shift in the political geography. As notions of social space have changed with increasing urbanisation, so too has power shifted to the male urban-focussed administrative elite. One place where this distinction is constructed is on the bus to and from Kargil.

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The bus journey to Kargil is a social event in itself, since any traveller from Suru can expect to travel with a number of acquaintances. The bus runs twice a day in the summer and once in the spring and autumn and takes about five hours to cover the 58 kilometres to Kargil. The bus fills up considerably as it travels towards Kargil and on the return journey is already full when it leaves. There can be a range of travellers, including foreign tourists in the summer, but the majority are travelling to or from Kargil for work, business or study. There are usually few peasant women, as they infrequently visit Kargil and are often discouraged from boarding the bus because they bring in dirty baskets and loads. When they do manage to board, they are rarely able, or try, to get a seat. Educated young women, such as teachers and younger women who are studying in the Girls’ High School in Kargil and older women who have sons working in Kargil, are treated with more respect. If all the seats are taken they may be offered a seat by a relative. However, there is no general obligation for men to give seats to women. This is embarrassing for women as the bus is a very male and public space, so the ideal is to be able to sit down and appear inconspicuous. On one occasion, when I boarded a packed bus at Sankhoo, one of the sons of Agha Miggi Ort (an important religious leader of the Yokma-pa faction) got up and gave me his seat and there was an audible muttering of disapproval among the passengers. As the bus approaches Kargil a male camaraderie and ranking emerges, particularly among the men from, or with aspirations towards, the administrative elite. The seats near the front of the bus are the most prestigious, since the road is extremely rough and people sitting at the rear are constantly thrown about. If an important officer, maybe a ‘non-local’, gets on the bus, then lesser government employees in the front seats will normally leap to their feet and offer him the seat and may, in turn, be offered another seat by someone else. Often during the course of the journey the seating will be rearranged several times in this way as people get on and off. These men usually greet each other effusively and shake hands. The conversation is in Urdu if a non-local officer is present, but otherwise it is in the local language. However, some honorific language is normally used. An officer can expect to receive this kind of respect from other male government employees and men working in the new economy, but not from other people. Thus, their status is enhanced and displayed,

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not by acts of deference from peasants, but by the behaviour amongst themselves. This is in contrast with the treatment of an important agha, who will be offered a front seat by anyone from Suru. His family members will also get a place. By the time the bus reaches Kargil from Suru, the camaraderie that is created indicates that not only are educated women excluded from the society of government workers, but so too are ordinary peasants. This has real consequences for people’s access to resources in Kargil. For women, the differentiation between public and private space is particularly marked in the town. I myself found it very difficult to spend too much time on business in Kargil, as the visiting of government offices and walking in the bazaar entails effectively parading in predominantly male spaces. This is difficult, although educated women are treated courteously in the offices themselves. Male peasants can move around Kargil without notice, but they are ignored when they make requests in many offices and so find it very difficult to obtain things to which they are fully entitled; I frequently heard negative stories about various departments. Even Kargil-based teachers with relatively good contacts have to pay bribes to get their pay rises enacted. It was also said that people have to pay bribes of thousands of rupees in Srinagar and Jammu for sought-after places at university to study medicine and other prestigious subjects. The aghas and other members of the Taisuru school’s management committee encounter similar difficulties in performing business. Agha Miggi Ort does not have any particular authority in the urban administrative environment. He and his family stay in a more rural area above Kargil town, where most of the administrative elite live. They mainly move in circles outside those of the elite, as they do not have kinship connections with any of those families and their main contacts are with other Shi’ite clerics. Agha Miggi Ort is also unfamiliar with the structures and major languages of the administration. These structures make it very difficult for him to translate his powerful position in Suru, and his control of a significant proportion of the tehsil’s electorate, into a modicum of power there. However, Qamar Ali (Eds: in 1994 a former member of the Jammu and Kashmir Legislative Assembly) is able to be much more effective in dealing with the administration as he has secular education and his family are now married into the administrative elite. Hence, he can expect a degree of help from relatives in the administration.

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The social reverse of the bus journey to Kargil occurs when officers from Kargil visit the villages. Most of them come by jeep and stay for very short periods. Many dismiss the Suru people as being backward and religious fanatics, and use these stereotypes as an excuse not to implement policies or engage in community development initiatives. The people in Suru are frequently blamed for their own poverty. For example, it is government policy in Ladakh to promote family planning and many Sunni women in Suru do use contraception, as do a few Shi’ahs. But it is often said that it is impossible to promote its use among Shi’ahs, since the religious leaders refuse to allow any kind of contraception. In Suru in recent years, very little effort had been made to give women information on contraception. However, in the winter of 1993, Dr. Asghar from Kargil visited Suru to initiate a household survey by the medical department. He went to see Agha Baqir (Eds: the religious leader of the goma-pa faction), who agreed for the surveyors to promote the idea of contraception among women in the area, and the next day Agha Miggi Ort also agreed. We found that the vast majority of them were very interested in the idea of contraception and in the next few months many women spontaneously asked me about it. On the bus to Kargil there is an increase in divisions which are certainly not absent, but are relatively muted, in the village, but which come to the fore in the urban context. This illustrates the social divide between the urban administration and the countryside. Conclusions I have described explicit changes in the aspirations and style of behaviour among people in Suru who are engaged in the government economy. They increasingly distance themselves from the agricultural economy and the rural areas. Nevertheless, the attainment of a job, let alone membership of the administrative elite, is an unrealisable dream for most men, evidence of which can be seen in the considerable student and young unemployed unrest in Kargil. The changes in attitude that I am describing are not confined to any particular religious group, although they are more marked among the Sunnis in Suru. I believe this is because they currently have a greater involvement in the government economy and because, in the past, their kinship practices involved a weaker link to the land and locality than

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those of Shi’ahs. The reference point for the emerging administrative elite is now increasingly urban and non-agricultural, and it seems likely that the social gap will continue to widen between them and ordinary peasants, particularly since they are creating new marriage ties with people in Kargil. At the same time, agriculture is increasingly regarded as a female occupation, compared with public politics which are virtually entirely male. Thus, a shift of power is taking place from the local area to the urban centres of the government economy which, in the case of Suru, are Kargil, Srinagar and Jammu. This is having a profound effect on the allocation of resources and development efforts towards farming and the rural areas. References Bamzai, P.M.K. 1987. Socio-economic history of Kashmir. New Delhi: Vikas. Census of India. 1981. Series 8, Jammu and Kashmir. Ladakh District. District Census Handbook. Part IIA. General Population Tables. (ed.) A.H. Khan. Chatterjee, Partha. 1993. The nation and its fragments—colonial and postcolonial histories. Princeton: University Press. Cole, Juan and Nikki Keddi (eds). 1986. Shi’ism and social protest. Newhaven: Yale University Press. Connell, R.W. 1987. Gender and power. Cambridge: Polity Press. Degregori, Carlos Ivan. 1991. How difficult is it to be God? Ideology and political violence in Sendero Luminoso. Critique of Anthropology 11(3): 233–50. Drury, David. 1993. The iron schoolmaster: education, employment and the family in India. Delhi: Hindustan Publishing Corporation. Glassé, Cyril. 1991. The concise encyclopaedia of Islam (2nd edition). London: Stacey International. Grist, Nicola. 1994. The use of obligatory labour for porterage in pre-Independence Ladakh. In P. Kvaerne (ed.) Tibetan Studies—Proceedings of the 6th Seminar of the International Association for Tibetan Studies. Oslo: The Institute for Comparative Research in Human Culture. 1: 264–74. ——. 1998. Local Politics in the Suru Valley of Northern India. Doctoral thesis, Goldsmiths’ College, University of London. ——. 1999. Twin Peaks: The Two Shi’ite Factions of the Suru Valley. In M. van Beek, K. Bertelsen and P. Pedersen (eds), Ladakh: culture, history and development between Himalaya and Karakorum. Aarhus: University Press, 131–52. Kaneez Fatima. 1999. Women’s development and education in Kargil District. In M. van Beek, K. Bertelsen and P. Pedersen (eds), Ladakh: culture, history and development between Himalaya and Karakorum. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 119–24. Kohli, Atul. 1990. Democracy and discontent: India’s growing crisis of governability. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lamb, Alistair. 1991. Kashmir: a disputed legacy, 1846–1990. Hertingfordbury, Hertfordshire: Roxford Books. Rizvi, Janet. 1983. Ladakh: crossroads of High Asia. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Sangari, Kukum and Sudesh Vaid. 1989. Introduction. In K. Sangari and S. Vaid (eds), Recasting women: essays in Indian colonial history. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press.

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Sonam Wangyal. 1997. Political evolution in post Independence Ladakh. In T. Dodin and H. Räther (eds), Recent research on Ladakh 7—Proceedings of the 7th Colloquium of the International Association for Ladakh Studies. Bonn: Ulmer Kulturanthropologische, Band 9, 485–92. Wylie, T.V. 1959. A standard system of Tibetan transcription. Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 22: 261–76.

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DISTANT NEIGHBOURS EITHER SIDE OF THE OMASI LA: THE ZANSKARPA AND THE BOD COMMUNITIES OF PALDAR Isabelle Riaboff Apart from a few allusions here and there, Western literature does not say much about Paldar.1 Until today, this Himalayan region, which lies in the southernmost part of Jammu and Kashmir, has remained off the ethnologists’ tracks, so much so that one has to turn back to the 19th century to find worthwhile written information. This we mainly—not to say exclusively—owe to Frederic Drew. Having entered the Maharaja of Kashmir’s service in 1862, Drew travelled extensively in the Jammu and Kashmir Territories, first as a mineralogist and later as the Forest Department manager. Fortunately, far from confining his observations to the minerals and trees, he was also very much interested in history and geography. With respect to Paldar, his report remains the only available general written account.2 As for me, I happened to hear about Paldar when staying in Zanskar, a Tibetan-speaking enclave (mainly Buddhist) situated to the north-east of Paldar.3 During my long and repeated Zanskari stays through the 1990s, I did not inquire systematically about this distant neighbouring region. Nor did I spend much time in the villages of Sani, Ating or Bardan which, for geographical reasons, have more connection with Paldar than any other Zanskari village has. Nevertheless, several anecdotes aroused my curiosity. For instance, the only hens which I ever saw in Zanskar, except for those carried on horseback for tourists’ consumption, had been bought in Paldar, I was told. I also remember 1 Written reports usually speak of Pādar. The variant Paldar, which I prefer, corresponds to the Tibetan pronunciation, spelt in various ways (Pa ldar, dPal dar, dPal dhar). 2 In 1848, some twenty years before Drew, the botanist Thomas Thomson, who had been appointed as commissioner for the purpose of laying down the ancient boundary between Ladakh and Tibet, crossed Paldar in a few days’ walk. Coming from Lahul, he continued his way towards Zanskar. Thomson did narrate this journey, but his description was a travelogue only concerned with the route, the terrain and the vegetation. It did not say anything about the villages and their populations. 3 Zanskar belongs to Kargil District. It is inhabited by more than 12,000 people.

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the ‘treasure’ which an acquaintance of mine kept in a handkerchief: a handful of small uncut sapphires from Paldar.4 And monks in Karsha recalled the harsh time when, following a fire in their monastery, they had to go to Paldar from where they carried back wooden pillars to replace those which had gone up in smoke. Paldar was, indeed, described as a forest-covered and grassy place. Yet the Zanskarpa (the people of Zanskar) did not say much about its inhabitants, whom they indiscriminately call Paldarpa (the people of Paldar). The only information I could trust for sure was that some of them spoke Zanskari, and that they were Buddhist. One of the monks of Bardan monastery was, indeed, a native of Paldar. When I eventually decided to visit Paldar, with a view to probing into its Tibetan-speaking communities, the monk in question spontaneously accompanied me from Zanskar, so that I had the great opportunity to discover the region with a home-born guide and to stay for one month in his valley, Kabön. The next summer, back among the Bod of Paldar, I spent another three months in Kabön.5 Of course, much work has yet to be done. Still, regarding the relationships between the inhabitants of Kabön and the Zanskarpa, several observations can already be made which indicate the multifaceted dimension of these bilateral links. However, before we come on to this subject, some historical, geographical and ethnological details must be presented. The Setting Administrative Frontiers The present position of Paldar within India6 stems from its military and political history. In 1664, Paldar, which had previously been divided between several petty chiefs, was annexed by the Chamba Kingdom, recently strengthened in power. Opposite the hillside where presentday Atholi is situated, the Raja (H. Rājā, King)7 of Chamba founded 4 The famous so-called ‘Kashmiri sapphires’ are, indeed, extracted from small deposits laid in Paldar mountains. 5 Fieldwork in Paldar was carried out in the summers of 1998 and 1999, under a grant from the Fonds Louis Dumont d’aide à la recherche en anthropologie sociale, Paris. 6 See map on p. 3. 7 Phonetic spelling is used for all vernacular terms. The phonetic forms of the common nouns are followed by the proper transliterations, either Tibetan (T.) or Hindi (H.). Phonetic forms and transliterations are all italicised.

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a fortified town that was to become a flourishing trade centre. The town was called Chatargarh, after the personal name of the Raja, Chatar Singh. Less than two centuries later, in the first half of the 19th century, new military episodes occurred. First, in around 1825, when the Governor of Paldar invaded Zanskar on the request of the Chamba Raja, Padum, the capital of Zanskar was sacked and the Zanskarpa were bound to pay an annual tribute (1,000 rupees, together with musk-bags and other precious items) (Drew 1976 [1875]: 131). A few years later it was the Dogras’ turn to subdue Paldar, soon after Zanskar’s conquest. The country was annexed by Zorawar Singh’s lieutenants, namely Mehta Basti Ram and Lakhpat Rai. Chatargarh was plundered and renamed Gulabgarh, after Gulab Singh. It seems that, once conquered by the Dogras, Paldar was constituted as a Jammu and Kashmir district of its own. Then, for unexplained reasons, it was united with the former Zanskar district to compose the so-called ‘Padar Jaskar’ sub-district (Census of India 1891). This tahsil was part of the Udampur district, within Jammu province. Finally, at the very beginning of the 20th century in April 1901, following Bakula Rinpoche’s request, Zanskar was detached from Paldar to join the newly-constituted Kargil tahsil (Census of India Vol. XXIII 1901). Paldar remained within Jammu Province so that, nowadays, it is a subtahsil of Kishtwar tahsil. It belongs to Doda district, which has been deeply affected by militant activism since the early 1990s. Physical and Human Geography The Chenab river (also called Chandrabhaga because it originates in Lahul at the confluence of the Chandra and the Bhaga) cuts right across Paldar region, before running westwards through Kishtwar. From its starting point to Atholi, the administrative capital of Paldar, the river Chenab flows 180 kilometres (110 miles), descending from an altitude of more than 3,000 metres to 2,000 metres or so. As it goes northwards, the Chenab valley narrows. In Paldar it is steep-sided and, in places, it becomes a rocky gorge. Except on their rocky tracts, the Chenab slopes are covered with alpine forests of various species, such as walnuts, chestnuts, poplars, willows and, above all, conifers, in particular pines and deodars. The latter are well-known for having been exploited as timber since British times. These forests are the abode of all kinds of animals, monkeys and brown bears among others. As for the tributaries of the Chenab river, lying to the east, they form many

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narrow, high-altitude valleys, along which vegetation grows scarcer with altitude. Above 3,000 metres firs and spruces take the place of the pines, while higher up birches are the only trees that grow. As is to be expected, the lower parts of Paldar, that is to say the Chenab banks, are more thickly populated. Together with the bottoms of some of the side valleys, they are inhabited by Hindu people who consider themselves as Pahari (H. Pahā ī), literally ‘of the mountains’.8 The Pahari belong to three castes: most of them are Thakur, but the others are either Brahman or Hari (members of low castes). These Hindus cultivate maize, millet and rice. Matchel, which is one of the highest Pahari villages, lies at almost 3,000 metres in altitude. On the other hand, the higher altitude places (between 3,000 and 4,000 metres), in particular the valleys of Halango and Kabön, are inhabited by Tibetan-speakers, who call themselves Bod, ‘Tibet[ans]’.9 The Bod, who total 1,000 people or so,10 live from farming and cattle-breeding. They grow barley, buckwheat, wheat and potatoes, and they breed numerous goats and sheep and a few cows and dzomo (T. mdzo mo, hybrid of the yak and cow). The Bod and Pahari live in separate localities with rare exceptions. There are a few members of Pahari low castes who live amongst the Tibetan-speakers as providers of services (for instance as musicians or blacksmiths). Pahari and Bod also live side by side in Gulabgarh. For 20 years or so the high Paldar valleys have been affected by a dramatic drift from the land, which has taken numerous Bod towards the cities. Among these migrants, those who do not leave Paldar for Manali, Kishtwar or Jammu invariably settle in Gulabgarh, to such an extent that the Pahari are now a minority in this small market town. The Bod and the Pahari also often meet in their respective villages. For instance, the Bod of Kabön often go to Shol, a big Pahari village situated at the very point where Kabön stream meets the Chenab River, where they

8 The Hindi term Pahā ī designates a very large cultural group living in the Indian Lower Himalayan Mountains, from Kumaon (in the east) to Paldar (in the west). Albeit characterised by significant variation from one region to the next, the Pahari subcultures bear a number of common features, most notably the language (although subdivided into various dialects) (Berreman 1960). 9 One should note that the neighbouring region of Pangi—which is part of the Chamba district, in Himachal Pradesh—is also partly inhabited by Tibetan-speakers (whose autoethnonym is pronounced Pöt), with whom the Bod of Paldar have considerable social intercourse. 10 Unfortunately, we do not have any official statistics regarding Paldar’s population.

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find health services and obtain maize and millet in exchange for cheese or gugul (T. gu gul ), the roots of a high altitude plant (Amyris agallocha), with which the Pahari prepare incense. At the end of the winter season, in the case of a shortage of fodder, some of them lead their herds into Pahari territory where the spring is warmer. As for the Pahari, they often come and visit Kabön Valley for pastoral reasons. Many Pahari entrust one or two cows to the safekeeping of a Bod family with whom they are acquainted. Moreover, some ten minutes away from the lowest Bod pasture dwellings there are several Pahari huts. During the summer season, Pahari shepherds occupy these huts with their cattle and until a few years ago they even cultivated fields in the immediate vicinity. Furthermore, in summer time the high pastures are also frequented by nomadic shepherds, either Gujjar or Gaddi, mainly Muslim, who come from beyond the Pir Panjal Range. Cultural Hybridity As the result of intermingling cultural features from both the Pahari and Zanskari worlds, the Bod have developed hybrid microcultures of their own. Let us confine ourselves to the situation of Kabön.11 On the one hand, all the Kabönpa (the inhabitants of Kabön), both men and women, are able to understand and speak paddri (the Pahari dialect specific to Paldar). Even among themselves they often sing Pahari songs in paddri language. Whether in ceremonial circumstances or not, they dance after the Pahari fashion (swaying their bodies half way round at each step) and their storytellers narrate the Råmåyana epic. The Kabönpa also wear the same type of garment, headdress and finery as their Pahari neighbours, and they live in houses modelled on Pahari architecture. Furthermore, the socio-economic organisations of the Kabönpa and Pahari have similarities: in both cases farm estates are invariably divided between brothers, so that today’s households are descended from a few initial houses. In Kabön, as in Shol, sister houses are called bhayar, after the Hindi bhaiyā, ‘brother’. Last, but by no means least, the Kabönpa conform to three habits particularly meaningful as far as identity is concerned, these being the performance of Pahari-like 11 In Kabön Valley, the Bod live in four villages. In ascending order of altitude from 2,900 m to 3,400 m these are: Kushta, Bigneli, Odhu and the village of Kabön proper. Altogether, the four Bod villages number 63 houses, in which some 360 people live. Being the oldest settlement, Kabön is by far the largest: on its own, it comprises 250 people, divided into 43 houses.

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local cults in which Hindu mediums are sometimes involved (see Riaboff 2004), the use of Pahari personal names and the observance of the ban on eating bovine meat. On the other hand, in many respects Kabön’s culture appears to be basically Zanskari. First of all, apart from the fact that they use many more Hindi loan words, the Bod speak the same Tibetan dialect (akin to Ladakhi) as the Zanskarpa. Secondly, the Bod kinship terminology does not differ much from the Zanskari terminology. As does the latter, it conforms to the Tibetan frame:12 it is generational, in the sense that brothers and male cousins merge into the same categories, as sisters and female cousins do; it classifies siblings according to their respective ages; it distinguishes the paternal and maternal relatives; it is characterised by obliquity, some relatives being assimilated with each other, albeit that they do not belong to the same generation (for example, the spouse of a man and the spouse of a man’s son). Moreover, in Kabön, as in Zanskar, the term ama, ‘mother’, is also applied to the sisters of one’s mother, just as apa, ‘father’, designates the brothers of one’s father.13 As for the Bod clan system, it is utterly identical to its Zanskari equivalent. In Kabön as in Zanskar, the clans are called phepün (T. pha’i spun, lit. ‘brothers and cousins through the father’). Here and there, a clan is defined by the fact that its members, who are believed to be the descendants of a common ancestor, share the same ‘bone’ (rüpa, T. rus pa) and the same tutelary deity ( phelha, T. pha’i lha). All the ‘bones’ (duly named), which I have listed among the Bod of Paldar are familiar in Zanskar,14 and the Kabönpa usually know about their Zanskari clan brothers. Except for the cults of the local deities, Bod lay feasts (such as the New Year celebration, the archery festival, the spring ceremonial ploughing, birth festivities and weddings) are very similar to their Zanskari counterparts. They involve the same social actors, give rise to similar economic contributions and call on identical symbols.15

See Appendix 1. This last point would need a detailed discussion but this is beyond the scope of this paper. Let me simply state that, as far as I know, among the Bod, all one’s father’s brothers are called ap’a and all one’s mother’s sisters ama, whereas in Zanskar this is not systematic (father’s younger brothers can also be called agu, T. a khu, and mother’s younger sisters machung, T. ma chung), depending on the familiarity which the nephews and nieces and their uncles and aunts want to display. 14 See Appendix 2. 15 It is true that Bod wedding celebrations nowadays incorporate a number of Indic features (which are equally adopted by a great number of Himalayan populations), 12 13

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Lastly, the Bod belong to the Drukpa Kagyü order (T. ’brug pa bka’ brgyud ) of Tibetan Buddhism. Their cultural hybridity leads the Bod to construct their identity through constant reference to both the Zanskarpa and the Pahari. The latter, whom they call either Mön (T. Mon), Rongpa (T. rong pa, ‘gorge people’) or Paldarpa constitute, in their eyes, a kind of antimodel, presented by them as an impediment which inhibits the full emergence of their Tibetanness.16 On the other hand, they tend to idealise the Zanskarpa, vis-à-vis whom they think of themselves as being deficient. Having already discussed this aspect at length (Riaboff 2002), let me here examine, in more detail, the actual links between the Bod of Paldar and Zanskar. Trans-Himalayan Connections Zanskar, Land of Ancestors Tibetan-speakers first settled in Paldar, on what was then Pahari pastureland, during the 19th century. It is difficult to determine precisely when this settlement occurred. At best, the Bod know how many generations stand between themselves and their family ancestors: according to the oral accounts that I gathered, the most ancient households are five generations old. Indeed, in the 1860s or 1870s, while on his way to Zanskar, Frederic Drew reported Bod presence in the upper part of the Bhutna Valley (which the Bod call Halango):17 There are two or three hamlets towards the head of Bhutna, eleven houses in all, inhabited by Bhots or Buddhists from Zanskar, on the farther side of the great range. [. . .]. The Bhots seem to have been for long settled in this upper end of the valley. [. . .] the highest inhabited place of all

such as the use of white turbans, spectacular nuptial headwear, collars of bank notes, and the coming of the bridegroom to the bride’s house. 16 The Bod do admit that they follow a number of Pahari habits, but they assert that these habits are superficial and nothing but an outward show to silence Pahari sarcasm. Yet, the facts invalidate this assertion. First of all, some Pahari cultural features (such as the use of Pahari personal names) are not that superficial, since they were adopted early on by the Bod. Moreover, in contrast to what they say, the Bod do give credence to some Hindu values, which they inculcate in their children. Hence, the Pahari model is much more ambiguous than the Bod would ever admit: denigrated by the Bod, Pahari culture is nevertheless emulated by them with social enhancement in view. 17 The Indian name ‘Bhutna’ comes from Bhot (H. Bho , ‘Tibet’) and nala (H. nālā), ‘ravine, furrow’.

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isabelle riaboff is Sunjam, half a march beyond Machel; here is but one household of Bhots, a hardy family; they are confined within doors by the snow for seven months in the year. (Drew 1976 [1875]: 130, 136)

Unfortunately Drew does not tell us what led him to believe that the Bod had occupied the Bhutna valley for long. This statement is not only contradicted by my own information but it is also inherently unlikely, in view of the small number of Bod houses counted by Drew himself (11 houses in all, he says, whereas today there are 85 in the same area). It is, nevertheless, the case that Drew provides evidence of Bod presence in the Bhutna valley in the second half of the 19th century. As may have been noticed, Drew defined the ‘Bhot’ as ‘Buddhists from Zanskar’. Yet, this allegation has to be qualified. First of all, the Bod would never consider themselves to be Zanskarpa. Furthermore, the newcomers who founded the Bod localities came not only from Zanskar but also, occasionally, from Lahul. This is true of the two founders of Kabön. Their story begins with the unexplained drying up of the irrigation canals of Gushal, a Lahuli locality situated some ten kilometres from Keylang, the capital of today’s Lahul. Through the voice of a medium questioned by the lord of the place, it was understood that the calamity was due to the presence of a demon (srinpo, T. srin po) inside the canal. To overcome the disaster, the god demanded a human sacrifice. The younger son of the lord was chosen as the victim. To save his life, the young boy, accompanied by a friend from the nearby village of Tandi, ran away to the north. Once the two had reached Paldar they settled, on the Pahari’s advice, on what was to become Kabön.18 Although the myth is a familiar one, this foundation story is eloquent. In particular, it describes the two pioneers as runaways, which seems to be a factor common to the subsequent Lahuli and Zanskari migrants: one was an orphan rejected by his relatives, another one was a poor, fifth-born son, a third was a monk who decided to break his monastic vows, while another fled with his beloved to escape the marriage arranged by his parents. In point of fact, the Zanskarpa often explain that before the advent of court marriages contracted in Leh, Paldar was the usual place to which such lovers eloped.

18 In some villagers’ opinions, the name Kabön would mean Karja’i önpo, T. Karja’i dpon po, ‘chief of Lahul’, referring to one of settlers.

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To sum up, the populating of the Bod valleys can be traced to the individual stories of a handful of landless Zanskarpa and Lahuli. The Bod community is, therefore, intrinsically heterogeneous, which presumably contributes to the fact that the Bod do not fully identify with either the Zanskarpa or the Lahuli. Nevertheless, as I mentioned before, the Bod of Paldar insist on their Zanskari heritage whereas they minimise the Lahuli component of their identity. This might well stem from the trading and monastic relationships which have been maintained for generations between Zanskar and the Bod valleys. Zanskar as a Trade Partner Before the opening of new roads, the Bod of Paldar acted as trade intermediaries between the Zanskarpa and the Pahari. The Bod left their valleys in groups of men from seven or eight houses, leading caravans of 200 sheep, or so. The sheep carried loads of local products, such as cheese, honey, skins, some Pahari rice and tea and, above all, butter, which was produced by the Bod in much larger quantities than it was in Zanskar, to exchange for salt. The main route through the Omasi Pass (around 5,300 metres) took several days. Once they reached Zanskar, the Bod, Zanskarpa and Changpa (Chang Tang nomads) gathered together in large meetings: in such circumstances, it seems that the Bod could not deal directly with the Changpa, but they had to go through the Zanskarpa, who kept some butter for themselves. Back in Paldar, the main part of the salt was, in turn, exchanged for Pahari cereals (rice, maize and millet) and also for products arriving from distant city markets, such as sugar. As usual along the Himalayan range, the deal was profitable, since in Paldar salt cost considerably more than in Zanskar. Following Drew, who explains it in detail from the Zanskar standpoint, the salt stage increased threefold the exchange value of a given quantity of butter or cheese: First, the people of Rupshu19 bring salt, and take barley in exchange. Secondly, some of the salt brought by the last-mentioned route goes to Padar and Pangi (by very difficult passes over a snowy range), and it is there exchanged for rice, butter and honey, and for skins. [. . .] 7 lbs. or 8 lbs. of salt exchange in Zanskar for 1 lb. of butter; in Pangi 3 lbs. or 4 lbs. only of salt would be given. (Drew 1976 [1875]: 284)

19

Rupshu is in the Indian part of the Chang Tang.

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Likewise, the inhabitants of central and eastern Zanskar went to Paldar to procure various goods such as tea, rice and spices, as well as wooden items, snow-shovels, swing-ploughs, broomsticks and beams. One cannot hope to evoke the journey through the Omasi Pass more vividly than Janet Rizvi does: Considering the ruggedness of the route, it is already a matter for astonishment that hundreds of men traversed it regularly, carrying loads of up to a maund [37.4 kg] on their backs. But even more mind-boggling is the knowledge that, often enough, they crossed the glaciated pass, negotiating a route among the shifting crevasses, balancing across their shoulders wooden beams up to twelve feet (3.7 metres) in length. Nor, given the state of the going, could two men share the burden. One man, one twelve-foot beam. (Rizvi 1999: 127)

Hard though the journey might have been, five to six trade caravans used to follow this path each year, according to informants of mine. Of course, such regular visits brought about strong friendships between the Bod and the Zanskarpa, which sometimes entailed marriages. In present-day Karsha, one of the largest villages of Zanskar, one of the householders, Bod by birth, settled long ago in Zanskar as a makpa (T. mag pa, son-in-law who joined his wife’s house), and in Paldar it is not rare to meet a grandmother who says she was born in Zanskar, before getting married among the Bod. This means that many Bod still have close relatives in Zanskar, with whom they keep in touch. Simultaneously with the salt trade, a few Bod also acted as cattledealers. Being Hindus, the Pahari did not eat cows. It was better to sell the old cows before they died. Thus, the Bod traders bought the old Pahari cows at cheap prices and took them to Zanskar where the meat-eating Muslim community purchased them. On their way back, the Bod sometimes brought Zanskari horses (famous for being robust) and yaks (necessary for breeding purposes). This cattle-trade is still current. In the autumn of 1998, a caravan of six Bod led some 70 cows to Zanskar through the Omasi Pass. The profit is large: bought in Paldar for 3,000 to 4,000 rupees (sometimes even less), a cow is sold in Padum for 7,000 to 8,000 Rs. Yet the cattle trade is in decline. In 1998, there was even talk of stopping it. Indeed, the Zanskari monks let the Bod know that this trade, condemning the cows to the butcher’s knife, was dikpa (T. sdig pa), sinful. As for the salt trade, it has totally collapsed with the opening of new roads, thanks to which the Pahari have been able to get cheap

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salt from the plains. From this time on, the trading pattern split. On the one hand, the Pahari-Bod exchanges went on: nowadays, the Bod still obtain Pahari-cultivated cereals in direct exchange for cheese and gugul. Besides, the Bod now have access to all kinds of goods on sale in more and more stores, either governmental or private, which have been established in the Pahari-inhabited villages, as well as in Gulabgarh. On the other hand, the Zanskari side of the Bod trade only lasted for a short while: at first, the Bod continued trading with the Zanskarpa, exchanging butter, wool and wood, for barley and peas, but this bilateral trade drastically slowed down in the 1980s as a result of the opening of the Kargil-Padum road in 1979. Bardan Monastic Domination In contrast to what occurs in Zanskar, where Buddhism is organised through big and powerful monasteries, the situation in Paldar is considerably less institutionalised. Among the Bod, Buddhism is represented by two types of actors. First are the lay devotees (trapa, T. grwa pa), who conform to the genyen (T. dge bsnyen) vows. These are a handful of men who live totally independently from each other. Some have a wife, others stay celibate. At present, all of them consider themselves as belonging to the Nyingma (T. rnying ma) order.20 They occasionally perform rituals for the villagers. Interestingly, very few of these lay devotees are native-born. Most of them are outsiders : one comes from Chang Tang, another one arrived in India in his childhood after having departed from Khams (Eastern Tibet) with his disturbed mother, a third was born to an unauthorised Zanskari couple (his father used to be a monk, his mother a nun). The same is also true concerning the monks who live with the Bod. Here is another connection with Zanskar, for, in the absence of any monastic establishment of their own, all the Bod villages of Halango and Kabön are attached to Bardan, one of the main monasteries of Zanskar. This state of affairs dates from the end of the 19th century, when the great Ladakhi lama Tashi Stanphel, visited the Bod valleys and founded two Buddhist sanctuaries (gompa,

20 Indeed, many of these devotees were disciples of a late Nyingma master, known as the Khams Lama (by virtue of being a native of Lithang, in Tibet).

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T. dgon pa).21 Tashi Stanphel was the head of Stakna monastery, which belonged to the lhodruk (T. lho ’brug), that is, to the South, or Bhutanese school of the Drukpa Kagyü order. In Zanskar, Bardan had been subordinated to Stakna since the 17th century. Hence, the newly-founded Bod sanctuaries fell under Bardan’s responsibility. From that time on, all the Bod villages of Halango and Kabön Valleys have been considered as part of Bardan’s territory (ngayok, T. mnga’ ’og, ‘[that which is] under [its] power’).22 This belonging implies reciprocal duties. On the one hand, Bardan appoints monks in the Bod localities in order to conduct the Buddhist liturgy. Thus, all year long, two Bardan monks live in Paldar as ‘sacristans’ (komnyer, T. dkon gnyer): in exchange for their performance of Buddhist rituals, the villagers support them through annual almsgiving—each house is liable for fixed amounts of barley, buckwheat, salt, wool and wood. On the other hand, villagers who want their son to become a monk are supposed to send him to Bardan. But things are changing: nowadays, there is only one native from Paldar among the Bardan monks (the one who accompanied me on the trip from Zanskar to Kabön), while several Bod monks are integrated into other monasteries, in particular in Manali, where the Drukpa Kagyü are well established, thanks to the settlement of the late Abo Rinpoche (in exile from Tibet) and the late Zhabdrung (Zhabs drung) Rinpoche (from Bhutan). Conclusion At the end of this paper, one overall conclusion stands out: the relationships between the Bod and the Zanskarpa, once strong, are now loosening. Except for cattle-dealing (although even here we have seen that there has been talk of cessation), trade relations have totally died out since the 1980s. As a result, one can already see the disappearance of intermarriage among youngsters of the two communities, which 21 The missionary undertakings of Tashi Stanphel in Paldar are mentioned by the Ladakhi scholar Yongdzin Könchok Sonam (1994: 115). The Ladakhpa Munshi Palgye (dpal rgyas), whose testimony was used by Dr. K. Marx and A.H. Francke to shed light on the history of Ladakh in the 19th century, related a visit that he had paid to Paldar with Tashi Stanphel in 1881 (Francke, 1994 [1926]: 54). 22 Bardan monastery also controls two Lahuli temples, those of Guru Ghantal and Tupchiling. In the same way, the Zanskari monastery of Karsha (of the Gelug order, T. dge lugs) also has a branch in Lahul, namely Watang.

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means that kinship interrelations are diminishing. For the time being, the monastic affiliation which ties most of the Paldar Bod to Bardan remains a day-to-day connection. But how long will it last? The future of the relations between the Zanskarpa and the Bod essentially depends on the monastic movements that might occur. In the coming years, which will be scarred by the opening of new roads linking Paldar to Manali via Lahul and the announced Rohtang Tunnel, the Bod shift towards Manali has a good chance of being consolidated. In the religious sphere, it could well lead to the relinquishing of Bardan supervision, following a scenario which has already occurred in Pangi.23 In such a case, the Bod could finally sever their links with Zanskar. References Berreman, Gerald Duane. 1960. Cultural Variability and Drift in the Himalayan Hills. American Anthropologist 62(5): 774–94. Census of India. 1891. Volume XXVIII. The Kashmir State. 1893. Lahore: the Mufid-i-am Press. ——. 1901. Volume XXIII, Kashmir. 1902. Lahore: The Civil and Military Gazette Press. Drew, Frederic. 1976 [1875]. The Jummoo and Kashmir territories. A geographical account. New Delhi: Cosmo Publications. Francke, A.H. 1994 [1926]. Antiquities of Indian Tibet, Part II, The chronicles of Ladakh and minor chronicles. New-Delhi: Archaeological Survey of India. Riaboff, Isabelle. 2002. The Bod of Kabön ( Jammu and Kashmir, India). How to be a Buddhist in a Hindu land? In Katia Buffetrille and Hildegard Diemberger (eds), Territory and Identity in Tibet and the Himalayas. PIATS IX. Leiden; Boston; Köln: Brill, 325–40. ——. 2004. Rituals for the local gods among the Bod of Paldar. Etudes mongoles, sibériennes, centrasiatiques et tibétaines (EMSCAT) 35: 185–200. Rizvi, Janet. 1999. Trans-Himalayan Caravans. Merchant Princes and Peasant Traders in Ladakh. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Thomson, Thomas. 1978 [1852]. Western Himalayas and Tibet. A narrative on Ladakh and mountains of northern India during the years 1847–1848. Delhi: Cosmo Publications. Yongdzin Könchok Sonam (Yongs ’dzin dKon mchog bSod nams). 1994. La dwags dgon pa rnams kyi lo rgyus padma’i phreng ba (A history of the various religious establishments of Ladakh called ‘A Rosary of Lotuses’ ). Bir: The Bir Tibetan Society.

23 In Pangi, the Sural gompa, formerly controlled by Bardan, is now under the Chitiari gompa, founded in Manali by Abo Rinpoche in 1968. In Paldar, Chitiari gompa is also head of the monastery in the small Ganir Valley.

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isabelle riaboff Appendix 1 Kinship Terminology in use Among the Bod of Kabön

The asterisks indicate kinship terms that are often followed by the adjectives chenmo (T. chen mo), ‘big’ / parpa (T. bar pa), ‘medium’ / chungtse (T. chung), ‘small’. These epithets indicate the rank of a relative among his own siblings. For example, among his maternal uncles (azhang), one would designate the eldest as azhang chenmo, the second as azhang pharpa, and the youngest one as azhang chungtse. If one has more than three azhang, other epithets are added (the third born azhang, if not the youngest, would be called azhang chichi, and so forth). azhang* (T. a zhang) = MB, FZH; akhu (T. a khu) = MZH; ama (T. a ma) = M; ama* (T. a ma) = MZ, FBW; ane* (T. a ne) = FZ, MBW; apa (T. a pha) = F; apa* (T. a pha) = FB; api (T. a phyi ) = FM, MM; ache* (T. a che) = eZ, FBeD, FZeD, MBeD, MZeD; acho* (T. a jo) = eB, FBeS, FZeS, MBeS, MZeS; makpa (T. mag pa) = H, DH; meme (T. mes mes) = FF, MF; mochung (T. ?) = eBW; nama (T. mna’ ma) = W, SW; no* (T. no) = yB, FbyS, FZyS, MByS, MZyS; nomo* (T. no mo) = yZ, FByD, FZyD, MByD, MZyD; pumo (T. bu mo) = D, eBD and yBD (if Ego is a man) = eZD and yZD (if Ego is a woman); putsa (T. bu tsha) = S, BS (if Ego is a man) = ZS (if Ego is a woman); shakpo (T. shag po) = eZH, yZH; tsamo (T. tsha mo) = SD, DD, ZD (if Ego is a man) = BD (if Ego is a woman); tsawo (T. tsha bo) = SS, DS, ZS (if Ego is a man) = BS (if Ego is a woman). The usual English abbreviations are as follows: F, father; M, mother; B, brother; Z, sister; S, son; D, daughter; H, husband; W, wife. The prefix e- stands for elder (for instance, eB = elder brother), whereas y- for younger (yZ = younger sister). Combinations should be read in order: ex. MZH, mother’s sister’s husband; FBeS, father’s brother’s elder son.

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Appendix 2 Bones (rus pa) Listed among the Bod of Paldar Jo (T. jo) Khyungo (T. khyung ’go) Buramshing (T. bu ram shing) Lhapa (T. lha pa) Ngabdak (T. rnga bdag) Raplön (T. rab blon) Shele (T. sbra li ) Skirida (T. skyi ri mda’ ) Skyé (T. skya) Staklung (T. stag lung)

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III. RITUAL

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CALCULS POUR L’OUVERTURE DE LA BOUCHE DE LA TERRE: ÉTUDE DU TEMPS, GÉOMANCIE ET ART DIVINATOIRE AU LADAKH Pascale Dollfus À Sonam Gompo Que poussent des plants turquoise aux fruits d’or! Que poussent des épis doubles aux fruits doubles! Des épis copieux et sucrés! Que deux en donnent mille! Et que, couchés, ils couvrent le champ d’un bout à l’autre Qu’un grain en donne cent! Et qu’ils remplissent un grenier de cent et un grenier de mille khal!1 Par le Lama et par les Trois Joyaux, Qu’une grande fête soit donnée pour le fils, et un beau mariage offert à la fille! Ô Bouche de la Terre, ouvre-toi! Ô Bouche de la Terre, ouvre-toi!

À l’annonce du printemps, le rituel du premier labour fête par ces prières le réveil de la terre endormie.2 Autrefois, il revenait au roi du Ladakh, maître de la terre et garant de l’ordre à travers le royaume, de tracer le premier sillon dans un champ proche du palais. Par ce geste, il levait l’interdit qui pesait sur le travail de la terre pendant le long et rigoureux hiver, et inaugurait la saison agricole. Cette époque est aujourd’hui révolue, mais le rituel royal du premier labour perdure3 et, comme hier, c’est à un astrologue de l’ancienne capitale d’en choisir le jour et l’heure, les protagonistes—hommes et animaux, l’endroit précis du champ où le soc ouvrira la terre et la direction dans laquelle sera Unité de volume, environ 13.5 kg. Pour une description du rituel du premier labour au Ladakh central, voir Dollfus (1990, 1996); au Zanskar voisin, voir Riaboff (2000). 3 Région de langue et de culture tibétaine située aux confins occidentaux du Tibet, le Ladakh fut un royaume indépendant jusqu’à sa conquête au milieu du XIXe siècle par les troupes de Gulab Singh, raja dogra du Jammu. Intégré à l’Union indienne en 1947, il couvre aujourd’hui deux districts de l’état indien du Jammu-et-Cachemire et comptait quelque 200,000 habitants, outre d’importantes garnisons militaires, au recensement de 2001. 1 2

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tracée la raie. Toutes les circonstances favorables doivent être réunies, car du bon déroulement de l’ouverture de ‘la Bouche de la Terre’ (sa kha) dépendent les futures récoltes et l’avenir du pays. Si l’on exclut l’établissement d’horoscopes, peu a été écrit à ce jour sur l’astrologie telle qu’elle est pratiquée au quotidien dans le monde tibétain. Je me propose d’en donner ici un exemple concret en suivant un astrologue ladakhi dans ses calculs, ses hésitations, et ses choix. ‘Astrologue en lignée’ (brgyud pa’i dbon po), réputé autant pour la justesse de ses prédictions que pour son étonnante capacité à boire, Sonam Gompo a acquis auprès de son père la maîtrise des méthodes de comptes et de calculs (rtsis), un savoir traditionnellement réservé aux hommes. En ce jour de mars 1997, il dispose pour l’aider dans sa tâche d’un recueil de textes astrologiques connu sous le nom de Dartsi (’bras rtsis, ‘Calcul des conséquences’),4 d’almanachs et d’aide-mémoire. Au Ladakh, les astrologues ou ‘onpo’ (dbon po)5 établissent le thème astral des nouveau-nés, vérifient le profil astrologique des futurs époux et étudient la compatibilité de leurs horoscopes. Ils déterminent également la meilleure manière de procéder lors d’un décès, fixent les dates favorables pour entreprendre les travaux agricoles ou tout autre événement important (voyage, inauguration de maison, mariage, etc.), décident des rituels à réaliser pour contrer les mauvaises influences et, souvent, se chargent de les accomplir. Ils sont ainsi les spécialistes du rituel des ‘Quatre Cents’ (brgya bzhi ), exorcisme très répandu caractérisé par la fabrication de quatre centaines d’éléments (effigies, lampes à beurre, etc.), comme du rituel de clôture de ‘la Porte de la Terre et de la Porte du Ciel’ (sa sgo gnam sgo), exécuté pour barrer le passage aux démons qui se lèvent du sol ou descendent des régions célestes. Laïcs ou membres du clergé bouddhiste, les astrologues officient à la demande de donateurs privés, s’installant alors plutôt dans la pièce du foyer que dans l’oratoire familial, ou pour la communauté dans son ensemble, comme ici pour l’ouverture de ‘la Bouche de la terre’.

4 Son titre complet est ’Bras rtsis gsar phreng kun dga’i snying nor, rendu en anglais par ‘Results of the conjugation of planets and stars’. Dans cet article, nous renvoyons à l’édition de Thubstan Shanfan publiée à Leh (Ladakh) en 1985. 5 En tibétain, le terme dbon po désigne un tantriste (syn. sngags pa).

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Calendrier et Décompte du Temps Référence des astrologues du Ladakh, l’astrologie tibétaine emprunte à l’astrologie chinoise, désignée par l’expression ‘calculs noirs’ (nag rtsis), et à l’astrologie indienne, connue sous le nom de ‘calculs blancs’ (dkar rtsis).6 C’est non seulement un art divinatoire, mais aussi une étude du temps, de la chronologie et du calendrier.7 Le calendrier tibétain est fondé sur un cycle de douze ans désignés chacun par un signe animal, lo rtags (Souris, Bœuf, Tigre, Lièvre, Dragon, Serpent, Cheval, Mouton, Singe, Oiseau, Chien et Porc) couplé avec l’un des cinq éléments cosmologiques chinois, ’byung lnga (Bois, Feu, Terre, Fer et Eau). Chaque année est composée de douze mois lunaires synodiques (zla),8 numérotés selon leur rang et subdivisés en deux quinzaines ‘montante’ ( yar ngo) et ‘descendante’ (mar ngo), comprenant chacune quinze jours lunaires (tshes zhag). Pour faire correspondre le mois lunaire et la suite des jours, certains jours sont supprimés (chad ), d’autres répétés (lag), et un mois intercalaire (zla bshol ) est ajouté tous les trente-deux mois et demi.9 Les semaines comptent sept jours nommés d’après les planètes ( gza’ ) qui les gouvernent: Lundi est le Jour de la Lune ( gza’ zla ba); Mardi, le Jour de Mars ( gza’ mig dmar); Mercredi, le Jour de Mercure ( gza’ lhag pa); Jeudi, le Jour de Jupiter ( gza’ phur bu); Vendredi, le Jour de Vénus ( gza’ pa sang); Samedi, le Jour de Saturne ( gza’ spen pa); Dimanche, le Jour du Soleil ( gza’ nyi ma). Chaque jour est divisé en douze doubles heures, dus tshod bcu gnyis, désignées par l’animal du cycle duodénaire à laquelle cette période du jour est associée. Entre 17 et 19 heures (heure solaire), le coucher du soleil ou ‘soleil à l’ouest’ (nyi nub), est ainsi connu comme la double-heure de l’Oiseau. Au Ladakh, ce calendrier luni-solaire est calculé chaque année par Thupstan Shanfan (Thub bstan gzhan phan), un astrologue originaire du Bas-Ladakh tenant boutique à Leh, lequel le publie sous la forme d’un almanach, accompagné de différentes indications d’ordre astronomique, météorologique et pratique. Cette ‘chronique de l’année’, lo 6 Ces dénominations renvoient aux noms tibétains donnés respectivement à la Chine et à l’Inde: rgya nag, ‘Étendue noire’ et rgya dkar, ‘Étendue blanche’. 7 Sur l’astrologie tibétaine, les principaux composants du calendrier et de la chronologie, je renvoie au livre de Cornu (1999) et à l’article de Berzin (1997). 8 De fait, les mots ‘mois’ et ‘lune’ se confondent. 9 Une année solaire compte environ 365.25/366 jours tandis que ‘l’année lunaire’ lui correspondant se compose de douze ou treize lunaisons, soit 336 ou 384 jours. Sur le calendrier luni-solaire tibétain, voir Lafitte (1985).

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tho,10 ne commence pas au début de l’année tibétaine officielle,11 mais le premier jour du troisième mois tibétain (bod zla), ou mongol (hor zla), vers la mi-avril, à partir de l’entrée du soleil dans le signe du Bélier. La Chronique de L’année, Lo Tho L’almanach publié par Thupstan Shanfan ne paie pas de mine. Il se présente sous la forme d’un livret oblong (dim. 24 cm × 8,5 cm) comprenant une centaine de feuillets imprimés en noir et blanc sur du mauvais papier et agrafés ensemble sur leur largeur. La première partie fournit un mémento chronologique (bstan rtsis) des événements significatifs qui ont eu lieu depuis l’apparition du Bouddha Shakyamuni en Inde;12 des prévisions générales concernant la météorologie et les récoltes, illustrées par le dessin d’un bouvier ( glang rdzi ); des conseils à suivre en fonction du sexe et de l’année de naissance de

Figure 1. Couverture de l’almanach (le’u tho) de l’année 1996/97 correspondant aux années Souris de Feu et Bœuf de Feu du 17e cycle de soixante ans (rab byung). 10 Son titre complet est Byed grub zung sbrel kyi le’u tho. Les termes grub et byed renvoient à deux méthodes de calculs, relevant pour la première de l’école grub rtsis (ou phug lugs) fondée sur le ’Grel chen et pour la seconde de l’école byed rtsis fondée sur le Bsdus rgyud (Yamaguchi 1992). 11 Le Nouvel an (lo gsar), parfois appelé Nouvel an des agriculteurs (so nam pa’i lo gsar), est célébré au Ladakh un mois avant le Nouvel an tibétain, soit le premier jour du onzième mois tibétain. Sur le Nouvel an et le choix de cette date précoce, voir Dollfus (1987) et Khoo (1997). 12 Ses événements ‘significatifs’ concernent le développement et la transmission de la Doctrine bouddhique. ‘Le plus important est le nirvana du Bouddha parce qu’il est le point de départ pour le calcul de la période pendant laquelle la Doctrine du Bouddha se perpétue.’ (Imaeda 1984: 305)

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chacun; des diagrammes montrant la répartition des vingt-sept ‘demeures lunaires’ (rgyu skar, ‘étoiles où se meuvent [les planètes]’)13 sur le ventre et les membres de la Tortue d’Or,14 et leur association avec les neuf symboles: Joyau, Cheval, Ombrelle, Fouet, Lion, Eléphant, Livre sacré, Roue du Dharma, et Mudra de l’enseignement; des tableaux astrologiques, les uns de portée générale, les autres applicables aux individus. La seconde partie donne des prévisions pour chaque mois. Y sont indiqués les éclipses de lune et de soleil, les jours ‘coupés’ ou ‘redoublés’, les jours fastes pour réaliser telle ou telle activité, et les jours ‘brûlés’ où toutes les actions entreprises sont vouées à l’échec (à l’exception des combats et des actes guerriers) Cornu (1999: 254).

Figure 2. Dessin du bouvier ( glang rdzi ) illustrant les prévisions météorologiques de l’année.

13 Ces constellations correspondent aux vingt-sept ‘demeures lunaires’ (skt. nakśātra) disposées en ceinture le long de la voûte céleste et traversées par la lune au cours de sa révolution autour de la terre. En tibétain, elles sont numérotées de 0 à 26 et nommées: 0. tha skar (skt. aśvinī ); 1. bra nye (skt. bhara ī ); 2. smin drug (skt. k ttikā ); 3 snar ma (skt. rohi ī ); 4. mgo (skt. m gaśīr ā ); 5. lag (skt. ārdrā ); 6. nabs so (skt. punarvasu); 7 rgyal (skt. pu ya); 8. skag (skt. āśle ā). 9 mchu (skt. maghā); 10. gre (skt. pūrva phālgunī ); 11. dbo (skt. uttara phālgunī ); 12. me bzhi (skt. hastā); 13. nag pa (skt. citrā); 14 sa ri (skt. svātī ); 15. sa ga (skt. viśākhā ); 16. lha mtshams (skt. anurādhā); 17. snron (skt. jye hā ); 18. snrubs (skt. mūla); 19. chu stod (skt. pūrva ā ā hā ); 20. chu smad (skt. uttara ā ā hā ); 21. gro bzhin (skt. Abhijit) et byi bzhin (skt. śrava a); 22. mon gre (skt. śravi hā ); 23. mon gru (skt. śātabhi ā ); 24 ’khrum stod (skt. pūrva bhādrapada); 25 ’khrum smad (skt. uttara bhādrapada); 26. nam gru (skt. revatī ). Ces noms ne sont pas les seuls usités. En effet, plusieurs de ces constellations sont connues sous deux ou trois appellations différentes. ‘Les Pléiades’ (smin drug), 3e constellation lunaire, est encore appelée mang po skyes et ma drug bu. Sur le nom des 27 ou 28 constellations en tibétain et en sanskrit, cf. Jacques (2007). 14 La Tortue d’Or, gser gyi rus sbal, est la grande tortue cosmique qui forme la base de l’univers. On l’appelle aussi ‘Celle qui a cinq membres’, yan lag lnga pa.

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Figure 3. Page d’almanach couvrant la période du 12 au 20 mars 1997, 4e au 12e jour du second mois lunaire.

À chaque jour civil correspond une case rectangulaire offrant une profusion d’informations qui répondent à des usages variés et relèvent les unes de l’astrologie des éléments chinois (’byung rtsis),15 les autres de l’astrologie stellaire indienne (skar rtsis).16 On trouve ainsi: • la date ta rig,17 donnée en chiffres arabes par le numéro du jour dans le calendrier grégorien, suivie pour le premier jour de chaque mois par le numéro du mois (1 pour janvier, 2 pour février, etc.); • la date du jour du mois tibétain (tshes) donnée en chiffres tibétains; • le jour de la semaine ( gza’ ) nommé d’après la planète qui le gouverne, l’élément (khams) lui correspondant et le numéro le désignant (0 pour samedi, 1 pour dimanche, 2 pour lundi, etc.); • la ‘demeure lunaire’ (rgyu skar) et son élément; • la grande conjonction résultant de la rencontre de la planète et de la demeure lunaire du jour; • la combinaison élément-animal du jour;

15 L’astrologie des éléments chinois s’apparente à la géomancie et se définit par l’observation des cycles d’énergie dans le temps. 16 L’astrologie stellaire, fondée sur les mouvements des planètes dans l’espace céleste, prend en compte les positions relatives de la lune et des constellations. 17 Du hindi târikh: “date (in time); when preceded by a numeral, expresses that numbered day of the month in the European calendar” ( Jäschke 1992: 280).

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• le trigramme spar kha18 et le dme ba/mewa19 du jour; • le lien d’interdépendance rten ’brel;20 • des indications chiffrées renseignant sur la planète gouvernante et les positions relatives de la lune et du soleil, données à gauche pour la méthode de calculs de l’école grub pa, à droite pour la méthode de calculs de l’école byed pa; • des informations sur la manifestation en ce jour de déités particulières, comme l’abréviation zin phung pour zin phung nag po, du nom d’une des principaux ‘maîtres de la terre’ dont l’influence astrologique est néfaste, ou les symboles signalant la sortie de—ou l’entrée en—retraite des divinités klu du bon vouloir desquelles dépendent la fertilité ou la stérilité des champs, l’abondance ou la pénurie.21 Dans l’exemple choisi (cf. Figure 4), la date est le 15 (mars 1997) dans le calendrier grégorien. Le jour du mois (tibétain) est le 7 (du second mois lunaire). Le jour de la semaine est le samedi—spen pour spen pa, Jour de Saturne, son chiffre est le 0, et son élément, la Terre (sa).22 La demeure lunaire du jour est la constellation des Pléiades (smin drug) et l’élément lui correspondant le Feu, me.23 La grande conjonction est la bannière, rgyal mtshan. Le spar kha du jour est Li. Le dme ba du jour est le 7. La combinaison élément-animal du jour est Bois-Tigre (shing stag). Le lien d’interdépendance est ‘la vieillesse et la mort’ rgas shi, le dernier maillon de la coproduction conditionnée. Les nombres de ‘l’étoile de la lune’ (zla skar) et de ‘l’étoile [visible pendant] le jour’ (nyin skar) sont 2 18 Équivalent phonétique tibétain des huit pak’ wa chinois à la base du Yi king ou ‘Livre des transformations’, les spar kha (Li, Khon, Dva, Khen, Kham, Gin, Zin, Zon) jouent un grand rôle dans la géomancie. Contrairement aux mewa, ils sont liés à une direction fixe. Leur étude renseigne sur les directions favorables ou à éviter (Cornu 1999). 19 Relevant de la numérologie chinoise, les neuf mewa ou sme ba (‘taches’) forment les neuf cases d’un carré magique de trois. Chaque case est le palais d’une divinité du sol et se caractérise par une couleur, un chiffre, un élément et une direction. Sur les mewa/sme ba dans l’astrologie tibétaine, voir Hummel (1969) et Cornu (1999). 20 Dans le bouddhisme, tous les phénomènes sont composés et interdépendants: “Ceci étant, cela devient; ceci apparaissant, cela naît [croît]. Ceci n’étant pas, cela ne devient pas; ceci cessant, cela cesse de naître [croître].” Cette coproduction conditionnée se présente comme un ensemble de douze liens, ou maillons, formant une suite cyclique: l’aveuglement; les créations mentales; la conscience discriminante; le nom et la forme, les six sphères sensorielles; le contact; la sensation; la soif; l’attachement; l’existence; la naissance; la vieillesse et la mort. 21 Sur les divinités du sous-sol et du milieu aquatique, sa bdag et klu, et les croyances qui leur sont attachées au Ladakh, voir Dollfus (1996, 2002). 22 thig spen pa sa’i khams 23 gnyis smin drug me’i khams.

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jour de la semaine

demeure lunaire

élément demeure lunaire

grande conjonction

symbole indiquant la sortie des klu

dme ba

spar kha

Indications chiffrées (méthode de calculs byed-pa) incluant le numéro du jour et les nombres de l’étoile de la lune et du soleil

Figure 4. Case correspondant au 7e jour du second mois mongol de l’année Boeuf de Feu, 15 mars 1997.

date dans le calendrier grégorien donnée en chiffres arabes

lien d’interdépendance

élément planétaire

Indications chiffrées (méthode de calculs grub-pa) incluant le numéro du jour et les nombres de l’étoile de la lune et du soleil

élément-animal du jour

n* du jour du mois

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et 23 pour la méthode de calculs de l’école grub pa, 3 et 24 pour l’école byed pa. Enfin, quatre traits parallèles indiquent qu’il s’agit d’un jour de ‘sortie des klu’, klu thebs. Trouver le Jour et L’heure Favorables Dans l’astrologie tibétaine, les jours possèdent des caractères généraux dont il faut tenir compte lorsqu’on recherche le meilleur jour pour mettre à exécution un projet ou prendre une décision importante. En effet, chaque jour de la semaine est gouverné par une planète, ellemême associée à un élément—Air, Eau, Feu ou Terre—déterminant par analogie les actions à entreprendre ou à éviter. Dans le cadre des travaux agricoles, ces relations de compatibilité ou d’incompatibilité sont rendues par la formule suivante: “Lundi, Mercredi, Vendredi et Samedi, sont bons; Dimanche et Mardi sont mauvais; Jeudi est neutre”.24 Plus précisément, explique Onpo Gompo, le jeudi, présidé par Jupiter dont l’élément est l’Air (rlung), est un jour propice pour débuter le vannage; le lundi et le mercredi, associés à l’Eau (chu), sont favorables à l’irrigation, au contraire du dimanche et du mardi liés au Feu (me) et par conséquent ‘mauvais’ (ngan) pour tous les travaux en rapport avec l’eau, dont les semailles et les plantations; le vendredi et le samedi, associés à la Terre (sa), sont excellents pour les labours. Entre ces deux jours également fastes, l’astrologue opte pour le samedi, car ce jour de la semaine est réputé propice aux rituels de prospérité. Dans la quinzaine montante, il choisit le 7e jour du mois, plutôt que le 14e, jour ‘bon’ (bzang) où tout acte violent doit être évité, dangereux pour travailler la terre, car y tuer un animal, même microscopique et fût-ce par inadvertance compte double.25 Un samedi, le 7e jour du mois, Onpo Gompo consulte l’almanach pour vérifier la pertinence de son choix. Il regarde d’abord si le jour pressenti ne correspond pas à un jour néfaste de ‘retour des klu’, et note avec satisfaction qu’il est, au contraire, signalé par plusieurs traits parallèles comme un jour de ‘venue des klu’, jour faste où ces divinités liées à la fécondité sont bien disposées à l’égard des hommes et prêtes à

zla ba lhag pa pa sang spen ba bzang/nyi ma dang mig mar ngan/phur bu dbye ’bring. Quand le cycle hebdomadaire ( jours de la semaine positifs et négatifs) et le cycle mensuel s’opposent, seul le premier est pris en considération car les énergies planétaires sont considérées comme plus puissantes que les énergies mensuelles. 24 25

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les aider en libérant l’eau vive des torrents et des sources. C’est un bon présage pour une année de Feu placée sous le signe de la sécheresse.26 Il s’assure ensuite que la ‘demeure lunaire’, le mewa, le spar kha et la combinaison élément-animal du jour ne sont défavorables ni aux labours ni aux semailles. Puis il examine la grande conjonction résultant de la rencontre de la planète (Saturne) et de la constellation occupée par la lune (‘les Pléiades’). Le résultat est ‘la Bannière de Victoire’ (rgyal mtshan): un pronostic excellent, garantissant biens et richesses en abondance. D’ordinaire, une lecture attentive de l’almanach suffit à cerner la tonalité d’un jour et à juger de son adéquation avec l’acte à accomplir. Mais pour ce rituel d’importance par ses implications pour le Ladakh tout entier, de plus amples vérifications s’imposent. Dans la case du jour, l’astrologue lit le nombre de ‘l’étoile du soleil’ (nyin skar), ‘qui reste en place quatorze jours’, et le nombre de ‘l’étoile de la lune’ (zla skar), ‘qui évolue avec le disque solaire’; soit pour notre exemple: 23 et 2 dans le système grub pa, 24 et 3 dans le système byed pa. Puis, à l’aide des perles de son chapelet, il compte à voix haute combien les sépare: ‘23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28,27 1, 2’, et reporte cette différence, ici 8, sur la figure numérotée représentant un araire et un joug, placée en regard du texte intitulé ‘Calculs pour ensemencer un champ’ (zhing la sa bon ’debs pa’i rtsis).

Figure 5. Figure numérotée représentant un araire et un joug. Dartsi, p. 151.

26 Chaque année possède une tonalité générale en liaison avec l’élément et l’animal composant son signe. L’année de Terre est ainsi une année calme et propice à l’agriculture au contraire de l’année de Feu marquée par la sécheresse. L’année de la Souris est une année d’abondance où les greniers sont pleins comme les nids de ce petit rongeur; l’année du Bœuf est une année de labeur à l’image de cet animal obstiné, à la démarche lente et pesante. 27 Le système comporte vingt-sept demeures lunaires, mais l’une d’elles se compose de deux constellations rapprochées (Cornu 1999: 169).

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Figure 6. La roue des agriculteurs. Dartsi, p. 150.

Le chiffre 8 est situé dans la partie supérieure du sep, appelée mi thong, ‘le sep de l’homme’, par opposition à la partie inférieure enfouie dans le sol lors des labours et nommée sa thong, ‘le sep de la terre’. Le commentaire dit: ‘dans les trois du sep de l’homme [c’est-à-dire 6, 7 et 8], accroissement du grain’ (mi thong gsum ’bru ’phel legs). Le présage est bon. Tel n’aurait pas été le cas, en revanche, si le calcul avait donné 9 (ou 10) et conduit dans la poignée de l’araire (’chang bzung), promettant ‘des maladies’ (lo nad ), ou 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, ou 26 et conduit dans le joug ( gnya’ shing), annonçant ‘la prise [des champs] par des ennemis’ (dgra yis ’dzoms). Onpo Gompo procède de même avec ‘la roue des agriculteurs’ (so nam ’khor lo): quatre rectangles juxtaposés, couronnés de trois ‘tridents’ (tri shu la) et bordés de douze ‘branches’ ( yan lag). Ici, le nombre 8 désigne une des ‘douze branches’. Le présage est heureux. En effet, il est écrit: ‘dans les douze branches, le bien-être’ ( yan lag bcu gnyis bde leg byed ). Dans les pointes des trois tridents, l’augure était également favorable: ‘multiplication de la récolte’ (lo tog ’phel ). En revanche, en leurs ‘bases’ (rtsa ba), numérotées 12, 13 et 14, le pronostic était mauvais: ‘aucun fruit’ (’bras bu med ). Notre astrologue recommence les mêmes calculs avec les nombres 24 et 3 relevant de l’école byed pa. Les résultats obtenus se révèlent concluants, confirmant que le septième jour du second mois mongol est une bonne date pour célébrer le rituel de ‘la Bouche de la Terre’. Encore convient-il d’en préciser l’heure. En effet, pour établir les prédictions les plus justes, chaque division du temps—année, mois, jour et heure—doit être considérée à son échelon en respectant la hiérarchie évoquée par l’adage: ‘l’an est roi, le mois ministre, le jour soldat et l’heure arme’ (lo rgyal po zla ba blon po zhag dmag mi chu tshod mtshon cha).

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Figure 7. Tableau récapitulatif des heures fastes et néfastes en fonction des jours de la semaine. Dartsi, p. 168.

Ouvrant une nouvelle fois le Dartsi, Onpo Gompo consulte le tableau des heures fastes et néfastes en fonction des jours de la semaine reproduit en page 168. Pour le Samedi (spen), les heures fastes, comparées à de l’ambroisie (bdud rtsi ), sont: la première heure de l’aube (snga tho rengs), la seconde heure du lever du jour ( phyi nam langs), la première heure de l’après-midi (snga phyed yol ), la seconde heure du crépuscule ( phyi sa sros). La troisième possibilité est retenue, car c’est la seule heure où il fasse jour à cette période de l’année. Déterminer le Lieu Propice et la Direction Pure La date et l’heure désormais fixées, il faut encore établir en quel point précis du champ faire porter ‘la pointe en fer’ du soc et dans quelle direction tracer le premier sillon. Pour cela, Onpo Gompo s’intéresse aux ‘maîtres de la terre’ (sa bdag)28 et, plus spécialement, à l’un d’eux décrit dans les textes astrologiques sous le nom de ‘maître de la terre qui rampe sur le ventre’ (sa bdag lto ’phye),29 et connu familièrement des Ladakhi sous l’expression homophone de ‘maître de la terre au gros ventre’ (sa bdag lto che). Le Dartsi30 le dépeint de couleur jaune, avec la tête d’un taureau surmontée de deux cornes (d’or à droite, de turquoise à gauche), le corps d’un homme et la queue d’un serpent. Il tire une langue de feu et porte un chaperon turquoise formé de sept serpents.

28 Sur les sa bdag, divinités d’une bienveillante neutralité, mais qui peuvent envoyer malheurs et maladies si elles se sentent agressées, voir Dollfus (1996, 2003). 29 Ce serpent joue un rôle fondamental dans ‘le rituel du sol’, sa chog, préalable indispensable au creusement des fondations d’un temple, d’un stupa, d’un palais (Gardner 2005–6). 30 ’Bras rtsis: 260–61.

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Figure 8. Le ‘maître de la terre qui rampe sur ventre’. (Dessin tiré du Dartsi)

Penché en avant, il couvre son nez de sa main gauche et tient un vase rempli de précieux joyaux dans sa main droite. Il ne reste pas immobile, mais se déplace sous la terre au rythme des saisons. Pendant les trois mois d’été, sa tête est à l’ouest, sa queue à l’est, son ventre au nord et son dos au sud; pendant les trois mois d’automne, sa tête est au sud, sa queue au nord, son ventre à l’ouest et son dos au nord; pendant les trois mois d’hiver, sa tête est à l’est, sa queue à l’ouest, son ventre au sud et son dos au nord; pendant les trois mois de printemps, sa tête est au nord, sa queue est au sud, son ventre à l’est et son dos à l’ouest. Il est prédit la mort d’un père, d’une mère ou d’un fils à celui qui heurte sa tête; disputes et conflits à celui qui heurte ses cornes d’or et de turquoise; la fuite des richesses à celui qui heurte sa queue. En revanche, l’abondance est promise à celui qui heurte le ventre de ce serpent et brise le vase qu’il tient par devers lui, répandant ainsi son contenu dans la terre. C’est donc en cet endroit précis, situé à l’est au ‘[mois] médian du printemps’ (dpyid ’bring ba), que le soc de l’araire doit ouvrir la terre.

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Figure 9. Diagramme de répartition des maîtres de la terre pour l’année de la Souris (à gauche) et l’année du Bœuf (à droite).

Pour déterminer la direction dans laquelle creuser la première raie (rol ka), l’astrologue considère la position d’autres ‘maîtres de la terre’, notamment celles de The-se, le roi des sa bdag du cycle duodénaire, et des membres de sa cour. Dans l’almanach, un diagramme, accompagné de commentaires sur la conduite à tenir, indique les directions qu’ils occupent en fonction du signe de l’année (lo khams). L’année du Bœuf, The-se réside au Nord-Est, orient de l’animal gouverneur; son épouse The-khyim et son fils Te-so au Nord Supérieur; son garde du corps Se-shar au Sud-Est; son astrologue Se-ba bla-ma mkhyen et son gardien des trésors Se-byi au Sud-Ouest; son ministre Tsang-kun, monté sur une tortue, au Nord-Ouest; son coursier Rangrta et son écuyer Rta-khrid à l’Ouest inférieur; son serviteur Hal-khyi à l’Est supérieur. Quant à Zin-phung nag-po, le maître de la terre aux pinces de scorpion, il occupe le Sud Inférieur. En conséquence, ‘les directions pures, sans sa bdag, où petits et grands travaux peuvent être entrepris, sont le Sud supérieur (lho stod ) et l’Ouest supérieur (nub stod )’,31 deux directions marquées sur le diagramme par des rectangles vides de toute inscription. Pour choisir la plus favorable, Onpo Gompo procède à l’examen du ‘vase vide’ (bum stong), dont l’orientation est liée au signe du zodiaque (khyim). Or, il est écrit dans l’almanach de l’année: ‘du 19e jour du second mois au 20e jour du troisième mois, le vase vide [ouvre à] l’ouest’. Pour éviter de le remplir avec les richesses de la terre, cette direction doit donc être écartée.

31 sa bdag med pa’i phyogs gtsang ni lho stod nub stod gnyis pa che phra’i las ’gro ba brtsam par bya.

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Choisir les Bêtes de Labour, L’homme Guidant L’attelage, le Laboureur et le Semeur Pour sélectionner bêtes et hommes, l’astrologue ne s’intéresse plus à la tonalité du jour, mais aux caractéristiques propres à l’année en cours. Sont prises spécialement en compte les cinq forces spécifiques à l’astrologie tibétaine et de première importance dans l’établissement des horoscopes: la Vitalité (srog), le Corps (lus) ou énergie de la santé physique, le Pouvoir (dbang thang) ou habileté à réaliser ses buts,32 l’Âme (bla) ou état psychique, et le ‘Cheval du Souffle’ (rlung rta)33 ou Chance. Chacune de ces forces est associée à un element—Bois, Feu, Terre, Eau ou Fer—qui entretient avec les autres des relations de type mère (ma), fils (bu), ami ( grogs) et ennemi (dgra), obéissant à des règles précises développées dans ‘Les Rayons de la Lune, Préceptes de l’Astrologie des Éléments’.34 Le Bois—explique ainsi Onpo Gompo—est la mère du Feu qu’il engendre, l’Eau est la Mère du Bois qu’elle nourrit, la Terre est la mère du Fer que l’on extrait de ses profondeurs . . . En revanche, le Feu est l’ennemi du Bois qu’il brûle, le Fer est l’ennemi du Bois qu’il coupe, l’Eau est l’ennemi du Feu qu’elle éteint.

Dans le Dartsi, des tableaux donnent les éléments correspondant aux cinq forces pour les derniers cycles de soixante ans (rab byung).35 Pour l’année Bœuf de Feu (1997), l’élément de la Vitalité est la Terre, l’élément du Corps est l’Eau, l’élément du Pouvoir est le Feu, l’élément de l’Âme est le Feu, l’élément du Cheval du Souffle est l’Eau. Pour le choix des bêtes de labour, c’est ce dernier élément qui est retenu car—indique notre astrologue—le klung rta est la mère de toutes les autres énergies et leur principe d’harmonisation. Cet element—l’Eau pour l’année Bœuf de Feu—conditionne la couleur de leur robe. L’Eau

Les Ladakhi lui donnent le sens de ‘situation économique’. Orthographié klung rta dans les textes astrologiques. Sur cette notion, voir Cornu (1999). 34 ’byung rtsis man ngag zla ba’i ’od gzer, ouvrage traitant de l’astrologie des éléments selon la tradition chinoise écrit par Lochen Dharmashri (1654–1717), et voir Cornu (1999: 67–77). Dans la pensée chinoise, contrairement à ce qu’affirme la théorie indienne, les éléments s’organisent en un système dynamique de cycles de création et de destruction. 35 L’ère rab byung commence en 1026 de notre ère, au moment de l’adoption du système indien. Le 17e cycle correspond aux années 1987–2046. 32 33

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Figure 10. Tableau comparant les éléments des cinq énergies de l’année aux éléments de naissance.

étant associée au bleu (sngon po), les bovins qui tractent l’araire doivent être bleus. Pour les hommes, l’astrologue examine leur condition et leur âge ou, plus exactement, leur année de naissance. Pour appeler la chance et la prospérité sur l’année agricole à venir, ils doivent être en bonne santé, ‘posséder père et mère’ ( pha ma tshang mkhan), mais être suffisamment âgés pour ‘savoir’ (shes mkhan). En outre, les trois principaux protagonistes—le conducteur de l’attelage, le laboureur et le semeur—doivent remplir les conditions énoncées dans les ‘Calculs pour ouvrir la Bouche de la Terre’ (sa kha phyed pa’i rtsis) et les ‘Calculs pour dompter les nouveaux [ou les grands] bœufs’ ( glang gsar [glang chen] ’dul ba’i rtsis). L’élément de Vitalité de l’année doit ainsi être la mère de l’élément de naissance de l’homme qui tire les mdzo (hybrides de yak et de vache); l’élément du Pouvoir de l’année, l’ennemi de l’élément de naissance de l’homme qui tient l’araire mais la mère de l’élément de naissance du semeur. Pour trouver ces individus, Onpo Gompo étudie les tableaux comparant les éléments des cinq énergies de l’année aux éléments de naissance, imprimés en première partie de l’almanach. Les degrés d’affinité ou d’inimitié y sont figurés respectivement par des cercles (o), dits ‘petits cailloux blancs’ (rdel dkar), ou des croix noires (x), appelées ‘petits cailloux noirs’ (rdel nag). La relation maternelle, excellente, est rendue par trois cercles; la relation amicale, bonne, par deux cercles; la relation filiale, neutre, par un cercle et une croix; et la relation d’inimitié, néfaste, par deux croix. Pour l’année Bœuf de Feu, le résultat est le suivant: le conducteur de l’attelage doit être né une année Tigre de Bois, le laboureur une

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année Oiseau de Fer, le semeur une année Cheval de Terre, soit en 1974, 1981 et 1978. La nuit tombe et le travail de l’astrologue touche à son terme. Il ne lui reste plus qu’à rédiger un aide-mémoire et à le remettre au chef du quartier de Leh, responsable cette année de l’organisation de la cérémonie du premier labour. Sur une page de cahier d’écolier, Onpo Gompo écrit en caractères d’imprimerie: Om sva sti. Salut à vous! Voici les calculs pour l’ouverture de la Bouche de la Terre par les agriculteurs. Année de Feu; année du Bœuf. Septième jour du second mois lunaire. Samedi à une heure, la moitié de la journée écoulée. À une heure sur la montre. [Tracer] la première raie dans la direction pure du Sud Supérieur. Des mdzo de couleur bleue. Dans le ‘sep de l’homme’, du bon grain en abondance selon l’araire et la roue [des agriculteurs]. Pour conduire les mdzo par le nez, un homme de l’année Tigre de Bois, 24 [ans]. Pour tenir l’araire, un homme de l’année Oiseau de Fer, 17 [ans]. Pour verser les semences, un homme de l’année Cheval de Terre, 20 [ans]. Libations ( gser skyems, ‘breuvage d’or’) et [lecture des textes] gnam sa snang rgyas et bkra shis rtsegs pa36 sont recommandés.

*

*

*

Sonam Gompo est mort en 2003 d’une cirrhose alcoolique. Évoquer sa mémoire incite à réfléchir sur la transmission des savoirs, le devenir de l’astrologie et, plus largement, sur le futur de ce type de rituels dans une région qui, à l’ère de la mondialisation, connaît de profonds changements. Comme il le pressentait, aucun des siens n’a pris la relève. Son unique fils a choisi une autre voie: suivant l’exemple de nombreux jeunes de sa génération, il a intégré le corps de l’armée indienne. Thupstan Shanfan est aujourd’hui le seul spécialiste en astrologie des éléments (nag rtsis) de la région de Leh. Il continue de publier calendriers et 36 Ces textes de bénédiction d’usage courant, explique Onpo Gompo, servent d’antidotes en cas d’erreur dans l’exécution du rituel. Le premier s’adresse aux maîtres de la terre dont la tranquillité va être perturbée, le second est lu pour accroître le bonheur, le bien-être et la chance; tous deux sont accompagnés de libations d’alcool.

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almanachs, mais rares sont aujourd’hui ceux capables d’en interpréter les informations. Le rituel du premier sillon avec ses yaks au front blanchi et aux cornes huilées fait désormais partie du folklore ladakhi avec le tir à l’arc, le polo, ou les mascarades du Nouvel an, autant de spectacles (ltad mo) qualifiés de ‘bigarrés et pittoresques’. Des bribes en sont données à voir—hors contexte—à l’occasion du festival du Ladakh qui se tient à Leh au cours de la première quinzaine de septembre, et attire davantage de spectateurs chaque année. Bibliographie Textes Tibétains Thub bstan gshan phan, 1985. ’Bras rtsis gsar phreng kun dga’i snying nor. (Leh, Ladakh). Thub bstan gshan phan, 1976. Byed grub zung sbrel gyi le’u tho (Leh, Ladakh). Littérature Secondaire Berzin, Alexander. 1987. An introduction to Tibetan astronomy and astrology. The Tibet Journal 12(1): 17–28. The Berzin Archives. http://www.berzinarchives.com/tibetan Cornu, Philippe. 1999. L’astrologie tibétaine. Paris: Guy Trédaniel. Dollfus, Pascale. 1987. Lo-gsar, le Nouvel An populaire au Ladakh. L’Ethnographie 83: 63–96. ——. 1990. De l’ordre et de la prospérité: analyse de deux rituels agraires au Ladakh. Dans Wissenschaftsgeschichte und gegenwärtige Forschungen in Nordwest-Indien, sous la dir. de G. Meier et P. Neumann, Dresden, Staatliches Museum für Völkerkunde Dresde Forschungstelle: 220–32. ——. 1996. Maîtres du sol et dieux du territoire au Ladakh. Etudes rurales 143–44: 27–44. ——. 2003. De quelques histoires de klu et de btsan. Revue d’Etudes Tibétaines (RET ) 2: 4–39. http://www.digitalhimalaya.com/ret/RET_2.pdf. Gardner, Alexander. 2005–6. The sa chog. Violence and veneration in a Tibetan soil ritual. Etudes Mongoles et Sibériennes, Centrasiatiques et Tibétaines 36–37: 283–324. Hummel, Siegbert. 1969. The sme ba dgu, the magic square of the Tibetans. East and West 19(1–2): 139–46. Imaeda, Yoshiro. 1984. Mémento chronologique (Bstan rtsis) du Calendrier bhoutanais. Dans L. Ligeti (éd.), Tibetan and Buddhist Studies commemorating the 200th anniversary of the Birth of A. Csoma. de Köros. Budapest, vol. 1, 303–20. Jacques, Guillaume. 2007. Le nom des naksatrani en tibétain. Revue d’Etudes Tibétaines (RET ) 12: 4–10. http://www.digitalhimalaya.com/collections/journals/ret/index. php Jäschke, H.A. 1980 [1881]. A Tibetan-English Dictionary with Special Reference to the Prevailing Dialects. Delhi/Varanasi/Patna: Motilal Banarsidass. Khoo, Michael. 1997. Preliminary Remarks concerning Solar Observation, Solar Calendars and Festivals in Ladakh and the Western Himalaya. Dans T. Dodin et R. Heinz (éds), Recent Research on Ladakh 7. Ulm: Ulmer Kulturanthropologische Schriften, 235–70. Lafitte, Jean-Jacques. 1985. Le calendrier tibétain. La Nouvelle Revue Tibétaine 12: 24–31.

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Riaboff, Isabelle. 1997. Notes sur les rituels agraires au Zanskar: terre, terroirs, territoires. Dans H. Krasser, M. Torsten Much, E. Steinkellner et H. Tauscher (éds.), Tibetan studies: Proceedings of the 7th Seminar of the International Association for Tibetan Studies, Graz Vol. II, Vienne, Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften: 803–16. ——. 2000. Jeux printaniers au Zanskar: Le tir à l’arc de Zangla: Bouffons et héros, rois et étrangers. Etudes mongoles et sibériennes 30–31: 137–79. Yamaguchi, Zuiho. 1992 The significance of intercalary constants in the Tibetan calendar and historical tables of intercalary months. Dans Shohen Ihara et Zuiho Yamaguchi (éds), Tibetan Studies, Proceedings of the 5th Seminar of the International Association of Tibetan Studies, Narita 1989. Narita: Naritasan Shishoji, 873–95.

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SMALL SHOES AND PAINTED FACES: POSSESSION STATES AND EMBODIMENT IN BUDDHIST LADAKH Martin A. Mills Introduction In the realms of psychiatric anthropology, the study of possession events and their associated traditions has, as part of a general methodological claim to universality, been dominated by a Cartesian ontology, one that sees possession primarily as a mental rather than physical event. As a consequence, the cultural and religious trappings of possession are treated as epiphenomena or, at most, the signifiers of an underlying transformation of consciousness. Such claims are, however, compromised by the social, cultural and religious frameworks of meaning required to identify possession as a discrete event in the first place. As a consequence, the validity of the Cartesian template depends in turn on a comparable framework of personhood within the relevant indigenous context. This paper argues that, within the context of the possession cults of Buddhist Ladakh, at least, such a comparison is inadequate. Rather, within the various possession traditions of Ladakh, from the village to the high monastic level, possession events are both constituted and organised around recognisable transformations of the body, not of the mind. Possession in Buddhist Ladakh The study of possession has been a relatively constant discussion in the ethnography of the Western Himalayas over the last twenty years, particularly in the study of Buddhist communities in Ladakh, Zangskar and Spiti. Widely documented within existing literature, possession has been discussed alternately in the personal biographical accounts of travellers to the region and in more analytical academic works: in the latter category, we might note in particular writers such as the anthropologists Day (1989, 1990), Riaboff (1995) and Srinivas (1997) and the psychologist Crook (1997, 1998). Within these and other ethnographies,

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a fairly coherent picture of possession events in the Buddhist Western Himalayas has emerged. The focus here is on an identifiable syndrome of events in which people become temporarily ‘possessed’ by local spirits or deities (rarely for more than an hour at a time, although this may occur relatively frequently over years or even decades). Numina are seen to ‘dislodge’ the possessed person in order to speak and act through them. A defining feature of this kind of possession is a retrospective loss of consciousness and memory, rendering the possessed person incapable of recalling events during a particular possession. Possession within the Tibetan cultural area (and here I will principally concentrate on the Buddhist communities of Ladakh) exists as part of a wider set of indigenous religious discourses and practices concerned with the interaction between human and numinal presences within particular villages and towns. These range from supernatural attack on individuals, households and agricultural/pastoral resources (L. gnodpa yongs—see Kaplanian 1990), to the full-blown possession of individuals by various local spirits and deities (L. lha zhugs). Whilst distinguished by locals in terms of the form of disruption, gnodpa yongs and lha zhugs are both indigenously viewed as emerging from the same crucible of human-numinal interaction, and may together represent a single cultural milieu in terms of how locals analyse misfortune (Day 1989). Possession itself is often discussed in terms of two important indigenous categories: possession by witches (L. bamo) where the source of possession is another human; and possession by non-human spirits (L. lha or lhandre). Possession by bamo is usually seen as the manifest embodiment of jealous desire by other villagers that ‘travels’ from the sleeping form of a witch (L. gongmo) in search of the object of their ire.1 The victim is rendered vulnerable by a combination of low ‘life force’ (L. sparkha), and having on some recent occasion accepted the gongmo’s hospitality. Taking hold of the victim, the bamo causes illness, fits and in certain cases may begin to speak through the possessed, often in a voice very different from that of the victim. As a variety of writers have pointed

1 Bamo are considered occasionally visible to the eye as they travel. Whilst I was journeying with some lay Ladakhis in 1994, a dust-devil passed near our lunch spot. Leaping up, my companions spat at it and threw earth which they picked up from around their feet. When I inquired as to what it was, I was told that it was a bamo searching for its victim: by spitting and throwing earth, they hoped to pollute it and thus reduce its power to harm.

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out, such low level possession is found predominantly (but not entirely) in one main group: young newly-married women, and particularly those that have married into their husband’s household (for example, Crook 1997, 1998; Srinivas 1997). While to a certain extent socially marginalising, accusations of such ‘witchcraft’ by possessees have also been used as social strategies in disputes. Whilst possession or attack by bamo is almost universally seen as a sign of misfortune and dangerous weakness by Ladakhis, possession by local area gods (L. yullha) and (more rarely) by the various Buddhist protector deities (L. choskyong srungma) carries with it greater social (and in many cases financial) value, despite still being seen as dangerous and, to a certain extent, socially liminal. These two kinds of possession are most usually encountered in the lives of semi-professional oracles (L. lhapa), who will often go into possession on demand and, indeed, be paid for rendering services such as giving advice and prophecies, and performing exorcisms and ritual healings.2 These two forms of possession are linked by a tendency to constitute part of a temporary or semi-permanent history of possession for particular individuals. In indigenous accounts, they are seen as initially occuring during periods of low sparkha, which can be brought on by personal stress, grief or shock. Oracular capacities thus first manifest themselves through an ‘initiatory illness’ (often locally interpreted in terms of demonic attack, such as by bamo or lhandre). Once initial possession has occurred, individuals can be cured of their affliction through the exorcism or ‘banning’ of the deity from the body of the possessed. In a small number of cases, possession becomes a more chronic syndrome, leading to a life as an oracle. In this latter case, persistent possessions and invulnerability to curing is seen to suggest the influence of a higher deity. Particularly chronic cases may become the object of purificatory disciplines by the possessed (such as regular prayers or avoiding specified foods) and a combination of training and partial exorcism by existing oracles and Buddhist incarnate lamas, who ‘cut away’ the presence of lower demonic forces within the new oracle’s trance, gradually distilling out a coherent ‘divine personality’ (Day 1990).

2 The semi-professional nature of these oracles is worth highlighting: rarely if ever does an oracle (who are often paid for their services) depend entirely upon his or her oracular income for a living. In this regard, locals—and oracles themselves—distinguish between the identity of the person possessed (the lusyar, or ‘vessel’) and the actual ‘oracle’, or lha, which is the manifest possessing spirit.

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Finally, whilst possession is not a distinctively Buddhist phenomenon, histories of possession are regularly interpreted through Buddhist cosmological ideas, and eventually incorporated into Buddhist institutional structures. Thus, for example, possession is almost always interpreted as action by worldly spirits and deities (L. jigtenpa’i lha), and not by those deities, such as Buddhas and high Buddhist protector deities, who have ‘passed beyond worldly existence’ (L. jigten las das pa’i lha). This distinction theoretically places possessing spirits under the potential authority of high Buddhist deities, thus opening up the possibility of their being exorcised or ‘banned’ from possessing particular individuals by the Buddhist authorities. Conversely, many semi-professional oracles are incorporated into the institutional structure of local Buddhist monasteries, for whom they may act as ‘helpers’ (L. rogspa). As we will see in greater detail later, this includes the specific production of possessed oracles from within the Buddhist monastic fold. Consciousness and Ontology In examining spirit possession both within Himalayan and other regions, academic analyses have often diverged on the central question of the fundamental ontological status of possession events. The principal distinction here lies in the wider argument between psychiatric and anthropological schools of interpretation. The argument between these two positions is primarily a methodological one, which I would like to examine briefly. The psychiatric approach generally seeks to characterise both possession and the wider category of ‘shamanic events’ in terms of a base-level psychological reality—either a dissociative or schizophrenic state, or an ‘altered or shamanic state of consciousness’ (ASC and SSC)—that unifies the diverse cultural and social phenomena found under this label across the globe (for example, Eliade 1964, Noll 1983; Walsh 1989; Winkelman 1990). Here, we must note the distinction between shamanic states of trance (which are remembered, and to a greater or lesser extent controlled, by the shamans, who generally maintain their sense of identity) and possession states (where memory after the event is profoundly compromised, and a wholly different person is presented as speaking through a bodily vessel for the duration of the possession). The latter—the principal object of this paper—clearly present a problem for the ASC/SSC approach, since the ‘internal ontology’ of

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possession becomes something of a black box: unlike shamanic trance states, there is little in the way of an indigenous metanarrative available. Nonetheless, the idea that the ontology of possession states is primarily mental—that it centres on a mode of consciousness or psychological disturbance—remains a mainstay of psychiatric approaches. The fundamental engine of possession events, like their shamanic counterparts, is still asserted to be a transformation of mind. In the Himalayan context, we can see this most clearly in Rex Jones’ influential opening to Spirit Possession in the Nepal Himalaya: Spirit possession can be defined as an altered state of consciousness on the part of an individual as a result of what is perceived or believed to be the incorporation of an alien form with vital and spiritual attributes, e.g. the spirit of a superhuman form such as a witch, sorcerer, god, goddess, or other religious divinity. ( Jones 1976: 1)

Clearly, such mentalist models of possession depend upon a basic Cartesian dualism between the mind and body, which sees the embodied and cultural phenomena of possession—the employment of culturally formed cosmological categories, the use of ritual implements, the development of patron-client healing relations, etc.—as the cultural idioms for a more central cognitive transformation. Persuasive though this Cartesian framework may be, its claim to universality has a single, but prominent flaw. As any undergraduate textbook on abnormal psychology would attest, the meaningful interpretation of identity-focused behaviour is hardly an objective process. To identify a ‘possession event’—characterised at the very least by a transformation in personality—depends on a complex matrix of signifiers—name, family, dress, class, personal history, linguistic use and bodily comportment—all of which depend on a surrounding social and cultural matrix of norms to render them meaningful and intelligible as modes of identity and ‘personality’ (for example Rosenhan and Seligman 1995: xxi; see also Al-Issa 1982; Cochrane 1983; Leff 1981; Roth and Kroll 1986). Whilst most Western observers might not be culturally at home with possession as a regular event, we might reasonably ask how it is that we would even be able to identify ‘a possession event’ without a considerable cultural and social training of our own. Conceptualising certain structures of behaviour as ‘out of character’ depends on an in-built socialisation as to what it is to be ‘in-character’, which are extremely difficult to render in objective terms. Even if we take simple statements by the possessed person, or those locals around him/her—such as ‘I am the spirit X’ as

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opposed to ‘the householder Y’—we have already gone much of the way to couching our identification of possession as an event within an indigenous model of identity and ontology. The fact that an external observer might him or herself share some of these categories and nuances renders them no less culturally embedded. This is a critique that has been seminal to many anthropological accounts of possession. As Bruce Kapferer, in his study of demonic possession amongst Buddhist communities in Sri Lanka, argues: Demonic illness is above all a socio-cultural construct to be understood first and foremost at this level and in its own cultural and social terms . . . Illness demonically conceived is not reducible to terms independent of the demonic conception . . . In the demonic idea articulated in practice coheres a particular accent upon the realities of patients, and others in their context, in which the demonic is as much the reality as it is reflective of symbolic of reality . . . A reduction of the demonic to analytical terms which deny the integrity of the demonic as a phenomenon in and of itself, distorts and limits understanding. (Kapferer 1983: 121)

Such an approach tends to reject the kind of unitary ontology characteristic of psychiatric explanations, concentrating instead on the culturally-embedded reality of individual traditions and the individually-contextualised meanings of their central performances (e.g. Taussig 1989; Kapferer 1983). In doing so, such writers have emphasised instead the study of possession as a particular nexus within a general semantic framework within particular cultures (Boddy 2002). Thus, for example, both Riaboff and Day situate the meaning of possession within a wider discussion of local and Buddhist cosmological categories and processes in Ladakh (Day 1989; Riaboff 1995): Day in particular has argued that possession constitutes part of a wider cosmological discourse about the process of ’dulwa (subjugation) that integrates local and translocal cosmologies. This is a powerful argument, and it seems worth pushing it from critique to assertion: possession as an object of study cannot be separated from the indigenous understandings that render it culturally real, whether those indigenous understandings are our own, or those of (in this case) the Buddhist communities of the Western Himalaya. As a consequence of this, the arbitrary employment of a Cartesian framework as the base-line vocabulary for talking about possession states as a global whole seems highly problematic. Whilst it may feasibly be the case, as Michael Lambek has recently argued (Lambek 1998), that some kind

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of mind-body duality is effectively universal, the precise application of such dualities within social experience is far from uniform. That said, the general interpretive frame of anthropological studies of possession has its own weaknesses. Firstly, the emphasis on shared meaning and performance as the methodological foundation for understanding possession has always tended to elide the question of possession’s ontological reality. By emphasising semantic context, nuanced cultural description of possession as performance tends to replace the question of explanation (which stands at the heart of the psychiatric endeavour), addressing instead the wider question of how such ‘performances’ are understood, why they are accepted, and how they are socially integrated. Secondly (and more pertinently), the emphasis on shared semantic frameworks places ‘possession’ as one more element of a somewhat abstracted ‘culture’, a domain of symbols and concepts, whose very abstraction seems inadequate to the job of dealing with so visceral an event as possession.3 In this last respect, I would argue that Ladakhi notions of ‘possession’ as an object of perception seem to be only peripherally concerned with ‘the mind’ as we conceive it, and much more substantially focused on the body as the object of both possession and transformation. Again and again, possession events are both described, discussed and, indeed, practised not as ‘matters of mind’ but as transformations of the body. Four ethnographic examples from Ladakh will suffice: the first two concern the Buddhist monastic traditions surrounding oracles of high worldly protector deities; the third from a local village oracle in Southern Ladakh; and the last from the general folklore concerning bamo amongst the local lay and monastic population of Ladakh.

3 In many regards, these latter problems derive from the fact that many anthropological discussions of possession centre primarily on how possession events are understood and talked about post hoc, rather than how they are identified in the first place as a particular kind of event—as an object of social experience. I may, for example, be able to speak at length of Western notions of the person, of ideas such as human rights and the relationship between self and body, but that is not the same as talking about the process by which I identify a ‘person’ as distinct from a lamppost as I walk down the street. This, in other words, is a question of perception rather than conception.

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Ladakh is home to several oracular traditions associated with Buddhist protector deities (L. choskyong). Of these, two of the most important in recent decades have been the monastic oracles of Matho monastery and the oracle of the (highly controversial) deity Dorje Shugden.4 Both oracular traditions have been incorporated to a lesser or greater extent into the monastic (and, in the Matho case, aristocratic) hierarchies of Ladakh. The Matho oracles, described extensively by Crook (1997, 1998), are oracles that are annually possessed by two local protector deities (the so-called Rongtsan valley gods) during royally sponsored annual festivals at Matho monastery. Two monks from the monastery are chosen by lottery and trained in closed retreat throughout the previous year. At the festival they go into possession, make state-level prophecies—usually concerning the agricultural prospects for the region—and perform healings and feats designed to demonstrate the authenticity of their possession and the validity of their divine powers. Their possession is brought about through the performance of certain rituals, including the painting of each of the possessing deities’ faces onto the stomachs of the monks; it is through this face that the deity is supposed to ‘see’ whilst in control of its monastic vessel. The feats performed by these possessed monks famously include each oracle running the high and narrow parapets of the monastery whilst blindfolded with nine scarves, an act seen to be possible due to the deity ‘seeing’ though the oracle’s stomach rather than his eyes; indeed, the blindfolds are said to have been introduced under the orders of one of the old queens of Ladakh, who expressed doubt as to the veracity of this claim. Whilst in possession, the oracles also slice their tongues and limbs with sharp swords to demonstrate their imperviousness to pain. What is distinctive here is the degree to which possession is indigenously located in the transformation of the body, rather than an abstract notion of mind: the possession itself is deemed to begin at the precise point at which the ritual painting of the deity’s face onto the torso is finished (Crook 1998). This dependence of possession on the adornment and transformation of the body can also be seen in the case of the

Space precludes any discussion of the recent controversy over the status of the deity Dorje Shugden. For in-depth discussions of the topic see Dreyfus (1998) and Mills (2003b). 4

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Shugden oracle, whom I had the opportunity to interview in the regional capital, Leh, in early 1995. Ordinarily possessed by two deities—the choskyong srungma or ‘worldly’ protector Dorje Shugden, and his ‘minister’ (L. lonpo) Khaje Marpo—the oracle thus often bore two successive ‘numinal presences’ within a single possession. When in full possession, the oracle wore different crowns as the different deities took possession; moreover, the oracle was not allowed to fully act as the choskyong for public healings unless he was wearing his official clothes. This was more than a formality: the very capacities of the possessing deity to heal depended on the availability of these clothes and implements. Thus, when in possession, the choskyong could only summon and exorcise bamo (one of his perceived capacities) through using a ritual hook, and could only bless and force out pollution or poisons by using his ritual sword. Without his clothes and implements (the unpossessed oracle explained) the deity lacked the spiritual power (L. nuspa) to act as a god. Here, therefore, the embodied presence of the deity (including adornment)—rather than merely his ‘mental’ identity—was the crucial determinant of possession. For example, when the Shugden oracle was first identified by a high visiting incarnate as carrying the deity, one of the final tests of his identity came when he was brought his ritual clothes. This had three elements. First was his ability, when in possession, to twist up and re-straighten his sword (seen as beyond the strengths of ordinary humans). Secondly, the shoes that the deity traditionally wore when in possession were tiny, too small for an adult to wear and certainly far too diminutive for the feet of the unpossessed oracle (who was almost six foot in height) to even begin to fit into. When he entered possession, however, the shoes apparently fitted perfectly and the oracle passed this test. Finally, possession by the choskyong deity is held to change the colour of the oracle’s face, with a different colour and shade emerging depending on which of the various forms of the choskyong are being ‘shown’ (L. stonpa), and these could be checked by trained monks and incarnate lamas to ensure his identity (informants spoke of a possibility that a demon—L. dre, or sometimes lhandre—could possess the oracle, claiming a false identity in order to do harm). Local God Oracles In Lingshed, a village on the border of Buddhist Ladakh and Zangskar (see Mills 2003a), the village oracle, a local man in his forties, was regularly possessed by a variety of local area gods, in which context he

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would heal people by sucking out poison as a blackish liquid from their bodies (which he then spat into a bowl) and identify threats to village life. Local area gods (L. yullha) are seen to be lower down the spiritual hierarchy than the kind of Buddhist protector deities discussed above and this lower status was seen as specifically signified by the bodily proxemics of the possession itself: while the choskyong were seen to ‘force out’ poison and ritual pollution at a distance, using implements such as swords, lower deities such as Lingshed’s village oracle healed by physically sucking out poison. This particular village oracle was known for often slipping into possession with little notice, something that earned him some criticism, as such a lack of control was seen as unethical and potentially dangerous. However, like the choskyong oracles, his possessions were seen as only partial, at best, without his oracular clothes—robes and a red silk hat (adorned, again, with the face of the deity). Thus, for example, one winter’s night in 1993, when I was visiting Lingshed, the oracle strode into the village school and began to become possessed. Stating that he had important news for the village, he demanded his ritual clothes so that he could speak of the threat in greater detail. The teacher—a rather urbane monk who often criticised the oracle for his ‘laxity’—said that the clothes were not available and that the snow was too deep to fetch them. Impatient with the interruption, he demanded that the oracle say what he needed to say and allow them to continue with their English lesson. Unable to comply, the oracle departed, leaving the prophetic warning unfinished. Bamo We have seen how possession in the case of oracles utilises an extensive array of ‘professional bodily paraphernalia’ in the construction of possession as a meaningful event. Evidence suggests, however, that a more radical interpretation of possession as an emic event is in order here. As noted above, possession by bamo (possessing witches) is generally seen as resulting from the mobilisation of jealous desire on the part of a particular villager. In this sense, bamo are seen to have a defined social identity—the name, family lineage and household of the gongmo, or source. If this is known, a bamo can be shamed or ritually exorcised, such that it returns to its source. To this aim, a bamo can be trapped and interrogated during possession by tying together the possessee’s

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two little fingers, which blocks the bamo’s departure from the possessed person.5 The shadow or back of the possessed individual can then be beaten until the possessing bamo divulges the identity of the gongmo. Importantly, the beating is seen as injuring the bamo, but not the victim, who is said to carry no scars from the beating. This distinction between the bodily identity of the possessed and unpossessed can be found in other oracular forms. As we saw above, the Matho monastic oracles often demonstrate their oracular powers by cutting their bodies with ritual swords. A component of this is the widely held indigenous view that what has been cut is the deity’s manifest body, and that such mutilation should render no permanent physical harm to the possessee, evinced in claims that the injuries sustained during possession heal with remarkable speed, as the deity ‘departs’.6 In this regard, therefore, there is a sense in which indigenous discourses see the possessed and unpossessed as having almost distinct bodies. In all these respects, therefore, we see that the bodily enactment of possession is far more than a means of signifying a transformed inner state of consciousness. The meaning, status and power of individual possessions as numinal events—both from the perspective of the oracle and those watching—is constituted by the appropriate adornment and proxemic use of the body (to the extent that it is incomplete, or at the very least compromised, by inappropriate adornment). Similarly, the cultural efficacy and validity of possession is located in the very transformation of the possessed body, both in terms of physical appearance (the face, voice and, as we saw in the Shugden case, the feet), but also in terms of the capabilities of bodies—their strength, skill, and powers. Informants argued that what were most important within the context Colin Millard, in his studies on Ladakhi medicine, notes the view that sparkha flows between the little fingers throughout the lunar cycle (Millard, pers. comm.). Sometimes other fingers, such as the index fingers, are identified. It is worth noting here that this account is taken from local villagers’ and monks’ general discussions on the topic, and does not therefore count as, for example, an official Buddhist orthodoxy on the topic (I have been reasonably chastised here by a highly knowledgeable Buddhist nun who heard an early draft of this paper, for not consulting Buddhist scholars on the precise status of bamo). 6 Here, some care is required: whilst possession events as dramatic shifts in social personhood seem to only last an hour or so at a time, one oracle explained to me that the ‘descent of the deity’ into his body was actually a prolonged procedure of both arrival and departure. Indeed, he claimed that he sometimes knew several days in advance that an important person was coming to consult the deity that possessed him, because of signs of the deity’s gradual descent into his body (involving growing pain and lassitude in his limbs). 5

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of the possession were the ‘activities’ (L. las) of the deity, rather than his or her ‘essence’. Certain deities could, for example, manifest themselves in a variety of forms, each taking a different ‘style’ (L. tshul ), utilising different characters and capacities and, by extension, requiring different ritual apparel, despite ‘being’ the same god. This was complicated by further layers, with certain deities being manifestations of higher gods and Buddhas: thus, the worldly Rongtsan protectors of Matho are also, at certain moments, seen as worldly manifestations of the supraworldly Buddha Mahakala who, in turn, reflects (within this context) the powers of the tutelary Buddha Hevajra, who were, in turn again, ‘manifestations of the guru’. The chimeric nature of divine identities in Ladakhi and Tibetan Buddhism thus often resists reification into a hypostatic inner ‘essence’. Conclusion The tendency of much psychiatric theorising on the nature of ‘possession’ has been to fit it securely into the existing Cartesian framework of physical versus mental events, with the general assertion that possession events constitute primarily a mental transformation. It is the argument of this paper that such an assumption necessarily assumes that indigenous cultural understandings of possession events are similarly structured: for example, that the Ladakhi Buddhist understanding of possession is that it constitutes some disruption of the continuity of personality at the spiritual or mental level. This is because ‘possession’ as a culturally recognised phenomenon depends very substantially on pre-existing rules and norms of identity. Conversely, some anthropological studies tend to shy away from the questions of ontological reality that these psychiatric theories address. However, the ethnographic evidence of possession practices in Ladakh speak to a social matrix in which who a person is or has become is not understood at the level of a mental essence, but rather at the level of physical embodiment. Within the context of possession cults, the ontological reality of protector deities, local gods or possessing witches is physical and embodied, rather than disembodied or ethereal. This is, moreover, more than simply a question of the signification of numinal presence: it is not simply that the signs of numinal presence must necessarily be physical in nature. Rather, those ‘signs’ actively constitute the deity’s ritual presence: thus, in the case of the Matho oracles,

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possession is only complete when the last touches of the deity’s face are applied to their stomachs; similarly, the Lingshed oracle is unable to prophesy without his ceremonial robes, and the Shugden oracle is only able to heal through his designated ritual implements. In other words, the very presence and powers of the deity exist within the very physical adornments and transformations of the body. References Al-Issa, I. (ed.) 1982. Culture and Psychopathology. Baltimore: University Park Press. Atkinson, J.M. 1992. Shamanism Today. Annual Review of Anthropology 21: 307–30. Aziz, B. 1976. Reincarnation Reconsidered—or the Reincarnate Lama as Shaman. In R. Hitchcock and R. Jones (eds), Spirit Possession in the Nepal Himalayas. Delhi: Vikas. Boddy, J. 2002. Spirits and Selves in Northern Sudan: The Cultural Therapeutics of Possession and Trance. In M. Lambek (ed.) A Reader in the Anthropology of Religion. London: Blackwell Publishers, 398–418. Cochrane, R. 1983. The Social Creation of Mental Illness. London, New York: Longman Press. Crook, John H. 1997. The indigenous psychiatry of Ladakh, Part I. Anthropology and Medicine 4(3): 289–307. ——. 1998. The indigenous psychiatry of Ladakh, Part II. Anthropology and Medicine 5(1): 23–42. Day, Sophie. 1989. Embodying Spirit. Unpublished Ph.D. Thesis, London School of Economics. ——. 1990. Ordering Spirits: The Initiation of Village Oracles in Ladakh. In L. Icke-Schwalbe and G. Meier (eds), Wissenschaftsgeschichte und gegenwärtige Forschungen in Nord-west-Indien. Proceedings of the Colloquium of the International Association of Ladakh Studies March 1987, Staatliches Museum für Völkerkunde Dresden Forschungsstelle. Dreyfus, Georges. 1998. The Shuk-den Affair: Origins of a Controversy. Journal of the International Association of Buddhist Studies 21(2): 227–70. Eliade, Mircea. 1964. Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy. Princeton: University Press. Harner, M. (ed.) 1973. Hallucinogens and Shamanism. New York: McGraw Hill. Jones, R. 1976. Spirit Possession and Society in Nepal. In J.T. Hitchcock and R.L. Jones (eds), Spirit Possession in the Nepal Himalaya. New Delhi: Vikas. Kapferer, Bruce. 1983. A Celebration of Demons: Exorcism and the Aesthetics of Healing in Sri Lanka. London: Smithsonian Institute Press. Kaplanian, Patrick. 1990. La maladie en tant que (s)notpa. In L. Icke-Schwalbe and G. Meier (eds), Wissenschaftsgeschichte und gegenwärtige Forschungen in Nord-west-Indien. Proceedings of the Colloquium of the International Association of Ladakh Studies March 1987, Staatliches Museum für Völkerkunde Dresden Forschungsstelle, 185–204. Lambek, M. 1996. Possession. In A. Barnard and J. Spencer (eds), Encyclopedia of Social and Cultural Anthropology. London: Routledge. ——. 1998. Body and mind in mind, body and mind in mind: some anthropological interventions in a long conversation. In M. Lambek and A. Strathern (eds), Bodies and Persons: Comparative Perspectives from Africa and Melanesia. Cambridge: University Press.

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Leder, D. 1992. A Tale of Two Bodies: The Cartesian Corpse and the Lived Body. In D. Leder (ed.) The Body in Medical Thought and Practice. Kluwer Academic Publishers: 1–12. Leff, J. 1981. Psychiatry Around the Globe: A Transcultural View. New York: Marcel Dekker Publications. Mills, Martin. 2003a. Identity, Ritual and State in Tibetan Buddhism: The Foundations of Authority in Gelukpa Monasticism. London: RoutledgeCurzon. ——. 2003b. This Turbulent Priest: Three Views of Human Rights and the State in the Tibetan Shugden Controversy. In J. Mitchell and R. Wilson (eds), Human Rights in Global Perspective: Anthropological Studies of Rights, Claims and Entitlements. London, New York: Routledge. Mishler, E. et al. (eds). 1981. Social Contexts of Health, Illness and Patient Care. Cambridge: University Press. Noll, Richard. 1983. Shamanism and Schizophrenia: a State-Specific Approach to the “Schizophrenia Metaphor” of Shamanic States. American Ethnologist 10: 433–59. Peters, L.G. 1982. Trance, Initiation and Psychotherapy in Tamang Shamanism. American Ethnologist 9: 21–46. Riaboff, Isabelle. 1995. The Lha, a Flunctuating Zangskari Category. Contribution to the Conference of the International Association for Ladakh Studies, Bonn, 1995. Rosenhan, D. and M. Seligman. 1995. Abnormal Psychology. 3rd edition. London; NewYork: W.W. Norton. Roth, M. and J. Kroll. 1986. The Reality of Mental Illness. Cambridge: University Press. Samuel, Geoffrey. 1993. Civilized Shamans. Washington; London: Smithsonian Institute Press. Srinivas, S. 1997. Witch Possession in the Nubra Valley: the analysis of a case. In T. Dodin and H. Raether (eds), Recent Research in Ladakh 7. Ulm: Universität Ulm. Taussig, Michael. 1989. The Nervous System: Homesickness and Dada. Stanford Hum. Review, 1(1): 44–81. Walsh, R. 1989. What is a Shaman? Definition, Origin and Distribution. Journal of Transpersonal Psychology. 21(1): 1–11. Winkelman, M. 1989. A Cross-Cultural Study of Shamanistic Healers. Journal of Psychoactive Drugs 21(1): 17–24.

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REFORMULATING INGREDIENTS: OUTLINES OF A CONTEMPORARY RITUAL FOR THE CONSECRATION OF MEDICINES IN LADAKH Laurent Pordié This chapter concerns a ritual for the consecration of medicines. It describes not only the sequence and significance of the actions performed by the participants, but also the place of the ritual in the social landscape of 21st century Ladakh. While the ritual empowerment of medicine is a centuries-old practice, this ritual incorporates very contemporary elements. Any analysis of the Tibetan medical system in Ladakh1 must take into account the ubiquity of development projects targeting the amchi. These projects are a deliberate attempt to change and improve the social milieu; they are operated by institutions or actors coming from this milieu or outside it, and always include the grafting of resources and/or techniques and/or knowledge onto established practices.2 The idea of development is generally translated into Ladakhi as yargyas ( yar rgyas),3 literally ‘expansion/growth’ (rgyas) upwards ( yar), which can be used with the same wide range of meanings as the English term. However, the sense in which I use it here is narrower, not intended to include the more basic idea of growth (of a child or the economy, for example).4

In Ladakh, practitioners (amchi ) designate this medicine with the Tibetan name Sowa rigpa (the ‘science of healing’, gso ba rig pa) in the vernacular and increasingly in English. The amchi mainly use the term ‘amchi medicine’ when they address interlocutors in English, Urdu or Hindi. The term ‘Tibetan medicine’, by which this medical system is known internationally, is generally not used in Ladakh. 2 This definition of ‘development’ is an adaptation of that given by Oliver de Sardan (1995: 7). 3 A note regarding transcription: When I deal specifically with Ladakh, I give the vernacular term first in the phonetic transcription that corresponds to the Ladakhi pronunciation, followed by the transliteration (in brackets). For general comments or other regions, I give only the transliteration. 4 The dedication (bsngo ba) of merits (dge ba) found in many rituals formulates a wish for the ‘development’ ( yar rgyas) of a given quality, thing or institution. In the colophons of certain medical texts what is to be developed is specified as medicine (personal communication from Fernand Meyer). 1

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The religious ritual I present here, the smandrup (sman sgrub), offers the opportunity to examine and analyse the social encounters between the amchi, social welfare organisations, and the donors involved in the development of the science of healing, Sowa rigpa. The field of the ritual associates the forces of the Buddhas with those of foreign donors, thus not only empowering and consecrating the medicines, but also contributing to the revitalisation of the medical system as a whole. The officiants of the ritual associate the effects of ‘development’ with the power of the divine. As we shall see, the ‘ingredients’ of the ritual are thus recomposed.5 My focus is not, however, on the medicinal ingredients and the ways in which they and the related offerings are arranged and prepared, but on the metaphorical ingredients found in the composition of the assembly and the intended effects of the ritual. The ritual also incorporates new ‘ingredients’ in the form of actors who can ensure that the ritual has a new form of efficacy in the domain of medical development. Framing the Ritual: Medicine in a Religious Context The medical system of Tibet was probably introduced into Ladakh in around the tenth or eleventh century. It is a centuries-old syncretic system influenced mainly by Indian and Chinese medical traditions, as well as by Buddhism.6 Buddhism teaches that suffering is inherent to the nature of sentient beings and Buddhist practice is the path to removing that suffering. The Buddha is accordingly regarded as the perfect physician, appropriate for eliminating diseases through devotion, meditation and the control of thought processes. The Mahāyāna Buddhist tradition became the religious reference for Tibetan medicine, the principles of which underlie certain aspects of medical theory, in particular the notion of fundamental causes and the classification of diseases.7 Buddhism has also influenced the moral foundations of the 5 A qualification should be made: the present chapter concerns the ritual conducted in 2000. It does not claim to account for the organisation and assembly of the smandrup at other times. It shows, however, that Sowa rigpa in Ladakh cannot be studied today without considering the impact of international networks, foreign aid and ‘dharma friends’, regional economic logics and the aspirations of practitioners. 6 On the medical theory and history of Tibetan medicine, see Meyer (1981, 1992a, b, 1995) and Parfionovitch et al. (1992). 7 See Meyer (1988) for an article on the relations between Buddhism and medicine in pre-modern Tibet.

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practice of medicine. The individual religious practice of the therapist and, above all, the development of his or her moral qualities are strongly encouraged. As Jacques Léonard remarked elsewhere (1981), medicine is never an isolated phenomenon but is a product of, and embedded in, its sociohistorical, political and cultural context. Tibetan medicine belongs, for instance, to the field of chos/dharma. In the Indo-Tibetan context, the field of chos/dharma is sometimes understood or glossed as ‘religion’, although its scope is much wider than the usual social category of religion. It transcends, for example, the classic opposition between sacred and profane and includes domains that do not pertain to religion. ‘Ordinary’ sciences (thun mong rig gnas), such as medicine, fall under the scope of chos/dharma because of their ultimate goals, which are seen as steps on or levels of the same path.8 This partly explains why the Buddhist tradition has integrated the authoritative works of this (and other) common sciences into the Buddhist canon, while distinguishing them, as ‘exterior’ sciences, from teachings considered as Buddhism proper, that is, the ‘interior’ science. In this way, medicine is placed in the framework of the five major scholastic sciences (rig gnas che ba lnga). This medical system is also, however, characterised by its (historically) gradual differentiation from the religious field. Janet Gyatso (2004) explores the manner in which a ‘medical mentality’ distinct from Buddhism was formed in Tibet in the 16th century. The constitution of an episteme specific to medicine at that time and during the next century can be attributed to a desire for autonomy felt by medical practitioners, as well as to a certain appreciation of materiality and a sense of empirical truth. The medical literature termed nyams yig (writing from experience), developed since that period, reflects this specific episteme (Gyatso 2004: 86). Thus, while a lack of differentiation between the therapeutic and religious fields is characteristic of numerous systems of health practice,9 Tibetan medicine is differentiated in practice, although not isolated from, the religious.

8 See also Schaeffer (2003) for an analysis of the debates within textual medical scholarship and the way they were framed by the Mahāyāna Buddhist ideal of the bodhisattva. 9 The oracular practices of the Tibetan world (when they relate to health) can be taken as an example (Day 1989), as well as African (Dozon 1988) and South American (Perrin 1992) therapeutic practices.

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In Ladakh, the amchi, like the general population, are characterised by strong religiosity. Consequently, they do not conceive of, or engage in, their medical practice without regularly turning to religion. What distinguishes them is that they are at the centre of a particular application of the Buddha’s teachings—medicine. The amchi tend to underscore the importance of Buddhism for the practice of medicine (Pordié 2007), but they also clearly differentiate medicine from Buddhist religious practice. Although practitioners are conscious of this distinction, they do master the art of using religion in the service of medicine.10 At the same time, medicine enters the field of action of Buddhism when it serves a project of a religious nature, such as the alleviation of suffering. It is therefore possible to note certain points at which medicine and religion meet. Rituals performed by the amchi, such as the one with which this article is concerned, constitute such points of convergence. A Local Ritual at the Turn of the 21st Century Located in one of the settled zones of the Changtang region, Nyi is the only village in Ladakh where a temple dedicated to Sangye Smanla (sangs rgyas sman bla), the Buddha Master of Remedies, is said to be found. Many rituals are performed there that are not connected with this deity in the Buddhist pantheon, but it is in honour of the latter that Gelong Rigzin undertook the construction of the edifice. The building was also constructed in memory of his father, an amchi regarded very highly in Ladakh, in particular for having conducted the smandrup ritual there for many years. This is a long and costly ritual specific to medicine, the object of which is to ‘realise’ (sgrub) medicines (sman), which thereby assume the value of ambrosia (bdud rtsi ). The remedies thus consecrated are considered to have a superior efficacy, as a result of the transfer of healing power from Sangye Smanla and other deities.

This situation contrasts with the Tibet Autonomous Region in China, where religious practices traditionally surrounding Tibetan medicine are changing form and are on the decline, or disappearing ( James 1995, Adams 1999). These authors mention the Cultural Revolution and the subsequent repression of religion by the Chinese government. The biomedicalisation of Tibetan medicine, which they present as one of the pragmatic aspects of socialist ideology, is also at stake in the transformation of the religious aspects. 10

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The objective of the smandrup does not concern therapeutics stricto sensu, nor is it limited to the officiants of the ritual. It is a tantric practice, which aims to liberate all sentient beings from the suffering inherent in sa sāra. As Sienna Craig notes, To view the notions of collective or universal benefit that can come from the use of ‘medicine’ as necessarily discrete from the effects ‘medicine’ can have in an individual is to limit unnecessarily the meaning of men [sman] in the Tibetan context. (2006: 213–14)

Gelong Rigzin has continued the annual activity of his father, without which this very complex ritual would have disappeared from Ladakh. He is, in fact, the only one to conduct the smandrup in the region today. It is conducted in the name of the Changtang Amchi Association, of which he is the president. Devoted to religious practice, this lineage11 amchi is a fully ordained monk12 who has notably undertaken the lo sum cho sum (lo gsum phyogs gsum) retreat.13 He thus enjoys a threefold authority—hereditary, medical and religious—for the organisation and performance of the ritual. Gelong Rigzin invites participants to the ritual for a period of ten days during the eleventh lunar month. The smandrup I describe here was held from the 2nd to the 11th November 2000. Present were mainly amchi from both the nomad and sedentary populations of the Changthang region, as well as two renowned amchi close to Gelong Rigzin. The first is Tsering Paljor, a layman but qualified religious practitioner, who had formerly been president of the Ladakh Amchi Sabha.14 His native village is Kyere, on the Changthang border. He co-presided over the sessions. Tsering Paljor was placed at the head of the line, dralgo ( gral mgo), in the left row inside the temple, while Gelong Rigzin was placed in a similar position in the right row. Both were immediately followed by a

11 Gyudpa (brgyud pa). The spelling of gyudpa accords with the Tibetan-English Dictionary by H.A. Jäschke (2003 [1881]: 124), which is mostly based on Ladakhi and Western Tibetan forms. As is explained under the entry for rgyud: “If used for expressing a succession of generations or families, the word is gen. written brgyud, rarely rgyud” (2003: 111–12). 12 The title Gelong (dge slong) corresponds to the rank of fully ordained monk in the ecclesiastical hierarchy. 13 A retreat of three years, three months and three days. 14 The Ladakh Amchi Sabah is the oldest amchi association in Ladakh. Its official documents assert that it includes 400 members, among whom are astrologers, tsispa (rtsis pa). It was founded in 1978 by the late Bakula Rinpoche, a man with great political power. Tsering Paljor was president of the association from its creation until 1999.

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monk, then by the rest of the amchi.15 The fact that an amchi would be positioned at the head of the line, above a monk, expresses an inversion of status that reflects the particular nature of this ceremony dedicated to medicine.16 The order of the other amchi is determined by their age and the role assigned to them in the ritual (the recitation of texts, esoteric formulae and prayers and the playing of instruments such as the large āmaru—two sided drum—and ritual trumpets). Padma Tsetar, an amchi and nephew17 of Tsering Paljor, assumed the function of assistant, chod yok (mchod gyog), for the ceremony. This young man is a full-time amchi, employed at the head office of the Ladakh Amchi Sabha. He was situated in the centre of the room, in front of the altar. Only one Ladakhi woman attended the ritual, a nun who is not an amchi. She was seated in the centre of the right row. Tsewang Smanla, the second amchi with a degree of renown, was also present at the gathering. He comes from the lower Indus Valley (Nurla) and was for several years responsible for the ‘amchi medicine’ programmes of the organisation Leh Nutrition Project, until these activities came to an end in 1997 following their review by the main funding agency, Save the Children Fund. He subsequently established his own association, the Yuthog Foundation. He has implemented several different projects intended to improve the conditions for, and practice of, Tibetan medicine in Ladakh. Tsewang Smanla avails himself of quite an extensive international network. On this occasion he was accompanied by five Americans, whose objective was to film the smandrup and include this ceremony in a documentary on “the traditional medicines of the world”. I, for my part, was accompanied by other members of NRSI, a French non-governmental organisation for which I was working in Ladakh at that time. There were four of us: one Ladakhi, two French and an American.18 The foreign and Ladakhi

15 The rows are usually headed by monks, followed by amchi and astrologers, and then villagers, who are generally arranged according to age and sex. Should they be present, aristocrats and visiting officials are placed just below the monks. Regarding the position in the row in the villages, see the works of Kaplanian (1981: 171–90), Dollfus (1989: 98–100), Aggarwal (2004: 154–55) and Pirie (2007: 48–50) in Ladakh, Sagant (1976) in the case of the Limbu in Nepal, and Karmay and Sagant (1987) among the Sharwa in the Amdo region of Tibet. Renown is also a factor determining the position in the row at the amchi assemblies. 16 In Tibet, the smandrup “is supposed to be presided over by at least a few of the remaining fully tantrically qualified Tibetan doctors” (Adams 2001: 562). 17 He is known as such, but it is actually his sister who has been married to one of the nephews of Tsering Paljor. 18 The organisation NRSI (Nomad Recherche et Soutien International) specialises in healing traditions, endeavouring to combine academic research and projects for

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visitors were placed in the outside row, seated directly on the ground. Thus, while the placement of the amchi during assemblies usually corresponds to the classic rules of order in the row—taking into account age, renown and sex—the participants in the smandrup ceremony appeared to be arranged in a pragmatic fashion according to the needs of the ritual and the activities performed by each. The arrangement of the participants and the layout of the interior of the temple are shown in the following illustration. Thang kha (deities, including Sangye Smanla—Sangs rgyas sman bla) Amchi Gelong Rigzin

Monk

Amchi

Young amchi

Amchi with āmaru

Tibetan tables

Glass shelves, containing statues and thang kha representing Buddhist deities Three-tiered altar (Sangye Smanla) + drug samples (powders and plants)

Padma Tsetar

Tsewang Smanla (repl. by nun) Amchi Amchi

Temple entrance

Gtor ma, various offerings Tibetan tables Film crew Amchi Amchi Amchi Tsering Paljor Monk Amchi with instruments (trumpets) Other L. Pordié NRSI members

(moving)

Figure 1. Illustration of arrangement of participants at the ceremony (inside the temple).

international solidarity. Of the four persons present, two attended the ritual during research programmes (an American geologist, who was conducting a study of medicinal stones, and myself). Today NRSI is only indirectly involved in Ladakh, after its programmes became autonomous and then developed in the form of the Ladakh Society for Traditional Medicines.

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While some of those present, concealed behind their cameras, moved freely about the temple in order to capture this ceremony ‘from the inside’, the development workers observed the ballet of the film-makers and the apparent indifference of those gathered. The amchi even seemed to be flattered and amused by the massive presence. This smandrup consisted of nineteen Ladakhi participants (fourteen amchi, one of whom, Tsewang Smanla, was replaced on the eighth day by a nun, one amchi monk, two monks and one observer) and eight foreigners. I later realised that the amchi in charge of the smandrup were aware of the ‘traditional’ character embodied by the ritual. That is, they understood that it was precisely this quality that attracted the visitors and that made it possible to convince them to participate in the preservation of Tibetan medicine in Ladakh. Thus, the film crew was asked to and did contribute financially to the activities of some of the associations present. At the end of the ceremony Gelong Rigzin also requested the small group with which I had come to make a financial contribution. We had been invited to the ritual because our activities with NRSI meant we were considered as ‘sponsors’, chindak (sbyin-bdag), irrespective of our actual functions. Subsequent to the smandrup, the Ladakh project of NRSI contributed for several months to the activities of the Changtang Amchi Association in Nyi. Donors, Development and Culture The term ‘sponsor’, chindak (sbyin bdag), is traditionally applied to persons or groups of persons, such as a household, who provide donations (patronage) in particular contexts, such as religious festivals, the construction of bridges over rivers or the repair of access roads to villages. In the Ladakhi context the term also, and perhaps most importantly, refers to the households (khang pa) that are formally linked to a specific monastery.19

19 Kenneth Bauer proposes a somewhat different meaning. According to him, the term also designates the ‘clients’ of the amchi in the Dolpo region of Nepal, as the latter do not impose fixed prices for their consultations and treatments. They call their patients chindak because they are free to give the amchi a financial or material contribution (Bauer 2004: 34).

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In the Tibetan world, the act of giving a donation, chinba (sbyin-pa), enables one to accumulate merit, gewa (dge-ba),20 for one’s personal salvation. This act reflects the Tibetan altruistic approach that benefits both the author of the action and the recipient (bdag gzhan). The practice of donating constitutes, from a doctrinal point of view, one of the six ‘perfections’ ( phar phyin, Skt. pāramitā) to be cultivated by one who sets out on the path of the bodhisattva (see Batchelor 1979). The act of donating is socially valued in the Tibetan world. It is also a social mechanism that makes it possible, among other things, to maintain one’s membership of a given community.21 Thus, the act of the donor is also closely connected with the identity of the group (Klieger 1992), so much so that Eberhard Berg (2003), in a study carried out among the Sherpas, interpreted it as fundamental in the construction of their identity. In Ladakh, household status related to chindak is essential for house identity and community membership. Nowadays the term is also applied to organisations and individuals involved in one way or another in charity projects or in development undertakings. Generally speaking, any foreigner, especially from the West, is considered as a potential donor.22 The Americans and French present at the smandrup ceremony were perceived in this way. Notwithstanding its history and Western cultural roots, development is interpreted according to codes locally established in Ladakh; the act of donating is there assimilated to that of the chindak.23 This is an important cause of misunderstanding between development workers and ‘target populations’, because the material contributions provided correspond to different logics, interpretations and objectives. Ethan Goldings (2003) comes to the same conclusions in his study on Tibet.

20 “In the strict sense that which is physically honest and good and, more concretely, that which one accumulates to ensure a better birth or obtain the help of the gods in the realization of a project” (Dollfus 1989: 82). For the patients of the amchi, the accumulation of merit depends not only on the simple act of giving, but on the mental attitude of the giver and the receiver (Pordié 2007: 111). 21 See, for example, the works by Jest (1975: 346) in Dolpo, and by Tucci and Heissig (1973: 371) on Tibet. 22 This is similar to Prost’s findings in Dharamsala (2005). However, this author remarks that among the Tibetan refugees, a particular type of relation with the foreign donors has been established, the rogs ram. It is a new development of older forms of patronage and sponsorship, such as chindak, specific to exile. 23 This does not mean that the recipients of aid, international or not, would necessarily be unaware of its ‘rules’ and the alternative meanings of ‘development’. The interpretative modes can intersect.

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This author distinguishes the chindak from the philanthropist—the international development worker—according to their own conceptions of development. He ascribes to them typical models, ‘entrepreneurial’ and ‘organisational’, respectively. To illustrate this difference, Goldings takes the example of obligations that are placed upon the beneficiary when the act of donating takes place in the framework of a development activity, in particular, the delivery of a financial report and of activities during and at the end of a project. Such obligations are not, however, seen as necessary if the act in question is perceived as a donation by a chindak, which is the way the vast majority of amchi in Ladakh perceive donations by westerners. Their confusion is all the more pronounced because, on the one hand, professional international aid is a relatively recent phenomenon in their sector of activity and, on the other hand, some recognised development actors in the region, and tourists passing through, make donations to the amchi without imposing administrative obligations on them.24 However, we have seen that the ambiguity is not confined to the administrative obligation alone, but also includes the purpose attributed to the donation. At the same time, professional development workers generally do not perceive their work as being a matter of simple donation. On the contrary, the idea of a simple donation is thought to be in conflict with the ideal of (sustainable) development insofar as it entails situations of dependency between donors and recipients in the medium term. The donation is a one time act. It is in this complex framework that a type of traditional ceremony, like the smandrup, takes place alongside local and international, amateur and professional, initiatives in health development. We have seen that there were no fewer than three local associations, a foreign group of donors and an international organisation present. I speak of ‘development’ because, even if it was not the way in which the film crew saw itself, the material support requested of them was, for those who made the request, included in the framework of the ‘development of amchi medicine’. The crew also constituted a potential group of donors. The manner in which the ceremony was realised drew as much from traditional parameters (family membership, geographic proximity of the participants, clientelism), as it was inspired by modern socio-

24 It is improbable that amchi distinguish between what are regarded as ‘anti-globalisation’ or ‘counter-development’ approaches on the part of some organisations and the ‘development’ envisioned by those they oppose.

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economic dynamics. New elements of social, economic and symbolic orders are today an integral part of the smandrup, as exemplified by the presence of foreign donors. The language of development was also present, circumscribing the terms of general discussions held in English (cf. Pigg 2001) and those concerning local medicine and the means to be employed to improve its future. In the world of contemporary Ladakhi amchi, especially for the representatives of the elite, this type of rhetoric is highly recurrent. One can even say that a ‘culture of development’ exists in Ladakh, a term that makes it possible to explain not only its generalisation in local representations, but also the fact that development is generally being perceived as something of value, even necessary. It is in these terms that development is an integral part of urban Ladakhi culture in particular.25 Sequences The amchi were gathered night and day for more than a week, during which period they recited esoteric formulae, read religious texts and prayed. The activities of the first two days can be viewed as preliminary rituals. The amchi made storma ( gtor ma), the ceremonial effigies used in offerings made of barley flour and butter. Some effigies were made by scrupulously following a text used for the ceremony. They also prepared medicines from raw materials that had been brought by each of those in attendance. These medicines were then put in bags under a three-tiered altar at the top of which was a statue of Sangye Smanla wrapped in ceremonial scarves, katags (kha btags). The altar represented a ma ala (circle of deities), in the centre of which was the upper part of a skull which served as a cup. A large vessel containing various types of remedies was placed on the top shelf of the altar. The rest of the medicines were put in the closed shelves of the lower part of large glass cabinets containing the painted hangings, thangka (thang kha), and the statues representing the deities. A few parts of medicinal plants were placed near an image of the Buddha Master of Remedies. In addition to the storma, diverse offerings (incense, rice, butter, butter

25 Some authors, however, still view development as something foreign to Ladakh and to its ‘traditional’ culture, only partially understanding it as a product of British domination and of post-colonial phases, or as an embodiment of globalisation (see, for example, Norberg-Hodge 1991, 2003).

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lamps, brandy) as well as statues or photographs of various masters and deities (including Yuthog Yonten Gongpo and Padmasambhava) were also arranged on the altar. Having taken their places for the main part of the ritual, the amchi began with the recitation of the text. While Gelong Rigzin used the bell and the small āmaru to summon the deities, Tsering Paljor, whose left shoulder was covered with a piece of beautiful fabric, formed mudrā with his hands. These symbolic gestures are, according to Cornu (2001: 394), physical expressions of the sacred. Each mudrā conveys a particular meaning (Beyer 1978). It is a sign language accompanying different stages of the smandrup and intended to represent various objects, for example the offerings, or ritual acts, such as the summoning of a deity, homage, and so on. Tsering Paljor was then ‘connected’ to the altar by a string to which a dorje (rdo rje) was attached. He kept this ritual object in the lapel of his coat throughout an entire phase of the ceremony. It was given to him by Padma Tsetar, his nephew, also a young amchi, who assisted during the ritual, and it is to him that Tsering Paljor returned it later. Padma Tsetar had become a chod yok (mchod gyog) in 2000, after having been a simple participant the previous year. He was very absorbed in his role and conducted an entire series of rituals, which he learned from the nun who came to replace Tsewang Smanla. He also followed to the letter the instructions given in a text that I unfortunately have not identified.26 Gelong Rigzin, who had placed a photograph of his father opposite himself, began a phase of ritual purification of the medicines by placing a mixture of water and Kashmir saffron (Crocus sativus, gur gum) on a reflecting metal disk (me long). Tsering Paljor made a mudrā of purification of the offerings and those in attendance began to chant in chorus a series of o āh hū . This mantra was systematically recited at the end of each session. All of the participants continuously recited texts, performing specific gestures from time to time. The recitations were punctuated by the beating of drums, the ringing of bells and the clashing of cymbals. During breaks or at night, the amchi took turns remaining in the temple in order to continue the mantra and other recitations. Each amchi took his place

26 Different texts are used as support in the performance of the sman drup ritual (Kind 2002: 42–48).

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in the centre of the temple and was ‘connected’ to the altar by means of the string and dorje, in the same manner as Tsering Paljor. During the breaks, Padma Tsetar made preparations for the rituals that were to follow, arranging instruments and offerings near the altar. He was particularly responsible, with the assistance of the nun, for taking certain effigies out of the temple during the ceremony, for arranging new ones on the altar, and for distributing specific folios during certain phases of the ritual. Padma Tsetar, who is today chief pharmacist for the Ladakh Amchi Sabha, played a central role that reflected his growing status among the amchi in the region. Making Fetishes out of Remedies While it is not necessary for my purpose to describe in detail all of the phases of this ritual, it would be appropriate to recall that the main objective of the smandrup (through the invocation of deities at the time of the preparation of medicines and the recitation of mantra and prayers) is to consecrate the medicines so as to endow them with additional therapeutic power.27 Acquiring the value of ambrosia (bdud rtsi ), the medicines, . . . come to embody qualities ascribed to Aru Namgyal (a ru nam rgyal ), the ‘king of medicines’ which rests in Sangye Menla’s offering bowl. This process of empowerment bears out more general Buddhist principles to do with the nature of existence: at the level of conventional reality, the medicine retains its distinct composition (. . .); at the level of ultimate reality, the distinction between these particular medicines and the healing capacity represented by Aru Namgyal disappears. (Craig 2006: 214)

The consecration of medicines during this tantric ritual is presented by some amchi as resulting from a reorganisation of the material conditions of the universe; that is, from a reorganisation of the five cosmo-physical elements upon which the deities invoked act. This is explained by the theory which underscores the elementary similarity between medicines and the cosmos.28 The timing of the ritual is determined by astrological 27 The amchi emphasise the aspects of the smandrup pertaining to the empowerment of medicines but they also insist on the importance of the smandrup as a spiritual practice, guiding practitioners and patients toward the cessation of suffering. 28 Sowa rigpa (Tibetan medicine) recognises three fundamental physiological principles, nyes pa (literally ‘faults’, equivalent to the dośa of āyurveda, but commonly translated as ‘humours’). The three nyes pa, rlung, mkhris-pa and bad-kan (wind or pneuma, bile and

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calculations as set out in the Kālacakratantra, an elaborate Buddhist text used in various initiation ceremonies29 and most of the relations between the five elements, their medicinal value and the power of celestial beings are explained within it (Adams 2001: 563). The power with which the preparations are to be endowed is imparted to the amchi through the ingestion of portions of the empowered medicines. The amchi create an object (the medicine), then they perform the ritual so as to augment its power and endow it with a new therapeutic nature. This nature, this new power, in return exerts its action on the persons at the origin of the creation of the object itself, thus defining what Bruno Latour (1996) understands as a fetish in his work on the relation between facts and fetishes. The analysis of the smandrup shows how a remedy, as a man-made object, is transformed. It not only obtains supernatural power over others but also over its creators. In this respect, the smandrup creates a fetish, just as the Christian Eucharist, for example, creates the host as the body of Christ. The events of the final day of the ritual illuminate this aspect. Padma Tsetar was intensely occupied with his tasks on this day. The nun was now constantly at his side to guide him in his functions as assistant. The ritual reached its conclusion as the medicines were consecrated. Padma Tsetar and the nun gave the participants pills from the altar, while pouring a few drops of brandy into the palms of their hands. The amchi consumed a small sip and kept the pills. The nun went through the temple with incense, taking care never to turn her back on the altar dedicated to Sangye Smanla. Padma Tsetar also performed a ritual near the altar, swaying back and forth. Raw

phlegm, respectively), are subdivided into five types with their own functions, composed of five cosmo-physical elements (sa, chu, me, rlung and nam mkha’, respectively earth, water, fire, wind and space), constituents of body and universe. Disease is considered as a dynamic disequilibrium of the three humours, thus of the cosmo-physical elements, according to specific aetiologies. The pharmacology of ingested substances, medicines or foodstuffs, is closely linked to the five elements: each is composed of and characterised by the five cosmo-physical elements in different proportions, thus having a composition similar to the three nyes pa. The administration of medicine thus aims to re-establish the humoral balance, each having qualities favourable to the augmentation or diminution of the five elements, and thus of the three humours. The practitioner accordingly uses a theory of similitude and dissimilitude between the sensible qualities of the fundamental elements to treat patients. For a more detailed presentation, see Meyer (1981). 29 See Wallace (2001) for a presentation of the Kālacakratantra.

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rice was distributed, small handfuls of which everyone threw onto the altar when the bells stopped ringing. Padma Tsetar finished his ritual, got up and passed in front of each amchi with a plate of rice in which a few incense sticks had been placed. The amchi in turn threw some of their rice onto the plate. The recitations were taken up again for a few minutes and with intensity. Padma Tsetar then collected the bags of medicines from beneath the altar and the closed shelves and distributed them to their owners. Each of them took a few medicines, powders and parts of plants and put them on a piece of paper on the low tables before which they sat. The assistant then cautiously took the bowl made from a human skull and passed it around among all the amchi. Each put medicinal powders in it before once again placing his bag or bags of medicines beneath the altar. After a few minutes’ recitation, the bell rang for lunch. When matters resumed, the skull, with its medicinal contents, was given to Gelong Rigzin, who poured some chang (local barley beer) into it. The nun, who had now fully replaced Padma Tsetar in his functions as assistant, took it and put it once again on the altar. The amchi recited mantra while the assistant meticulously performed a long series of ritual actions. She withdrew some of the mixture from the skull with a medical measuring-spoon and poured it on the altar. The mixture in question now had the value of ambrosia, the therapeutic power of which is unsurpassable. All those in attendance at the ceremony, including the foreigners, then ingested a spoonful of the mixture, benefiting from the new power with which the medicines had been invested. The medicines had been endowed with a superior therapeutic power. Padma Tsetar gradually removed the storma from the temple. Gelong Rigzin wrapped a katags around the base of the large bowl of medicinal raw materials placed on the altar. This bowl was also passed among the participants, who saluted it with deference by bending forward so as to touch the lower part with the crown of their head. They then removed from it a few samples of medicinal material. When the large bowl returned to Gelong Rigzin, the nun replaced it on the top of the altar. Continuing their recitation, the amchi carefully put away the texts that were used in the smandrup. The ritual was concluded after ten full days. All the amchi in Ladakh recognise the fundamental importance of the smandrup, even though only a small number of them have actually participated. With a few exceptions, Gelong Rigzin only invites amchi from Changthang. In fact, when amchi mention the smandrup, it is very

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often the ‘principle of the smandrup’ that they emphasise rather than the ritual itself. By ‘principle’ I mean the consecration of plants and other medicinal materials which is performed during individual ceremonies for the preparation of remedies by village amchi who do not have the opportunity to participate in this ritual. Sonam Dorje, from Lingshed, is one such amchi. He said in this regard: When I prepare medicines, I recite mantra while reducing the plants to powder. When the preparation is completed, I think of Sangye Smanla and I imagine my medicines transformed into ambrosia. I then put part of them on my altar, for Sangye Smanla. I also ingest a little.

The principle is identical to that of the ceremony. It also reflects an idea presented in chapter 31 of the explanatory treatise (bshad-pa’i rgyud ) of the work on Tibetan medicine entitled Gyut zhi (rgyud bzhi ),30 in which amchi are recommended to visualise their bag of medicines as a bowl filled with ambrosia (Clark 1995). Of course, while the aim of therapeutic empowerment is similar, this type of individual ceremony is not equivalent to the smandrup. There is a difference of scale between the two types of rituals. For numerous amchi, the smandrup is an ideal ritual, the efficacy of which is far superior to that of individual ceremonies. The magnitude of means (organisational, temporal and financial) needed to perform the smandrup reflects the power of the ritual. Smandrup in Other Times and Places Although we have but little information pertaining to the smandrup in pre-modern Tibet, it is worth noting that certain features correspond to the contemporary Ladakhi ritual. Thus, Fernand Meyer notes regarding the annual smandrup of the Chagpori (lcags po ri ), the Iron Hill Medical College in Lhasa: The College’s collective activities were governed by the annual calendar. For instance, the sixth month was dedicated to the ‘realisation of the

These are the Four Medical Tantras. Their history and origins remain obscure. The present version seems to have been elaborated in Tibet around the 12th or 13th centuries, notwithstanding the probable presence of scholarly medical practices in the country since the second half of the 7th century. This text was subsequently completed and developed, in particular during a revision and re-writing carried out in the 17th century and attributed to Sangye Gyatso (1653–1705), the Regent of the Fifth Dalai Lama (Meyer 1995). 30

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Medicinal Ambrosia’, the longest and most complex ritual event of the year. A great variety of offerings, unprocessed drugs and medicinal preparations were arranged around a symbolic representation of the palace of the Buddha ‘Master of Remedies’. The ambrosia produced by the continuous chanting of esoteric formulas, and whose virtue impregnated all the remedies, was supposed to collect in a skull cup placed in the centre of this arrangement. (Meyer 1995: 118)

The lasting quality of this ritual and its diffusion throughout the Tibetan cultural area reflect its importance. Nicolas Sihlé (1995: 26) notes that in the 1960s, the first voyage of the amchi Tsampa Ngawang to the capital of his country, Nepal, was made with the aim of collecting the ingredients necessary for the smandrup ritual. This journey—difficult for an amchi coming from distant Mustang, a region ethnically and culturally distinct from the Kathmandu valley—indicates the high value this amchi attached to the ritual. The smandrup was re-instated in Tibet after having been forbidden during the Cultural Revolution. Nowadays, it is conducted annually at the Mentsikhang (sman rtsis khang), the College of Tibetan Medicine and Astro-Computation in Lhasa, as well as in various pharmaceutical industries producing Tibetan medicines in Tibet.31 In the People’s Republic of China, the consecration of medicines by recognised tantric masters is subject to government authorisation. Vincanne Adams (2001: 562) notes, however, that the ritual has not been conducted in the main pharmaceutical industry in Lhasa since 1998 because it is not considered to be necessary by the director of the establishment.32 According to the director, the therapeutic efficacy of the medicines depends only on the quality of the ingredients and the production processes. The abandonment of the ritual indicates a rationalisation of the ideas relating to therapeutic efficacy, which must be understood in the political and medical context (biomedicalisation) of Tibetan medicine in China ( Janes 1995). Sienna Craig explains that she and a colleague did not inform US investigators or their institutional partners at the TAR Health Bureau about a smandrup that was about to be

For a visual ethnography of a specific phase (sbyin sreg) of the sman drup ritual held in July 2001 at the Factory of Tibetan Medicine in Nyangre Road in Lhasa, see the University of Virginia website (http://iris.lib.virginia.edu/tibet/collections/ medicine/sman_grub/). 32 Adams (2001) uses the smandrup in Tibet to illustrate the multiple significations of the terms ‘religion’ and ‘science’ in this region. However, she does not give details of the course of the ritual or the nature of the participants. 31

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conducted in the context of a clinical trial aiming to assess the efficacy of a Tibetan medicinal compound. We were worried that these authority figures would not approve of the activity—that it would be seen as a waste of time or, worse, as an act that marked our otherwise ‘scientific’ endeavor with the stigma of religion. (Craig, 2006: 216)

The ritual in question was performed in a minimalist fashion by a Rinpoche during half a day at their project office. The smandrup also exists among Tibetan exiles in India, notably at Mentsikhang in Dharamsala. It involves, however, the consecration of precious pills (rin chen ril bu), rather than ordinary medicines. So far nothing has been published on this subject. Two other works provide relatively detailed descriptions of this ritual among Bon communities: Krystyna Cech describes the ritual in Dolanji, in India (1987: 272–73), and Marietta Kind studied the smandrup ritual in Nepal in the region of Dolpo (2002). In these two cases, the ritual was the occasion of village events that clearly distinguish them from the Ladakhi smandrup, which was mainly organised and actuated by the amchi. The villagers only participated in an occasional manner, for example by helping in the preparation of meals.33 Marietta Kind describes the first smandrup that took place in 1996 in the Nepalese village of Tsho. During the ritual, no amchi was placed in the row, which was essentially reserved for monks and religious novices. This author emphasises the keen interest that this ceremony, accompanied by ritual dances and diverse activities in the presence of Rinpoches, generated among the Dolpopa who came from afar to attend: “To my knowledge there was no regional ritual before that attracted as many visitors from all over Dolpo” (Kind 2002: 38). The ritual here becomes a community event. Kind explains the interest of the whole Bon community because this ritual is viewed as beneficial to all sentient beings. However, since Ladakhis also share this view, Kind’s argument alone may not suffice to account for community participation.

33 The villagers also make donations in money or in kind. In this way they practise virtue in order to accumulate merit (dge-ba). An amchi announced, for example, that the tea had been offered by a donor (sbyin bdag) from the village and gave the person’s name. He then invited his counterparts to wish the donor success and prosperity.

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As in Ladakh, however, foreigners and Nepalese development workers belonging to the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) attended the ceremony in Tsho. The WWF, in fact, financed part of the new monastery in which the ritual was held in the framework of the programme carried out by the organisation in the Phoksumdo national park (Kind 2002: 65).34 Although the presence of foreign actors was limited in comparison with what I observed in Ladakh, in this case, too, ‘development’ penetrates the less accessible zones of the country. Reformulating Ingredients Foreigners accord value to the smandrup, but for reasons different from those of the amchi. For the foreigners the ritual embodies tradition and esotericism, Tibetan Buddhism and indigenous medicine.35 It has a resolutely exotic and authentic character that attracts and fascinates. In Ladakh, one of the members of the film crew said: This type of ritual is now disappearing from the Himalayas. This is one of the only places where it can be found. That is why we are blessed to witness it. (. . .) If people were to know, there would not be just a few of us. Everyone would like to come and see it, each for his own reason.

The film-makers had come seeking authenticity. And, so as to better hold it fast on film, they took care to not include one third of those in attendance, that is, the Westerners. The foreigners had a significant presence at the ritual but they did not see themselves as part of their imagined authenticity; otherwise this authenticity would vanish and thus corrupt the ritual. Whatever the intentions of the ritual’s organisers in seeking aid from the foreigners, the sequence of the ritual practice as such did not seem to have been transformed by development processes in Ladakh. However, during the ritual new social encounters and practices occurred: medicine and ‘development’, medical practitioners and developers had met and participated together. The incentives behind the inclusion of the Westerners were to increase the ritual efficiency, which now included

34 This programme has mainly to do with medicinal plants and ‘community development’. Regarding this project, see Ghimire et al. (1999). 35 On the representations of the Tibetan world in the West, see Brauen (2004) and Lopez (1998).

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development, and to attune it to Ladakh modernity. The ‘ingredients’ of the smandrup had thus been reformulated. The ritual had been adapted to accommodate the ubiquitous presence of ‘development’ practices and ideologies in the field of Tibetan medicine in Ladakh. The ritual, that is, made sense for the Ladakhis—it had meanings and was seen as efficacious—while also facilitating their dialogue with the outside world. It thus aptly served the amchi and their medicine, through the twofold support of donors and deities. References Adams, V. 1999. Equity of the Ineffable: Cultural and Political Constraints on Ethnomedicine as a Health Problem in Contemporary Tibet. Foundations of Health and Equity, Harvard Center for Population and Development Studies. ——. 2001. The Sacred in the Scientific: Ambiguous Practices of Science in Tibetan Medicine, Cultural Anthropology 16(4): 542–75. Aggarwal, R. 2005. Beyond Lines of Control. Performance and Politics on the Disputed Borders of Ladakh. Durham; London: Duke University Press. Batchelor, S. 1979. A Guide to the Bodhisattva’s Way of Life [transl. of Shantideva’s Bodhisattvacaryavatara]. Dharamsala: Library of Tibetan Works and Archives. Bauer, K.M. 2004. High frontiers. Dolpo and the changing world of Himalayan pastoralists. New York: Columbia University Press. Berg, E. 2003. Dumji and Zhindak. Local festival performance and patronage as a crucial source of Sherpa identity. In M. Lecomte-Tilouine and P. Dollfus (eds), Ethnic revival and religious turmoil. Identities and representations in the Himalayas. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 205–18. Beyer, S. 1978. The Cult of Tara: Magic and Ritual in Tibet, Berkeley: University of California Press. Brauen, M. 2004. Dreamworld Tibet, Western Illusions. Trumbull, CT: Weatherhill. Cech, K. 1987. The social and religious identity of the Tibetan Bonpos with special reference to a north-west Himalayan settlement. Unpublished D.Phil. thesis, University of Oxford. Clark, B. 1995. The quintessence tantras of Tibetan medicine. Ithaca: Snow Lion Publications. Cornu, P. 2001. Dictionnaire encyclopédique du bouddhisme. Paris: Seuil. Craig, S. 2006. On the ‘Science of Healing’. Efficacy and the Metamorphosis of Tibetan Medicine, Ph.D. Dissertation, Cornell University, New York. Day, S. 1989. Embodying Spirits: Village Oracles and Possession Ritual in Ladakh, North India. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, London School of Economics. Dollfus, P. 1989. Lieu de neige et de genévriers. Organisation sociale et religieuse des communautés bouddhistes du Ladakh. Paris: Editions du CNRS. Douglas, M. 1999. Il n’y a pas de don gratuit. Comment pensent les institutions. Paris: La découverte/M.A.U.S.S. Dozon, J.-P. 1988. Ce que valoriser les médecines traditionnelles veut dire. Politique Africaine 29: 9–20. Ghimire, S.K., D.B. Parajuli, T.N. Gurung, Y.C. Lama and Y. Aumeeruddy-Thomas. 1999. Conservation of plant resources, community development, training in applied ethnobotany at Shey Phoksundo National Park and its buffer-zone, Dolpa. Kathmandu: WWF Nepal Programme Report Series No. 38. Gyatso, J. 2004. The Authority of Empiricism and the Empiricism of Authority: Medicine and Buddhism in Tibet on the Eve of Modernity. Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East 24(2): 83–96.

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Goldings, E. 2003. No (Heart) Strings Attached: Misunderstanding the Meanings of Sponsorship, Charity and Development Practices in Contemporary Tibet. Paper presented at the International Colloquium on Tibetan Studies, IATS, Oxford University, September 2003. Jäschke, H.A. 2003. A Tibetan-English Dictionary. Mineola, NY: Dover Publications (Unabridged reprint of the work originally published in 1881 by Routledge and Kegan Paul, London). Janes, C.R. 1995. The transformations of Tibetan Medicine. Medical Anthropology Quarterly 9(1): 6–39. Jest, C. 1975. Dolpo: Communautés de langue tibétaine du Népal. Paris: Editions du CNRS. Karmay, S.G. and P. Sagant. 1987. La place du rang dans la maison shar-wa (Amdo ancien). In D. Blamont et G. Toffin (eds), Architecture, milieu et société en Himalaya. Paris: Editions du CNRS. Kind, M. 2002. Mendrup: a Bonpo ritual for the benefit of all living beings and for the empowerment of medicine performed in Tsho, Dolpo. Kathmandu: WWF Nepal Program. Klieger, C. 1992. Tibetan nationalism: The role of patronage in the accomplishment of national identity. Meerut: Archana. Latour, B. 1996. Petite réflexion sur le culte moderne des dieux faitiches. Paris: Les empêcheurs de penser en rond. Léonard, J. 1981. La médecine entre les savoirs et les pouvoirs. Paris: Editions Aubier Montaigne. Lopez, D. 1998. Prisoners of Shangri-la: Tibetan Buddhism and the West. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Meyer, F. 1981. Gso-Ba Rig-Pa. Le système médical tibétain. Paris: Editions du CNRS. ——. 1988. Médecine et bouddhisme au Tibet. Grand Atlas des Religions. Encyclopedia Universalis. ——. 1992a. Histoire et historiographie de la médecine en Asie. Médecine et Hygiène, 50, n° 1936, Juin: 1681–85. ——. 1992b. La démarche diagnostique en médecine tibétaine. In D. Gourevitch (ed.), Maladie et maladies. Histoire et conceptualisation. Genève: Droz. ——. 1995. Theory and practice of Tibetan Medicine In J.V. Alphen and A. Aris (eds), Oriental Medicine, An Illustrated Guide to the Asian Arts of Healing. Serindia Publications (re-edited by Shambala Publ., Boston, 1997). Norberg-Hodge, H. 1991. Ancient Futures. Learning from Ladakh. New Delhi : Oxford University Press. ——. 2003. Danger de l’éducation pour le savoir indigène. In Défaire le développement, refaire le monde (Actes du colloque “Défaire le développement, refaire le monde”, La Ligne d’horizon, Palais de l’Unesco, Paris, mars 2002). Paris: Paragon. Olivier de Sardan, J.-P. 1995. Anthropologie et développement. Essai en socio-anthropologie du changement social. Paris-Marseille: Karthala-APAD. Parfionovitch, Y., F. Meyer and D. Gyurme (eds). 1992. Tibetan Medical Painting: Illustrations to the Blue Beryl Treatise of Sangye Gyamtso (1653–1705), 2 vols. New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc. Perrin, M. 1992. Les praticiens du rêve. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Pigg, S.L. 2001. Language of sex and AIDS in Nepal: Notes on the social production of commensurability. Cultural Anthropology 16(4): 481–541. Pirie, F. 2007. Peace and conflict in Ladakh: the construction of a fragile web of order. Leiden: Brill. Pordié, L. 2007. Buddhism in the everyday medical practice of the Ladakhi amchi. Indian Anthropologist 37(1): 93–116. Prost, A. 2005. The problem with ‘rich refugees’. Sponsorship, capital and the informal economy of Tibetan refugees. Modern Asian Studies 40(1): 1–21. Sagant, P. 1976. Le paysan limbu, sa maison et ses champs. Paris: Mouton. Schaeffer, K.R. 2003. Textual scholarship, medical tradition, and Mahāyāna Buddhist ideals in Tibet. Journal of Indian Philosophy 31: 621–41.

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Sihlé, N. 1995. ‘Pour le bien des êtres et de la doctrine’. L’action altruiste dans la culture tibétaine à travers l’exemple du religieux et médecin Ts’ampa Ngawang ( Johmson, Nord du Népal). Article de DEA non publié, Université de Paris X—Nanterre. Tucci, G. and W. Heissig. 1973. Les religions du Tibet et de la Mongolie. Paris: Payot. Wallace, V.A. 2001. The Inner Kālacakratantra. A Buddhist Tantric View of the Individual. Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press.

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DANCING IN THE FACE OF DEATH: LOSAR CELEBRATIONS IN PHOTOKSAR Fernanda Pirie It is generally agreed that the central themes of the Ladakhi New Year, Losar (lo gsar)1 celebrations are the chasing away of the old year, with its bad or inauspicious elements, and the welcoming in of the new (Dollfus 1987: 64). Jean-Pierre Rigal (1985: 95), for example, talks of “the major themes of the expulsion of the old and the welcome of the new” and Patrick Kaplanian (1981: 277) says, “Le Nouvel An ladakhi est réellement une deuxième naissance où le groupe rejette l’ancien et accueille le nouveau” [ The Ladakhi New Year is really a second birth when the group rejects the old and welcomes the new]. Similar interpretations were offered by a number of my informants in Leh: the rituals chase out the bad of the past year and welcome the good of the new. Specifically, they are intended to ensure that people do not become ill, that livestock does not die, that snow falls, babies are born and everyone flourishes. In the academic literature little attention has, however, been paid to the celebratory aspects of the event.2 Losar does, after all, constitute the biggest festival, with the longest series of parties, of the Ladakhi year. It is undoubtedly a rite of passage, from the old to the new year, involving the deliberate exorcism of the evil spirits which threaten life. It also includes a symbolic denial of the processes of ageing and death, a feature of rite of passage rituals throughout the world. However, the symbolism of evil and age that pervades the festival is surrounded by music, dancing, pantomime and the symbols of youth and fertility. My suggestion is that as well as affirming the cyclical continuity of

I transcribe Ladakhi words, many of which have no official orthography, according to their pronunciation in Photoksar, but include the Wylie transcription, where relevant and different, in brackets. 2 The historical and mythological elements of Losar have been discussed by Rigal (1985), Kaplanian (1981) and Brauen (1980), along with the reasons it is celebrated in the eleventh, not the first, month of the Tibetan year, while Dollfus (1987) concentrates on the festival’s affirmation of internal unity and social relations. 1

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the physical community this also involves a subtle challenge to the established social order. While Dollfus (1987) sees the festival as primarily affirmative of the social order, I consider that it also highlights normally hidden tensions between the realm of the lha (the spirits), who are responsible for sickness and health, and that of human social organisation. Intertwined with the rites of renewal is an opposition between the supernatural world and the social order of the village, between the vitality of youth and the status of age represented in the social hierarchy. The festival brings to the fore an important, but normally hidden, tension within the village order. The Events of Losar Photoksar, a village of 200 people in the Lingshed area, is a long day’s walk from the nearest road and separated by high passes from the neighbouring villages in either direction. Its people are still largely dependent on subsistence agriculture and pastoralism and still maintain a measure of autonomy from the urban centre and the dominance of the monasteries (Pirie 2006a). Losar runs the full course of nine days, here, at the beginning of the eleventh month. There are significant differences in the form that the celebrations take in various Ladakhi villages. However, most of the important events and the significant aspects of the festival, as I describe them, are also found, or used to be present, in the celebrations that occur throughout the region. The Twenty-Fifth to Twenty-Ninth Days of the Tenth Month The Galden Ngamchod commemorates the death of Tsongkapa, the founder of the Gelukpa sect of Buddhism. It is observed on the twenty-fifth day of every month and is not, therefore, directly linked to Losar, but it marks the start of the celebrations. The dawn of this and each subsequent day until the ninth of the eleventh month is greeted by the village drummer, who beats his drum 360 times, one for each of the days of the new year. This is music ‘for the spirits, the lha and the lu (klu)’. In most parts of Ladakh, including Leh, butter lamps are placed on the outside of the houses on the twenty-fifth and burning torches (now kerosene) light up the hillsides. In Photoksar this is the first day of the metho, the bonfire lit after dusk by the boys of the village who visit each

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house collecting flat bread to eat while they sing songs around the fire. On the last two days of the month burning branches from the fire are flung down the hill to cries of ‘Gya khor! ’, the imprecation with which evil spirits are always banished. This is described as a general exorcism of the old year but it is specifically linked to the mythical figure of Bagatam.3 They sing an account of the journeys of this creature: he has travelled from Skardu, in Pakistan, along the Indus River and through the central villages of Ladakh; he has come from the ends of the earth, where the sun sets and the rivers empty into the oceans. The song ends with a reference to the enemies, illnesses and bad elements of the old year, the dra (dgra), bala (ba la) and tsad (tshad ) that are to be banished with Bagatam. He, or they, are evil creatures, made of iron, frightened away by the burning brands flung from the fire. There is a considerable party atmosphere around the bonfire which develops into a round of singing and dancing along with the telling of licentious jokes, at which point any watching women become embarrassed and run away. Thus the boys are demonstrating their defiance of the evil represented by Bagatam, but also affirming their sexuality and their pre-eminence over the watching, officially embarrassed women. This can be regarded as a preliminary ritual, which foreshadows the exorcisms and celebrations of youth which are central to Losar. The Shukpa Shpowa (Shug Pa Spo Ba) on the Twenty-Ninth The annual changing of the juniper on the shrines of the pha-lha, the household protector deities, takes place on the twenty-ninth. Formerly, these were blood sacrifices, but following the intervention of a senior monk in around 1980, this practice has been replaced by a simple purification ritual. It is carried out by the local lamas (monks), accompanied by members of each household who change the juniper and make offerings of the choicest meat from the yak they have just killed for Losar. While the lama beats his drum beside the dough offerings of the ritual, they prepare a plate of bread with a dough figure of a mountain ibex (skyin), a conical dough pyramid (triton), sprinkled with barley flour and chang, the local beer, next to a censer of burning juniper. Such offerings are repeatedly made to the spirits throughout

3

In Photoksar I was told that he may manifest in three different embodiments.

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Losar. The pha-lha is responsible for protection, but also for fertility in the household. The Ston-zang on the Thirtieth4 On the last day of the eleventh month each household hosts a dinner for the other members of its pha-spun, a group which is normally associated with life-cycle events.5 At the beginning of the meal the eldest man makes an elaborate food offering to the local spirits, both of the hearth or household and the benign spirits of the earth, as well as tossing some food to placate the more unwelcome ghosts. These gatherings affirm the social relations within the pha-spun. However, at the end of the meal the children, together with a few adults, make balls of dough which they fling at each other, boys against girls. At no other event in the village is this sort of behaviour expected, or even tolerated. Wasting food is highly disapproved of and children are supposed to play subordinate roles to their elders, sitting at the bottom of the line of guests. This is not quite an act of subversion on their part, but an unusual licence to waste food and temporarily to step out of line. The Shi-Mi Tsalma (Shi Mi Tshal Ma), Food for the Ancestors, on the Thirtieth In the afternoon a large plate of food, primarily meat and offal from the Losar yak, is taken up the hill to be offered to the dead ancestors. As with all offerings, a smaller plate is then prepared with bread and a dough ibex and placed on a rocky outcrop. There is a recitation to ‘the ancestors who have died’6 and the imprecation ‘khye-khar’, which always accompanies offerings made to placate troublesome ghosts. The remaining food is then fried up over a fire and enjoyed by the participants along with jugs of chang. As in so many of the offerings made to the spirits in the village, food is a central component and the element of sharing between men and spirits is strong. Ston is the name also given to the thirtieth day of the month. There is considerable literature on the origins and significance of the pha-spun, see Kaplanian (this volume). There were four households in the pha spun where I stayed in Photoksar and the dinners were spread over two evenings. 6 Rigal found that in the small hamlet of Chiling the people have names for the founders of their village, which are recited during the shi mi (1985: 91). In Photoksar they simply refer to ‘those who first marked out the fields and built their boundary walls’. 4 5

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The Tses (Tshes), the First Day of the Eleventh Month This day, the first of Losar, is devoted to the veneration of the higher Buddhist deities and to a celebration of the family within the household. In the morning, one man from each house takes a plate of offerings up to each of the two small temples above the village. They present their offerings, greet the main deities and share their chang with each other.7 As they leave the temples a group of men erects a new prayer flag on each of the tall poles outside and there is a celebratory atmosphere. At the same time other men from the household will be changing the smaller prayer flags on the branches which top every roof in the village, purified with more burning juniper, and raising the same imprecations to the deities. Later in the day, more plates of offerings are prepared in the household for the Buddhist deities and household spirits in their respective shrine rooms. It is the women this time who take up the plates of bread and meat, with a censer of burning juniper and a jug of chang. In the elaborately decorated chod-khang (mchod khang), with its paintings, murals and statues of important deities, they change the water in the offering bowls (a daily ritual), make their offerings and greet the deities. The same process is repeated in the tiny, dark lha-khang, which is dominated by a bundle of juniper branches and the skulls from previous sacrifices. When the women return, the mother of the household goes through a family ritual. She first pours out a little chang, decorated with butter, to each of the family members, who are sitting in a line around the stove, men at the top. She then greets each of them in turn and the other returns the greeting. The process is then repeated by the grandmother of the family. One of the men then takes a brass jug of chang to pay his respects to the astrologer and to the headman of the village. Later in the afternoon all the villagers go to the headman’s house for a party. The new year is, therefore, welcomed with the propitiation of all the protector deities and an affirmation of family and pha-spun relations and of the central, although subordinate, roles of the in-marrying wives. They also affirm the social and political order of the village, as the headman and astrologer are complimented and the headman hosts his

7 During my first Losar in Photoksar the Hemis monk disapproved of meat and chang and so the villagers brought only tea and bread to his temple. Meat and chang, more precious foods, are otherwise the norm.

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party. It is later that same evening that elements of evil and misfortune are brought into the midst of the celebrations in the form of five ritual figures. The festival now enters a new phase as the community is brought into direct contact with cosmological forces. The Babar On the evening of the first day the two Babar make their appearance. These roles are played by two of the village men, an obligation which rotates between all the households, like other village duties. One carries a small drum, which is shaken in the hand, and the other has two black horns. One of the horns is straight, and said by some to come from a one-horned deer, and the other is a curved yak’s horn, which can be blown like a bugle. The men are dressed in heavy yaks’ hair carpets, therefore associated with dirt, and wear plaited crowns of straw around their caps above soot-smudged faces. Until around 1990, they told me, the Babar used to blacken their faces completely and perform as the storma ( gtor ma), the ritual offerings that are flung out to banish the evil spirits. The storma, normally made of dough, are often male and female figures placed on a plate and surrounded by pieces of bone, tea leaves, ashes and dirt, and when they are flung out they are supposed to draw the evil forces that might be making a child sick, for example, out of the house and beyond the boundaries of the village. In the past the Babar, acting as such storma themselves, would visit each household during Losar. They would put a foot on top of the stove, an extreme and dangerous insult to the deity of the hearth, recite a litany of illnesses and declare that they were carrying them all away with their black horns. Then they would run out, while the household members shouted ‘gya khor!’ after them and whistled. Sometimes people would even throw stones, they told me, as they do at other storma. Now the Babar do not blacken their faces completely and do not represent storma themselves. One informant told me that the highest lamas had disapproved of this practice. However, on the last day of Losar they carry out and smash the elaborate storma figures made by the astrologer and people say that they have been ‘expelled’. Until that time they unequivocally represent forces of evil. On the evening of the first day of Losar the Babar simply make an appearance by the ‘mani’, the area around the main prayer flag of the village. This is as near as the village has to a centre. There is a small

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temple here in which the astrologer and lamas perform the rituals associated with the storma. Every evening of the nine days of Losar the Mon (musicians) end up here, and there is an hour or two of singing and dancing, principally led by the young men, to end the day.8 On this day the Babar appear in their robes and dance before going to be entertained at the house of the headman. Like the villagers earlier in the day all the ritual figures recognise the status of the headman. The Api-Meme The second day of Losar sees the appearance of the three other ritual figures, the Api-Meme (A phyi me me) grandmother and grandfathers, all played by village men. The two Meme wear sheepskin jackets turned inside out and carry bows and arrows.9 The single Api wears a black hat which used to be the standard dress for old women who no longer wore their peraks ( pe rag, turquoise head-dresses). The Api also wears a baby’s coat tied to his back, ‘to symbolise the bok’, the sheepskin backcovering worn by married women. He carries a branch of juniper and a long stick which he rides like a horse, using the juniper as a whip. At other times he uses the juniper like a broom, sweeping away the dust on the ground, and finding it on people’s clothes. Like the Babar, the Api-Meme are expelled on the last day of Losar, when they ceremonially fling away their arrows, juniper and stick and change their clothes. One of the villagers told me that because they are old and decrepit they represent the passing year. While the Babar represent the ill effects of the evil spirits, therefore, the Api-Meme represent the natural, biological processes of ageing and decay. Both cosmological evil and natural decay are, thus, brought into the centre of the celebrations, where they remain until the ninth day. On this, the first day of their appearance, the Api-Meme dance at the mani, while some of the boys pretend to ride the horse behind the Api on her stick, and then go with the Babar and Mon to be entertained by the headman.

8 There is no household of the Mon (musician) caste in Photoksar so this is a rotating village obligation. 9 The arrow, da (mda’ ), is an important ritual instrument, found in every chod-khang and placed at the centre of the branches of juniper on every shrine to the lha. The chief nyopa (nyo ba), the representative of the bridegroom, carries a special da aloft when he goes to ‘steal’ the bride during a wedding. All over Ladakh there are archery competitions in the spring. Some have seen the da as a straightforward male fertility symbol (Day 1989, Mills 2003: 158). However, this was never made explicit in Photoksar.

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fernanda pirie The Round of Food, Drink and Dancing

On all the following days of Losar the Babar and Api-Meme are at the centre of the celebrations, the Babar acting as masters of ceremonies and the Api-Meme as their assistants, always accompanied by the Mon. They visit each household at least once, where they are entertained to a meal. They turn up with a retinue, mostly of men, although the women of the household also join in the celebrations, singing and dancing enthusiastically. By the end of Losar they are all looking exhausted, although nothing stops the constant round of partying. The Babar sit at the head of the line, followed by the headman, if present, and then the normal ranking of men in age order. The Babar are presented with a sheep’s head (with its meat) in each household. The Api-Meme do not take places in the line but act as hosts for the party, pouring out the chang and helping with the food. They also symbolically steal food from every household. In this way the Babar and Api-Meme circulate throughout the village, bringing their representations of evil and decay into every household. On the fifth to eighth days there are dances for the whole village during the afternoons. For all of the dances, the participants take the same places in two lines, the dral, as they do when entertained in another’s household. The lamas, astrologer and amchi (Am chi ) (practitioner of Tibetan medicine) are normally at the head, followed by all the men, and then all the women, in age order. During Losar the first dance is led by the headman and his wife, who have been invited to dance by the Babar and the Api-Meme. They are led around by the Api brandishing his juniper and they are complimented with khatags, white scarves, by the other villagers. The next dance is led by the panch (a new innovation since the government’s introduction of village councils, halqa panchayats), the next by the headman’s assistant and the next, on subsequent days, by the astrologer and amchi. After each of these dances, those who have led the lines host a small party for the dancers and the Mon. They provide plates of food which the Api-Meme then serve to the other dancers and are expected to donate money to the Babar, Api-Meme and Mon.10 Thus, the socially important figures in the village are honoured in these dances and they are expected to reciprocate by giving money to the ritual figures of Losar. Each evening, when the 10 This also goes for those who may have been temporarily propelled to lead the dancing as it is proceeding, like the visiting anthropologist.

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Babar and Api-Meme have done their rounds, they end up at the central mani. Their arrival heralds the beginning of the evening celebrations in which the Api-Meme persuade the onlookers, mostly young men, to participate. These are enthusiastic and exuberant events, at which the dancers are not under the constraints of decorum which attend the more formal afternoon dances. Throughout these festivities the Api-Meme circulate with large ladles full of the chang that has been provided by each of the households in turn, encouraging people to drink, and at the mani in the evenings they physically force people to get up and dance. At the same time the Babar stand at the centre of events, one blowing his horn, the other rattling his drum, to signal the start of the dancing. Thus, the festivities by which the villagers welcome in and celebrate the coming of the new year are hosted and directed by the symbolic figures who represent the forces of age and the evil of the past year, which are to be exorcised at the end of Losar. The vitality and high spirits of the young and fertile are nurtured and encouraged by the forces of degeneration. The Third Day On the day when the new moon makes its appearance the women dress in their best clothes, their turquoise peraks and elaborate jewellery. The Babar, Api-Meme and Mon gather on one roof to wait for the appearance of the village god, the yul-lha, who has entered into possession of the lhaba, the local spirit medium. He arrives, dancing around and waving a white scarf, to be greeted with decorated jugs of chang, and disappears into the chod-khang to be dressed in his ritual headdress. He then proceeds to the mani where he addresses the assembled villagers, giving them instructions, on the occasion I witnessed, about how to treat dead bodies. He continues to rant, more or less comprehensibly, while the musicians begin to play and the Babar to dance. Eventually the lhaba dances round the circle of villagers, who all bow in front of him, before running off to collapse as he comes out of his trance. There are then horse races in the fields above the village. The young men have decked out the horses and race to hit a target with a stone thrown from the saddle. This is a small pile made by the Babar out of a dough ibex, bread, meat and a ‘mirror’ of ice. The Mon are, as always, present, the Babar direct events, and the Api-Meme go around serving out chang.

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fernanda pirie The Ltanmo of the Fifth to Eighth Days

The dancing that takes place on the afternoons of these days is preceded by displays (ltanmo) by the boys and girls of the village, known, respectively, as alamdar and patimo. The girls dress up in the embroidered shawls their mothers wear for festivals. They cover their faces with thin scarves and dance under the directions of the Babar. Their rather decorous movements are, however, interrupted by a gang of boys who have removed their locally-made coats in favour of combat style armysurplus clothing and rush in brandishing wooden swords, also with their faces covered. They leap around the dancing area and then run at the onlookers, especially the women, hitting them with their sticks in some cases, while the patimo girls are shielded by the Babar. Many of the women retreat to a distance, although others take on the challenge of the boys, trying to fend off or unmask them. The patimo was explained to me as something that the girls do ‘to please the lha’ and ensure that there will be plenty of babies in the following year.11 During the alamdar, it was said, the boys represented lha-trug (lha phrug), child spirits, chasing away the evil demons. In this, they obviously represent the fierce protector deities depicted in many monasteries, or the yul-lha himself, who is both protective and dangerous for the villagers. The boys, thus, demonstrate their prowess to deal with the local spirits and display the capacity of the protector deities to control the forces of evil. On another level, however, the alamdar represents a defiance of the normal child-adult and men-women relations. Their faces masked, the boys have a licence to overstep the normal markers of behaviour, acting with disrespect towards the women and adults, just as they do during the food-throwing at the end of the stong-zan dinner. On a later day, after the headman and other authority figures in the village have had their dances, it is the newly-wed couples who are asked by the Api-Meme to lead the dances and to be honoured with white scarves.12 There may also be one dance primarily made up of the young unmarried people. Thus again there is a conjuncture of 11 Dollfus (1987: 86–87) describes how in Hemis Shukpachan the Patimo is a queen, who also appears with her face covered. She is said to represent an ancient Ladakhi queen, or even the venerated Fatima of the Muslims. It would be difficult to apply these interpretations to the Photoksar girls, however. 12 In other villages, such as Lingshed, the Api-Meme visit their houses and are given food and presents by them. See also Dollfus (1987: 86).

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the forces of ageing with those of youth and fertility. The latter are celebrated but have to pay tribute to the former. Finally, on the eighth day, there is a more elaborate pantomime. The events start with the appearance of a pantomime ibex, enacted by two men covered by a carpet, one of whom actually wears the heavy head of a real ibex. At the same time one of the men acts as an astrologer (these roles have all been determined on the previous day by the Babar), pretending to consult his tables and divine auspicious dates, and then dances with his ritual implements. This is followed by a troupe of girls dressed as nyopa, the young men who go to steal a bride during a wedding. They are dressed in the nyopas’ finery and their leader carries the chief nyopa’s arrow and leads a ‘bride’. All the girls have their faces covered. Their dances are, again, interrupted by the young men’s alamdar, more elaborate on this than any previous day, one of them wearing a wild yak’s hair wig. A hunter eventually appears, shoots the ibex with a rifle and carves up the meat.13 Finally the bride is led away weeping loudly, as real brides are expected to do, and the central dances of Losar are completed. The Babar, Api-Meme and Mon then retire for food and drink and when they return, as evening approaches, the Api-Meme have a last dance in the central field where the ltanmo has taken place, carrying their bows and arrows, stick and juniper. At the end of this they suddenly produce a lamb which someone has given them. The onlookers find this highly amusing, but it is an important ritual and people were concerned that I should not have missed it. Giving the Api-Meme a new-born lamb, they told me, will ensure that plenty of new lambs and goat kids are born in the new year. Here, fertility is again represented as a product of the process of ageing and decay. The Storma The culmination of the events of Losar lies in the creation and destruction of the storma. The first is made on the seventh day by the astrologer. Called a dra-dzor (or dra dor), it takes the form of a spindly figure with claws for hands and three dogs’ heads, yellow, red and green. Having spent several hours creating and painting this figure and surrounding it

13 Dollfus (1987: 89) reports that in Hemis Shukpachan the hunter is outwitted by the ibex, representing the conversion of the people, in the form of the hunter, to Buddhism, in the form of the ibex.

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with animal intestines blown up and painted red, the astrologer performs a short ritual by the mani, assisted by the lamas. The storma is then taken out and placed in the ground in front of the assembled villagers, who whistle and insult it, before it is carried off by the headman, along a trail of flour, to be flung down the slope below the village to cries of ‘Gya khor!’ from the assembled crowd. On the morning of the last day of Losar, the Api-Meme make a final appearance at the mani, dance with their bows and arrows and then shoot the Memes’ arrows down the slope and fling away the Api’s juniper and stick, before going away to change out of their ritual clothes. The Api-Meme have, thus, been expelled, people say. Subsequently, the Babar and Mon, with a large retinue of men, visit every house in the village to perform individual storma rituals. Unlike the rituals of the past, when the Babar carried off the evil of the house as storma themselves, a plate of meat and bread is now prepared. Two rounds of bread with fluted edges are called perak, and represent female elements, while two with plain edges, called simply tagi (bread), represent the male. They used to be worn by the Babar on their headdresses, male on the right, female on the left. Now, after some drinking and dancing, offerings are made to the spirits from the plate of meat and the tagi and perak are flung out of the door, or off the roof, to cries of ‘Gya khor ’. At the same time, the astrologer is making two more storma figures, a white male belpo and a black female belmo. These are placed outside the temple at the central mani, where people come to jeer at them. They also take small pieces of dough, roll them over their bodies and squeeze them in their left hands. This is the rilzan, which draws out malevolent personal influences, which are expelled when the dough is flung away with the storma. In the evening a large number of people gather, the Babar raise the two storma aloft. To a chorus of abusive shouts, cries and whistles, they carry them away through the village and out to the steep slope which falls away beneath the houses. Here they are held high and everyone watches from a distance as they are finally smashed onto the ground. The Babar’s carpet robes and straw head-dresses follow. While their retinue continue to shout and whistle in the direction of the smashed figures, the Babar take a short ritual wash and change into celebratory clothes, similar to those of the nyopa. While the villagers break open bread rolls, feeding the first small piece of each to the earth spirits with cries of ‘khye-khar’, the Babar return to lead the last dance around the fire in front of the assembled villagers, with the lamas, astrologer

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and headman at the head of the line. Eventually, the Babar make their way to the mani to lead further, informal dances, before disappearing to divest themselves of their finery, the last marks of their roles as the Losar Babar. This is the final celebration of triumph over the forces of evil in the village, which have now been dramatically expelled. The Rite of Passage The Juxtaposition of Youth and Age The ritual figures who represent the bad effects of the evil spirits and the processes of ageing and decay take centre stage in the village for nine days. But for the villagers Losar is also a time for celebration, led by the young and vital, surrounded by the imagery of birth and life. Fertility and gender differences are constantly represented during Losar: the boys banish the evil Bagatam but embarrass the girls with their sexual jokes as they do so; the ston-zang dinner is a celebration of the pha-spun, which is responsible for all life-cycle events; the boys display their prowess as horsemen while the women dress in their finest clothes on the third day; the patimo girls supplicate the yul-lha for fertility and act out the events of a wedding. These elements are all brought into association with age and vulnerability, in the form of the Api-Meme. The grandfathers and grandmother sweeping away the dust of the past year represent the inevitable process of age and decay, and yet they are frequently and explicitly linked to the images of youth and fertility. The Api wears a child’s coat on her back. They constantly encourage the youth to dance, and specifically honour the young, married couples. On the eighth day they publicly parade a lamb ‘to ensure fertility’. It is they who, therefore, appear to be responsible for bringing forth and nurturing the new life of the new year. Age is represented as the guardian of fertility. A similar juxtaposition of the symbols of fertility and sexuality with those of sickness and death in rites of passage has been noted by anthropologists elsewhere (Bachofen 1859, Frazer 1890, Hertz 1905–6, Huntington and Metcalf 1979). As Leach points out: Religions of course vary greatly in the manner by which they purport to repudiate the ‘reality’ of death: one of the commonest devices is simply to assert that death and birth are the same thing—that birth follows death, just as death follows birth. (1961: 125)

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During Losar the forces of life and fertility are depicted as flourishing alongside, and despite the degeneration of age, nurtured and encouraged by its representatives. In their final act of producing a new-born lamb the Api-Meme demonstrate birth to be the product of age. Losar as a Rite of Passage Most of the Losar events take the same form as the many other parties and celebrations by which the village Ladakhis punctuate their year. The household meals, the dancing and the informal parties by the mani are repeated many times during the year. What is different about Losar is that these events are hosted and directed by the Babar and Api-Meme, ambiguous figures who ‘steal’ the food which they distribute and who bring evil and death into every household. The community is, thus, placed into direct contact with the effects of the natural and supernatural forces which transcend the human world. It enters what could be called a liminal period between the old and new years, before the ritual figures are banished at the end of the celebrations. To this extent, the festival is a classic ‘rite of passage’ famously delineated by van Gennep (1908). Rites that mark celestial changes, such as the changing of the year, he says, as well as individual life-cycle events, represent a passage, in this case of the community, through a process of separation from the old (pre-liminal), into a period of transition (liminal), finally to be reincorporated into the new (post-liminal). The pre-liminal phase of Losar can be seen in the metho, the ston-zang and the celebration of the deities, family and social order on the first day. The arrival of the Babar signals the liminal, transitory phase, marked by dancing, masquerade and the juxtaposition of the symbols of age and fertility. The exorcism of the storma and expulsion of the Babar then signal the transition out of the liminal period and into the new year. Elaborating on this scheme, van Gennep (1960: 10) talks of the first phase as one of separation, when the individual (in life-cycle rites) or community (in seasonal rites) removes itself from the old. During Losar, the pre-liminal stage is marked, rather, by an affirmation of the normal, social order, while the separation from the old comes not at the outset but with the expulsions of the Api-Meme and the Babar during the final stage of the festival.14 Nevertheless, the basic scheme of a three stage 14 Leach (1961: 135) suggests a slightly different scheme: the three stages are marked by formality, role-reversal and masquerade, the first and last of these representing the

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process from old to new, though a stage of liminality, during which masquerades, revelry and role-reversal are prominent, is apposite for Losar. The metho and Bagatam songs are preliminary rituals, prefiguring later events. In the first stage of Losar itself, the normal social order is represented in the veneration of the deities and affirmation of family and social relations. During the following nine days there is then an extended liminal period, dominated by the Babar and the Api-Meme. Challenges to the social order and the role-reversals found in the alamdar, the patimo and in the male Api, all contribute to the sense of unreality, a community temporarily separated from the normal world and social order. The expulsion of these figures and exorcism of evil from the community mark the return to normality and promise a positive beginning to the new year. The Challenge to the Social Order One thing that Losar does not do, however, is affirm the social order in a straightforward way. It does not unequivocally state, reiterate or reinforce traditional social ties or delineate social roles, all of which are functions common to many rituals (Moore and Myerhoff 1977: 5) and which Dollfus asserts to be the final object of Losar (1987: 94–95). This social order is, indeed, represented at many points during Losar. The fact that the Babar’s meals are hosted by each household in turn (even though nominally directed by the Api-Meme) confirms their equality within the community, and as equal contributors to the village taxes, a basic aspect of the village’s social organisation (Pirie 2007: 58–62). The headman and astrologer are honoured in the dancing, along with others who have status in the village. The headman is also the first port of call for the Babar and Api-Meme, and carries off the first storma. Throughout the dancing the villagers line up, as they always do, in the dral, the order which represents the seniority of age and gender. This social and political order, whilst underpinning the whole organisation of Losar, is often symbolically challenged, however. The Api-Meme steal food, indicating a flagrant disrespect for household property. The youth have a licence to transgress the social order at certain stages. The seniority of age and adulthood, in particular, is flouted as they throw

stages of sacralisation/separation and desacralisation/aggregation. This would fit better with the initial order-affirming events of Losar but not the central stage, which is here marked by both masquerade and role-reversal.

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food after the ston-zang dinners and attack the women and onlookers during the masked alamdar. These challenges to the social order are prominent in the central, liminal stage of the festival. Dollfus (1987: 92) regards these as markers of that liminality. If Losar affirms the social order it is in a primarily negative way, by symbolising its precarious nature. However, I would suggest that there is even more at stake in this festival.What Losar represents is the triumph by the villagers over the two major threats to life, the evil spirits embodied in the Babar and the process of ageing represented by the Api-Meme. However, this triumph is only achieved at some expense to the social order. As regards the evil spirits, the world they inhabit, along with the protector deities, is a chaotic one of multiple influences, which constantly intrude on the world of the humans and with which the villagers have to deal with the greatest of care. The yul-lha and household spirits safeguard fertility, for example, but they can also be dangerous, especially for babies and married, so potentially fertile, women. On the other hand, the lha normally have little to do with the social and political order of the village. The lha are not invoked to support either the status of the headman or the authority of the village meeting, for example. Even morality and disputing are not their province (Pirie 2006b). The lha, therefore, control the biological continuity of the community, while the villagers organise their own social relations. The two worlds run in parallel but have separate influences on human life. It is not surprising, therefore, that the events of Losar, which involve both the invocation of the protector deities and the exorcism of the evil spirits, should involve some opposition to the social order. The world of supernatural forces transcends and overshadows the mundane social and political order of the village. For the evil spirits to be vanquished, the social order has, temporarily, to be overturned. Similarly, the events surrounding the Api-Meme represent and affirm the constant renewal of the biological order, the old giving way to and nurturing the efflorescence of youth and vitality. This is embodied in the celebrations of the young, their masquerades, the demonstration of their strength and prowess in the horse races and the alamdar. At these times their exuberance breaks through the normal hierarchies and boundaries and overcomes the normal deference to age and seniority, which is supposed to be observed by the young. Losar is their time for taking centre stage, actively encouraged by the Api-Meme, in a public display of vitality and exuberance. The hierarchy of age represented in the dral has to be transcended if the finality of the biological process is to be denied.

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During Losar, therefore, the fragility of the village community and the threats to its biological continuity are symbolised by the Babar and the Api-Meme. The protector deities, who can assist in the struggle against the evil demons, are constantly propitiated and directly invoked by the girls’ and boys’ masked patimo and alamdar. It is the youth who take centre stage in this battle to prevent the chaotic supernatural forces from intruding on the lives of the community. It is also the youth who must triumph over age, asserting their vitality and exuberance in the face of the processes of ageing and decay. The social order, which grants status to age must, therefore, temporarily take second place in the representation of the struggle to ensure the biological continuity of the community. Resolution At the end of the ninth day a major triumph over the evil spirits is achieved by the exorcism of the storma, but the cycle of birth, ageing and decay cannot be finally resolved. Having enjoyed the ascendency during the liminal stage of Losar, the youth retreat into their normal places in the social hierarchy as the dral is re-formed for the final dance of the Babar. This is the last stage of the festival as a rite of passage, the reaggregation of the community into the mundane world. There is a reaffirmation of the social order, but only after its precarious nature has been highlighted throughout the central stages of the festival. The battles with the evil spirits and the cycle of ageing will continue and the youth have only temporarily retreated into the social order. On this, the last day of Losar, it is still they, the embodiment of physical vitality, who continue to sing late into the night around the mani under the new moon of the new year. Change Throughout the Lingshed area, remote from the Indus valley, Losar is celebrated in similar ways to the Photoksar festival, although with differences in the course of events and ritual figures. In many other villages, like Lamayuru, however, the ritual figures of Losar have disappeared. Neither Babar nor Meme appear any more here (they never had an Api ). In Leh, people say they spend the first few days of Losar visiting friends and relations, cooking large meals, making offerings and throwing out storma and rilzan, but there are few of the more elaborate

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and pantomime elements left to the festival. It could well be that it is the monastic influence and a disapproval of the old roles of the Babar as storma, for example, that has led to many of these customs being dropped, although an informant from Hemis Shukpachan suggested that there was also a general indifference to the purposes behind them. In that village, most people do not even bother to watch the throwing out of the storma made by the astrologer, he said. They are obviously less concerned there about the power of the evil spirits. In Photoksar, on my first Losar in 1999, the Babar and Api-Meme hardly dressed up at all. There were no carpet robes, head-dresses or sootsmudged faces and they did not go around symbolically stealing food. In 2003, however, the villagers had decided to revive the customs I have described here, telling me that they had decided the old customs were ‘good’.They were, therefore, self-consciously going against the trends of modernity followed by villagers closer to Leh. The revival of these customs, however, caused the flaring up of an old conflict between the villagers and one of the lamas. This became apparent on the seventh day, when the astrologer was creating the first major storma. The lama entered the room and soon launched into a diatribe about ‘old customs’. He referred frequently to the disapproval of these practices by high lamas and eventually raised the issue of the old practice of animal sacrifice to the yul lha. The implication was that if the villagers started reviving the old customs then where would it end? Later, Paljor, the village amchi, explained that there was a long-standing conflict between this lama and certain of the village men, including himself. In around 1990 Togldan Rinpoche, the highest Drigunpa lama in Ladakh, had visited the village and told them to set up a committee to reform the ‘old customs’, particularly those relating to non-Buddhist rituals, like Losar. Paljor and the lama had both been on the committee. However, they had fallen out when Paljor had argued in favour of keeping many of the old customs. The events of this Losar, thus, represented the ongoing tension between the reforming forces of establishment Buddhism and the autonomy of the villagers’ own practices. Indeed, while the lama was holding forth, several of the older men of the village objected to what he was saying. When I returned to Photoksar in 2005, however, Paljor told me that they had again dropped the old customs. ‘But why?’ I asked. Paljor shrugged. ‘The lama threatened to leave his post in the village’, he told me. Paljor was expressing a reluctant resignation to the forces of

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modernity and the power of the Buddhist establishment which had ultimately prevailed over the villagers’ ancient traditions. References Bachofen, Johann. 1861. Das Mutterrecht: Eine Untersuchung uber die Gynaikokratie der alten Welt nach ihrer religiösen und rechtlichen. Stuttgart: Krais & Hoffman. Brauen, Martin. 1980. Feste in Ladakh. Graz: Akademische Druck u. Verlagsanstalt. Day, Sophie. 1989. Embodying spirits: village oracles and possession ritual in Ladakh, North India. PhD Thesis, London School of Economics and Political Science. Dollfus, Pascale. 1987. Lo-gsar, le nouvel an populaire au Ladakh. L’Ethnographie LXXXIII: 63–96. Frazer, Sir James. 1890. The golden bough: a study in comparative religion. London: Macmillan. Gennep, Arnold van. 1960. The rites of passage. Trans. M. Vizedom and G. Caffee. Chicago: University Press. Hertz, Robert. 1907. Contribution à une étude sur la représentation collective de la mort. L’Année sociologique 1907. Huntington, Richard and Peter Metcalf. 1979. Celebrations of death: the anthropology of mortuary ritual. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kaplanian, Patrick. 1981. Les Ladakhis du Cachemire. Paris: Hachette. Leach, E.R. 1961. Rethinking anthropology. London: The Athlone Press. Mills, Martin. 2003. Identity, ritual and state in Tibetan Buddhism: the foundations of authority in Gelukpa monasticism. London: RoutledgeCurzon. Moore, Sally and Barbara Myerhoff. 1977. Secular ritual. Assen: Van Gorcum. Pirie, Fernanda. 2006a. Legal autonomy as political engagement: the Ladakhi village in the wider world. Law and Society Review 40(1): 77–103. ——. 2006b. Secular morality, village law and Buddhism in Tibetan societies. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 12(1): 173–90. ——. 2007. Peace and conflict in Ladakh: the construction of a fragile web of order. Brill: Leiden. Rigal, Jean-Pierre. 1985. Le nouvel an à Chiling. In P. Kaplanian (ed.), Ladakh Himalaya occidental: ethnologie, écologie. Pau: Université de Pau. Wylie, T.V. 1959. A standard system of Tibetan transcription. Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 22: 261–76.

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IV. KINSHIP AND GENDER

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GROUPES D’UNIFILIATION, PARENTÉ ET SOCIÉTÉ À MAISON AU LADAKH (LE PHASPUN ) Patrick Kaplanian L’auteur repart de la polémique qui l’avait opposé à M. Brauen en 1981. Pour ce dernier, le phaspun1 est un groupe cultuel d’entraide alors que l’auteur défendait la thèse du groupe d’unifiliation. L’auteur reconnaît aujourd’hui que cette querelle était stérile, que le phaspun présente les deux aspects et que par conséquent une théorie correcte doit rendre compte de ces deux aspects. Pour ce faire l’auteur doit d’abord réfuter la thèse selon laquelle le Ladakh est une société à maison. Il élabore alors une nouvelle théorie comme quoi, lors des rites de passage, la maison (khangpa) doit se dissoudre dans le phaspun afin d’assurer l’incorporation d’un nouvel arrivant ou la perte d’un partant. Historique et Problematique En 1981 j’écrivais: Lorsque l’on demande aujourd’hui à un Ladakhi ce qu’est le phaspun, la réponse la plus fréquente est d’ordre pratique et économique: un groupe d’entraide qui intervient à l’occasion des trois grands événements de la vie, la naissance, le mariage et la mort. Lors d’un décès, il est difficile à ceux qui souffrent de s’occuper eux-mêmes de tout le rituel. Ce sont donc les membres du phaspun qui se chargent de contacter les moines, de laver le cadavre, etc. D’autre part, le bois coûte cher et chacun contribuera à en fournir pour l’incinération. Pourtant, au départ, le concept de phaspun était bien différent. L’étymologie l’atteste: pha veut dire père, spun, frères et sœurs. Que pouvait signifier l’association de ces deux mots, sinon qu’il s’agissait d’un groupe de consanguins avec un ancêtre commun?

1 Pour l’orthographe tibétaine j’utilise la translittération Wylie. Pour la prononciation ladakhi il faut ajouter à la liste de Wylie les rétroflexes sr, tr, dr et thr. Les règles de transcription sont données dans Kaplanian (1981: 14).

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patrick kaplanian Si c’était bien le cas, il n’en reste plus trace aujourd’hui, à l’exception de cet indice étymologique et de la remarque de Dainelli cité par Carrasco qui implique que les membres du phaspun sont des parents éloignés. Il n’y a pas de contradiction entre l’affirmation de l’absence de linéarité et de chaîne généalogique et l’existence d’un clan avec un ancêtre commun. Cet ancêtre commun est théorique, et personne n’éprouve le besoin de remonter jusqu’à lui. L’affirmation de son existence devrait suffire pour que tous les membres du clan soient ‘frères’ (spun).2 De nos jours, au Sham et au Zanskar, 3 le phaspun est un clan exogamique: deux de ses membres ne peuvent pas se marier ensemble. A Leh, l’exogamie est en voie de disparition et il est même possible pour un étranger de se faire nommer membre d’un phaspun en donnant une fête à tous ses membres. Mais, même à Leh, les mariages entre membres d’un même clan sont rares. (1981: 167–68)

‘De nos jours’ faisait référence à 1980 mais aujourd’hui ces règles d’exogamie continuent à s’appliquer au Zanskar (Crook 1994; Riaboff 1997) et dans les villages reculés (entendre par là éloignés de l’Indus et de la route Srinagar-Leh) comme Photoksar (Pirie 2002: 145). L’allusion à Dainelli concerne l’héritage. Il s’agit du passage suivant: Le premier dans la succession est le fils aîné, puis le plus âgé des fils survivants, et ainsi de suite. A défaut d’enfants mâles (ou après eux), la fille aînée, puis la plus âgée des survivantes, et ainsi de suite. A défaut de descendants directs, le frère aîné, puis le frère plus jeune, et ainsi de suite. Ensuite vient la sœur aînée, à condition qu’elle ne soit pas mariée, puis la sœur plus jeune, et ainsi de suite. Viennent ensuite les jeunes oncles, c’est-à-dire ceux qui n’ont pas hérité de leur propre famille, par rang d’âge. En fin de liste viennent la mère, puis la veuve, puis la veuve du fils aîné. Les derniers héritiers possibles sont les parents les plus éloignés inclus sous le nom collectif de phaspun. (Dainelli, 1932, cité par Carrasco, 1959: 37, cité par Grist 1977: 223 et Kaplanian 1981: 164).4

Les anciennes règles de l’héritage faisaient donc des phaspun (en ladakhi, phaspun veut aussi dire: membre du phaspun) des parents éloignés. 2 Je dois d’abord signaler que l’interprétation étymologique avait déjà été faite par le prince Pierre de Grèce (1956: 138). Pour Jäschke (1980 [1881] s.v. spun) pha-spun désigne “several neighbours or inhabitants of a village, that have a common lha, and thus become ruspa cig cig, members of the same family.”. Cette expression de ruspa cik cik (rus-pa gcig gcig) ‘un seul os’ revient encore fréquemment dans la bouche des informateurs lorsqu’il est question de phaspun. Voir aussi Carrasco (1959: 54); Geary (1948: 73), Pierre de Grèce (1956: 138). Plus récemment Aggarwal définit les phaspun comme des ‘patri-fraternal groups’ (1994: 61, 68, 71). 3 Ce qui depuis a largement été confirmé (Crook 1994; Riaboff 1997). 4 Même réflexion chez Singh (1912: 25).

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Depuis l’ethnographie a progressé et nous allons voir de très nombreux faits qui corroborent cette thèse. Nous verrons aussi des faits plus troublants. Mais, pour le moment, je reviens au contexte de 1981. Je répondais indirectement à Brauen (1980) qui faisait du phaspun un groupement cultuel. Or, je pense que j’ai fait l’erreur de rentrer dans sa problématique qui est celle d’un aut . . . aut . . ., ou bien un clan ou un groupe de filiation unilinéaire (GFU, descent group), ou bien un groupement cultuel. Or l’ethnographie est là pour démentir une telle approche. Le phaspun est un clan exogamique, un groupe de filiation et un groupement cultuel. Les faits sont là et on ne peut en choisir certains pour en éliminer d’autres. En d’autres termes, on ne parviendra à une théorie satisfaisante que quand elle rendra compte de ces deux aspects à la fois. Ceci dit qu’un groupe d’unifiliation soit en même temps un groupe d’entraide ou un groupement cultuel est une chose assez commune ailleurs qu’au Ladakh. Il en est même qui sont de véritables personnes morales (corporate groups) possédant des terres ou des biens. Le PHASPUN est un Groupe Exogamique Le phaspun est, ou plutôt était il n’y a pas si longtemps, un groupe exogamique. La chose était nettement exprimée dans les années 70 dans la région de Leh. En 1981–1983, elle était encore claire dans le Bas-Ladakh (Sham): Dans le village plusieurs informateurs m’ont dit que les membres d’un même phaspun ne se mariaient pas entre eux traditionnellement. Et ceci parce qu’ils étaient très proches, “juste comme des consanguins (kin)”, voire, selon certains, plus proches encore. Un informateur m’a dit qu’alors qu’on pouvait épouser des consanguins au-delà du septième degré, les membres d’un même phaspun devaient compter jusqu’à trente degrés tellement ils sont proches. Un autre informateur me dit la chose suivante à propos des membres d’un même phaspun: “mane nyemo in, phaming busring tsoks; ils sont très proches, comme un phaming (un père et ses frères), un busring (un fils et ses sœurs)”. (Phylactou 1989: 158, ma traduction)

Quant à l’application pratique de cette règle stricte mais partiellement projetée dans le passé, Phylactou est plus nuancée: “En théorie elle [la future épouse] devrait aussi venir d’un autre groupe de phaspun quoique, aujourd’hui, ceci est rarement observé” (p. 153). Par contre, Dollfus, qui a travaillé à la même époque dans le même village, reconnaît explicitement que “dans le Bas-Ladakh, l’ensemble des villageois

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respectent l’exogamie de phaspun” (1989: 210). Cela ne l’empêche pas d’adopter telle quelle la position de Brauen. L’exogamie de phaspun se manifeste pendant la cérémonie de mariage. La femme qui se marie quitte son phaspun, elle doit faire ses adieux à la divinité tutélaire de son phaspun avant de partir, montant pour cela dans le chotkhang (mchod-khang, la ‘chapelle’ de la maison). Et rappelons le couple Heber qui signale qu’une divorcée qui retourne chez elle est très mal acceptée: “tu appartiens à un autre phaspun” (Heber, 1932: 78). En cas de mésentente conjugale, cela est dû au fait que le lha divinité tutélaire du phaspun (le pha(z)lha;5 pha-lha) de l’épouse ne veut pas la lâcher. Les choses sont encore plus nettes en ce qui concerne le mariage6 proprement dit, les négociations et la cérémonie. Reprenons la thèse de Phylactou (156 et 157): • Avant d’envisager un mariage, les membres du phaspun sont consultés. Ils sont reçus pour cela dans la maison du garçon. • Ils participent aux négociations. • Ils (ceux de la fille) prennent en charge la cuisine pendant le mariage (c’est là l’aspect entraide cher à Brauen). • Ils (ceux du garçon) prennent part à la procession qui va chercher la fiancée et la ramènent. • En cas de mariage par enlèvement, la famille ‘enleveuse’ doit s’excuser, non seulement auprès des membres de la famille d’origine de la fille enlevée, mais aussi de son phaspun. Et Phylactou de conclure, après une démonstration très serrée: “Tout se passe comme si ce sont les phaspun, plutôt que les maisonnées, qui sont engagées dans l’échange”. Nous allons voir l’importance de cette phrase. J’ajoute à cette liste que, parmi les membres de la procession qui va chercher la fiancée, c’est un phaspun du garçon qui apporte le gulus, un jeu complet de vêtements, en principe pour la fille, et un autre qui part avec un sac vide et ramène le raktak, le trousseau. Même aujourd’hui, dans la région de Leh où cette institution est en complète déconfiture, ceci persiste. Certains disent même que c’est tout ce qu’il reste du rôle du phaspun dans le mariage. Et d’autres de préciser que lorsqu’on fait

5 6

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On prononce phalha et quelquefois phazlha, je note donc pha(z)lha. Le phaspun ne joue aucun rôle au mariage au Zanskar m’écrit Riaboff.

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l’inventaire du trousseau avant le départ de la fiancée, ce sont les membres du phaspun, et non seulement de la maisonnée du garçon, qui remercient. Autrement dit il ne s’agit pas seulement de faire circuler des femmes mais aussi des biens entre deux phaspun. Si c’est bien un groupe exogamique, s’agit-il pour autant d’un groupe de filiation? Phylactou écrit: “Ce n’est pas un groupe de filiation (descent group) dans la mesure où ses membres ne retracent pas leur ascendance jusqu’à un ancêtre nommé”. (Phylactou 1989: 157–58. Voir aussi la discussion dans Gutschow 1995: 339–40). Certes il n’y a pas de généalogies ( je laisse pour le moment le cas du Zanskar de côté) et, en l’absence de généalogies, pas d’ancêtre nommé. Je reconnais que peu de choses sont venues étayer, de ce point de vue là, ma théorie de 1981 s’appuyant sur le sens de pha, père, à part quelques bribes.7 Mais est-ce si important? Le fait que l’appartenance au phaspun se transmet patrilinéairement, d’une part, et l’exogamie, le fait que la femme quitte son phaspun pour rejoindre celui de son mari, d’autre part, sont suffisants pour définir un GFU. Réservons l’emploi du mot clan à un GFU qui a un ancêtre commun et contentons-nous pour le moment de l’expression GFU. Il n’y a pas besoin d’ancêtre commun pour que cela fonctionne. On appartient au phaspun par son père, et on épouse une femme d’un autre phaspun. Et c’est suffisant. L’ancêtre commun (mythique) n’est qu’une idéologie indigène pour justifier l’exogamie en assimilant l’endogamie à l’inceste (il est d’ailleurs induit par les 30 degrés de l’informateur de Phylactou, tout comme le fait que les membres du phaspun sont comparés à des consanguins). Comme le fait très justement remarquer Riaboff (1997: 99): “Pour beaucoup d’auteurs la descendance unilinéaire suffit pour qu’on puisse parler de clan”. (Et de citer Mercier 1968: 938). Le Ladakh n’est pas une Société à Maison La thèse comme quoi le Ladakh serait une société à maison a été élaborée, à peu près en même temps, à la fin des années 80, par deux ethnologues qui travaillaient toutes deux sur le village de Himis Shukpachan, Phylactou (1989) et Dollfus (1989). On sait que l’on doit ce concept à C. Lévi-Strauss qui, dans un célèbre article (1979), introduit

7 Pierre de Grèce (1956: 138) raconte que d’après son informateur les membres d’un phaspun partagent un ancêtre commun. Mais il semble s’être contenté d’un seul informateur.

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cette notion pour résoudre d’insolubles problèmes posés par la société kwakiutl. Nos deux auteurs partent de la définition de Lévi-Strauss qu’elles isolent de son contexte: La maison est une 1) Personne morale, 2) détentrice d’un domaine, 3) composé à la fois de biens matériels et immatériels, 4) qui se perpétue par la transmission de son nom, de sa fortune et de ses titres en ligne réelle ou fictive, 5) tenue pour légitime à la seule condition que cette continuité puisse s’exprimer dans le langage de la parenté ou de l’alliance, ou 6) le plus souvent, des deux ensemble. (1979: 151–52)

Que le khangpa (khang-pa, la maisonnée) soit une personne morale, c’est incontestable et toute la littérature ethnographique sur le Ladakh le confirme (Pierre de Grèce 1939, 1963, Grist 1977, Kaplanian 1981, Phylactou 1989, etc.). D’ailleurs, juste avant de donner sa célèbre définition (1979: 151), Lévi-Strauss en donne un exemple chez les Yurok étudiés par Kroeber: “Ce ne sont pas les individus, ni les familles qui agissent, ce sont les maisons, seuls sujets de droits et de devoirs”. On pourrait en dire autant des khangpa ladakhi. Que cette maison soit détentrice d’un domaine, composé à la fois de biens matériels et immatériels, qu’elle se perpétue par la transmission de son nom, de sa fortune et de ses titres cela ne fait pas non plus de doute pour la khangpa. Mais c’est dans la suite que le bât blesse: “en ligne réelle ou fictive” et “à la seule condition que cette continuité puisse s’exprimer dans le langage de la parenté et de l’alliance; ou le plus souvent les deux ensemble”. La lignée peut-elle être fictive au Ladakh? Et qu’entend l’auteur par “dans le langage”? Avant de démontrer que ces deux derniers aspects de la citation ne s’appliquent pas au Ladakh, il convient de bien comprendre de quoi il s’agit. Qu’est-ce qui caractérise la ‘maison’ lévi-straussienne dans l’expression ‘société à maison’, le terme maison étant ici emprunté au Moyen Age français? La maison est effectivement une personne morale. C’est un château, des terres, des serfs, des titres nobiliaires, des armoiries ou des écus, un rang dans les cérémonies, voire des reliques. Mais ce qui la caractérise c’est la façon dont tout cela se transmet en jouant à la fois sur la filiation et sur l’alliance. La maison n’est pas un groupe de consanguins auxquels se sont incorporées des femmes alliées. La maison est cette personne morale, faite de biens matériels et immatériels et qui se transmet en tant que telle, indépendamment de la filiation et de l’alliance. Lévi-Strauss cite le médiéviste Schmid: La lignée noble (Adelsgeschlecht) ne coïncide pas avec la lignée agnatique et elle est même souvent

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dépourvue de base biologique. C’est “un héritage spirituel et matériel, comprenant la dignité, les origines, la parenté, les noms et les symboles, la position, la puissance et la richesse, et assumé (. . .) eu égard à l’ancienneté et la distinction des autres lignées nobles” (1979: 151). Cet ensemble tout est bon 1) pour le transmettre intact, 2) pour le conserver, 3) pour l’agrandir, l’embellir, l’améliorer. Tout, c’est-à-dire aussi bien la filiation que l’alliance voire l’adoption. Il n’y a donc ni patri- ou matrilinéarité mais, par exemple chez les Kwakiutl, une simple tendance à la patrilinéarité. Le gendre peut très bien hériter (même s’il y a des fils, ce qui n’a rien à voir avec le mariage makpa [mag-pa, ‘en gendre’], uxorilocal, très connu dans la plupart des sociétés par ailleurs patrilinéaires), la fille aussi. Tout est question de circonstances, de rapports de prestige, de pouvoir etc. Mais tout cela s’exprime dans le langage de la parenté et de l’alliance. Une fille ‘étrangère’ amènera avec elle des titres et des biens, en réalité parce que la ‘famille’, ou plutôt la maison qui la reçoit, est plus prestigieuse, et qu’elle a intérêt à cet arrangement, mais on dira que c’est parce qu’elle est la bru. Qu’importe si dans d’autres circonstances elle n’apportera rien parce que le rapport entre les deux maisons est différent et que c’est peut-être son mari qui ira vivre dans sa ‘maison’. La seule institution pérenne c’est justement la maison, dans son intégrité, sa continuité voire son désir de croître et de prospérer. Mais cela n’est jamais dit: tout est dit en termes de filiation et d’alliance, voire d’adoption. On voit déjà que le Ladakh, le système traditionnel ladakhi tel qu’il était encore solidement en place il y a une trentaine d’années, n’a rien à voir avec cela. Certes la maison est une personne morale, certes la continuité de la maison est ce qui prime, mais les moyens employés ne sont pas les mêmes. La société ladakhi est strictement patrilinéaire. C’est le fils aîné qui hérite. Les deux ou trois frères plus âgés épousent la même femme. Le patrimoine n’est ainsi pas partagé. L’aîné reste le véritable père, le chef de famille, le chef de la khangpa et le mariage uxorilocal (makpa) n’a lieu que s’il n’y a que des filles. Enfin, s’il y a plus de deux ou trois fils, les autres rejoignent la gonpa (dgon-pa, monastère) ou se font makpa ailleurs (c’est-à-dire vont épouser une fille dans une famille où il n’y a pas de fils) et renoncent à tout droit sur le patrimoine. Les filles elles-mêmes n’ont aucun droit. Mais c’est surtout à travers les caractéristiques des sociétés à maison que le contraste avec le Ladakh se manifeste de façon patente. Ecoutons Lévi-Strauss:

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a) La filiation vaut l’alliance et l’alliance vaut la filiation écrit Lamaison (1977) qui a développé la théorie de Lévi-Strauss (voir aussi Lévi-Strauss 1984: 198). Rien de tel au Ladakh. On n’a jamais vu un gendre hériter, même dans le mariage makpa où c’est le petit-fils qui hérite. On n’a jamais vu une bru apporter autre chose que son trousseau (et non pas une dot). Les droits du sang ( je devrais dire de l’os, rus) sont tels que même dans l’adoption on adopte un parent par le sang. Le système ladakhi est diamétralement opposé au système français (par exemple). En France, l’enfant adopté n’a aucun lien de parenté avec l’adoptant. Et pourtant le droit français interdit le mariage de deux enfants adoptés par le même couple, même s’il est évident qu’il n’y a aucun lien de parenté entre eux, si l’un est Malgache et l’autre Vietnamien. Au Ladakh c’est exactement le contraire. En cas d’absence d’enfant on adopte un enfant parent du père (idéalement le fils du frère du père, FBS) et une enfant parente de la mère (idéalement la fille de la sœur de la mère, MZD) puis on les marie. C’est dire à quel point le ‘sang’ (l’os, rus, du père et le sang thrak (khrag) de la mère, ou sa chair sha) prime. Bien plus, en France un enfant adopté et son père s’appellent père et fils. Au Ladakh on dit ‘oncle’ et ‘neveu’. L’adoption n’efface pas la parenté réelle alors que la France utilise le ‘langage’ de la parenté pour des liens qui n’en sont strictement pas (il ne s’agit pas pour autant d’une société à maison mais, bien sûr, d’une société indifférenciée). Et cela va très loin. Si on ne trouve pas un garçon du côté du père et une fille du côté de la mère alors on fait le contraire: une fille du côté du père et un garçon du côté de la mère. Et dans ce cas le mariage est considéré comme un mariage ‘makpa’, uxorilocal. b) La résidence a tendance à primer sur les liens de parenté. C’est ce qui justifie l’expression ‘société à maison’. Si le gendre choisit le ‘camp’ de son beau-père il déménage avec armes et bagages (entendre biens et titres). De même une bru. Lévi-Strauss donne l’exemple iban: On sait que, chez les Iban, mais aussi ailleurs, cette tension (entre les familles d’un couple) s’exprime dans et par un mode de descendance que Freeman appelle “utrolatéral”, c’est-à-dire l’incorporation des enfants à la famille dans laquelle, au moment de leur naissance, leurs deux parents ont choisi de résider, par libre décision et aussi en réponse aux pressions venues de l’un et de l’autre côté. Les ethnologues se sont donc trompés en cherchant, pour ce type d’institution, un substrat qu’ils ont demandé tantôt à la descendance, tantôt à la propriété, tantôt à la résidence de

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leur fournir. Nous croyons, au contraire, qu’il faut passer de l’idée d’un substrat objectif à celle de l’objectivation d’un rapport: rapport instable d’alliance, que, comme institution, la maison a pour rôle d’immobiliser, fût-ce sous une forme fantasmatique. (1984: 194–95)

Or je n’ai jamais entendu rien de tel au Ladakh. La résidence est strictement patrilocale et virilocale. Le seul cas où un couple essaie de résider chez les parents de la femme est le cas de Chorol décrit par Sophie Day dans sa thèse (1977). Mais cela tourne à la catastrophe (voir mon analyse dans 2000a: 164). L’exemple de l’adoption qui vient d’être décrit le prouve bien. Le fait qu’un enfant vienne vivre sous le toit de son oncle ne change pas son statut de neveu. Les liens de parenté ne sont pas modifiés par la résidence. c) Les mariages dans une société à maison sont toujours anisogamiques c’est-à-dire soit hyper- soit hypogamiques. En effet pour qu’il y ait tout ce jeu d’intérêts qui permet, à travers le mariage, aux biens et aux titres de passer d’une maison à l’autre, il faut que les maisons soient de statut inégal. Or au Ladakh les mariages sont isogamiques. Une grande partie des négociations qui précèdent le mariage tendent à vérifier que les deux futurs conjoints sont de statut comparable. Le seul cas d’anisogamie (d’hypogamie) que j’ai rencontré est celui d’une femme de la famille royale de Stok qui avait épousé un mangriks (dmangs-rigs, disons un membre du tiers-état pour trouver un équivalent français, en fait le membre d’une famille de sergar ( gser-mgar), orfèvre) à Choglamsar (2000b: 184, 192) ce qui effectivement avait augmenté le prestige de sa famille d’adoption. d) Les sociétés à maison alternent les mariages éloignés et les mariages approchés. En effet on épouse loin pour acquérir titres et biens, puis au plus proche (un demi-germain par exemple) pour garder les privilèges acquis. Faut-il le dire? Rien de tel au Ladakh. Le mariage dans un degré rapproché est exclu, puisque dans le système traditionnel il était interdit d’épouser jusqu’au 7ème degré canon. Les mariages sont le plus souvent à bonne distance, ni trop proches, ni trop éloignés, dans tous les sens de ces termes. e) Conséquence du point précédent, les sociétés à maison transcendent les règles d’endogamie et d’exogamie. Tel n’est pas le cas au Ladakh. L’endogamie de strate, riks (rigs), est très stricte (cf le point c) et l’exogamie de phaspun était encore strictement

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pratiquée dans le Sham, il y a une vingtaine d’années, dans la région de Leh il y a une trentaine d’années. f ) Enfin les sociétés à maison sont un état intermédiaire entre les sociétés à groupe d’unifiliation et les sociétés indifférenciées. D’où leur instabilité et le flou de leurs règles. D’où peut-être aussi l’usage du vocabulaire de la parenté et de l’alliance dont elles ne sont pas dégagées. Par exemple Boas note chez les Kwakiutl une tendance théorique à la patrilinéarité, contrariée par le fait que les filles amènent des biens en dot. Ailleurs on présentera comme une ‘exception’ à la règle le fait qu’un gendre succède à son beau-père. Le conflit entre les paternels et les maternels est constant, sans que pour autant on arrive au rééquilibrage que constituent les sociétés indifférenciées. Là encore rien de tel au Ladakh où le système était stable jusqu’à une date récente. Il n’y a pas la moindre trace de cognatisme dans le Ladakh traditionnel (sauf en ce qui concerne l’interdiction du mariage, puisque l’on compte les degrés de parenté des deux côtés). Les filles n’ont aucun droit à la propriété, et le raktak (les biens que la fille apporte avec elle au mariage) n’est pas une dot mais un trousseau (voir Phylactou). A mon avis la meilleure preuve que le Ladakh n’est pas une société à maison réside dans la notion de gyut stonces (brgyud ston-byes) c’est-à-dire d’extinction de la lignée. Puisque la ‘maison’ est toujours dépourvue de base biologique et que tout est bon pour la maintenir en biaisant avec les règles tout en continuant à utiliser le langage de la parenté, il ne devrait pas y avoir d’extinction de ligne ou de lignée. Lévi-Strauss donne lui-même l’exemple kwakiutl: “un individu désireux d’ ‘entrer dans une maison’ où il n’y avait pas de fille à marier, épousait symboliquement un fils et, à défaut de fils, une partie du corps—bras ou jambe—du chef de maison ou même une pièce de mobilier”. Et voilà, le tour est joué: il suffit de faire entrer quelqu’un en lui faisant épouser un coffre et il n’y a plus de gyut stonces. Inutile de dire que cela est impensable au Ladakh. Le gyut stonces n’est pas théorique. Sander (1984) en donne un exemple et Dollfus aussi (1989: 58). Ce dernier est très intéressant car il s’agit de la famille noble de Himis Shukpa Chan avec le titre de lhonpo (blonpo). Aujourd’hui la terre de cette famille a été réoccupée par d’autres et la maison s’appelle toujours lhonpo, mais ses habitants ne sont pas pour autant considérés comme des lhonpo, comme des nobles, et ne sont pas habilités à effectuer les obligations rituelles de l’ancien lhonpo. Une fois de plus, le sang prime de façon absolue.

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Khangpa et Phaspun Il n’en reste pas moins que la résidence, le sol, l’espace, l’intérieur (nang) sont des données importantes. Phylactou raconte dans sa thèse qu’une femme avait fait scandale en accouchant chez ses propres parents et non chez son mari. Finalement les choses s’étaient arrangées parce qu’elle et son mari appartenaient au même phaspun (il s’agit d’un des premiers cas de mariage à l’intérieur d’un phaspun au Bas-Ladakh). L’histoire m’avait tellement intrigué que j’ai mené une enquête à ce sujet. On m’a constamment confirmé 1) qu’une femme doit accoucher dans la maison de son mari, (on doit aussi mourir dans sa maison) 2) que sinon c’est toute une histoire, qu’il faut faire toute une série d’offrandes et de purifications (idem en cas de décès), 3) mais que la femme peut accoucher dans une autre maison appartenant au phaspun de son mari (ici aussi idem pour la mort). Mais, m’a-t-on précisé, si une femme accouche dans une maison appartenant à un autre phaspun, l’enfant appartient en dernière instance à la maison de son père et au phaspun de son père. Autrement dit on essaie de faire coïncider espace et institutions, mais en dernière instance, en cas de conflit, le ‘sang’ prime sur la résidence. Tout le contraire d’une société à maison. C’est ce qu’avait déjà prouvé l’analyse de l’adoption.8 Une Caricature de Société Patrilinéaire L’exemple de l’adoption montre que le Ladakh (entendre la vallée de l’Indus) est non seulement une société strictement patrilinéaire, mais qu’elle en est même une caricature. Une caricature? Pas si sûr. Le Zanskar, région enclavée au sud de la vallée de l’Indus, présente un portrait encore plus accentué. Les Zanskari, en effet, distinguent rus (os) de phaspun. La population du Zanskar est organisée en lignées qu’elle appelle ruspa (rus-pa, “os” (. . .). Les enfants appartiennent de naissance au ruspa de leur père, et ils en restent membres jusqu’à la fin de leur vie. (. . .) En général un homme ne va pas se marier à une femme appartenant au même ruspa (. . .) pour cette raison la femme appartient à un ruspa différent de celui de son mari et de ses enfants, mais au même que celui de son père et de ses frères et sœurs. (Dargyay 1988: 128, ma traduction)

8 Précisons que tout cela n’est valable que dans la vallée de l’Indus. D’après ce que m’écrit Isabelle Riaboff ce n’est pas vrai au Zanskar.

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N’appartiennent au rus que les descendants en ligne agnatique, lesquels (cette fois-ci c’est très clair, cf. Riaboff 1997, et voir aussi Gutschow 1995) remontent à un ancêtre commun. Quant au phaspun, c’est le même groupe agnatique coiffé, comme dans la vallée de l’Indus, d’un pha(z)lha ( pha-lha), divinité tutélaire, plus les épouses (ibid.). Ainsi la femme quittet-elle, comme dans la vallée de l’Indus, son phaspun et son pha(z)lha, mais elle continue à appartenir au rus de son père. Cette distinction est très théorique, un peu artificielle et surtout peu opératoire puisque, dans la pratique, la femme vit dans la khangpa et dans le phaspun de son mari, et que le rus n’est qu’un concept abstrait, sans applications pratiques, rituelles par exemple. Il n’en reste pas moins qu’elle existe.9 En fait Zanskari et Kwakiutl représentent les deux extrêmes, les deux pôles entre lesquels on peut intercaler toute une série de sociétés unilinéaires, avec des règles plus ou moins souples d’intégration des éléments étrangers: adoption, enlèvement, cooptation, mariage, fusion et scissions, réécriture de l’histoire etc. Pour une Nouvelle Theorie du PHASPUN10 Mon hypothèse serait la suivante: la khangpa est une unité compacte, insécable, immobile. Elle ne peut recevoir un nouvel élément (un nouveau-né, une jeune mariée) ni en perdre un (une fiancée qui part, un défunt). C’est le phaspun qui alors prend le relais de la khangpa afin de permettre l’intégration ou la perte d’une personne.

9 Un détail montre bien cette différence entre la vallée de l’Indus et le Zanskar. Au mariage une procession, composée uniquement d’hommes, part de la maison du fiancé portant un dadar (mda’-dar, flèche habillée) qui représente la fiancée. Elle revient avec la fiancée et la flèche, l’une et l’autre étant à la fin installées dans la maison du fiancé devenu mari. Au Zanskar il y a deux flèches, l’une qui suit le même procès que dans la vallée de l’Indus, et l’autre qui reste chez la fille. On peut suggérer que la première représente la fille devenue membre d’une nouvelle khangpa et d’un nouveau phaspun, et la seconde la même fille appartenant toujours au rus de son père. 10 Isabelle Riaboff, à qui j’ai envoyé une première version de cet article et qui m’a fait nombre de commentaires très utiles, me fait remarquer deux choses à propos du Zanskar. La première est que le phaspun n’y joue absolument aucun rôle au mariage. D’autre part qu’une femme peut très bien accoucher hors de chez ses phaspun, et que c’est fréquent surtout pour la première naissance à l’occasion de laquelle la jeune mère préfère accoucher chez ses propres parents. En conséquence de quoi à partir de cet endroit, notre article se concentrera uniquement sur le Ladakh proprement dit, c’est-à-dire la vallée de l’Indus.

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Cette compacité de la khangpa n’est pas quelque chose de nouveau. Grist avait déjà démontré (1977), à travers l’analyse des règles de l’héritage, que la khangpa glisse sur elle-même (cf aussi Phylactou 1989: ch. 2 et 3). Cela réapparaît dans la notion de gyut (brgyud ), mot qui signifie aussi bien ligne, trait, que lignée (lineage) mais pas lignage. Untel n’est skutraks (sku-drag, noble) ou amchi (Am-ci, médecin traditionnel) que parce tel est le cas depuis toujours dans cette khangpa. Mais cela ne fait pas pour autant de la société ladakhi une société à maison. C’est parce que—nous l’avons vu—les règles de maintien du groupe agnatique sont strictement respectées, qu’on peut faire abstraction d’un arbre généalogique et être sûr que l’appartenance à une khangpa implique la possession d’un titre (de noblesse par exemple) ou d’une profession. La continuité et la compacité de la khangpa apparaissent dans le rituel du yangguk ( g.yang-’gugs).11 Sophie Day l’a démontré pour le yangguk en général (1989: 151, cf aussi Phylactou 1989: 198–99) qui marque le repli de la khangpa sur elle-même, son glissement et sa continuité à travers la lignée agnatique. Phylactou de son côté montre, à travers l’analyse du yangguk pratiqué au moment du mariage, la difficulté de détacher une personne de la khangpa: le yangguk est justifié par la peur que la fiancée emporte tous les biens avec elle. Cela confirme bien que la khangpa est un tout compact, personnes et biens pris ensemble (1989: 252–53). C’est cette compacité de la khangpa qui empêche de saisir le phaspun comme un groupe avec ancêtre commun, c’est-à-dire un arbre généalogique. Le phaspun, dans ce cas du moins, est un groupe de khangpa et non de personnes. Tout au plus peut-on envisager une scission de khangpa. Dans certains rituels, l’individu doit faire appel à son plus proche phaspun (rappelons que phaspun désigne le groupe ou le membre du groupe). C’est par exemple le cas de celui qui, allant chercher la mariée, porte le gulus, c’est-à-dire un jeu complet de vêtements de femme. Il est censé être le plus proche phaspun du fiancé. Il n’est pas présenté comme un cousin plus ou moins lointain dont on pourrait remonter le lien de parenté avec le fiancé mais, en l’absence d’arbre généalogique, leur lien est expliqué par une scission. Les deux phaspun les plus proches appartiennent à deux maisons qui sont considérées comme étant issues de la scission d’une même maison. On dit khangpa gongyok (khang-pa gong-ma

11 Yangguk, cérémonie destinée à maintenir ou à accroître la richesse d’une maisonnée. On opère toujours un yangguk chez la fiancée à l’occasion d’un mariage.

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yog-ma) c’est-à-dire “khangpa du haut et du bas”. Et d’autres de dire: “Les phaspun doivent nous aider car ils sont issus d’une scission de notre maison”. Ceci explique peut-être que la khangpa est la seule institution qui n’a pas de divinité tutélaire, de lha.12 On constate que toutes les institutions, individu, phaspun, village, palais, monastère ont par contre un lha (skelha, skyes-lha; pha(z)lha; yul-lha; (r)tse-lha ou gurlha; gonlha, dgon-lha) (Kaplanian 1977). Le lha est comme une accolade, comme le trait du diagramme de Venn, qui unit plusieurs éléments, plusieurs unités discrètes ensemble. La khangpa en tant qu’unité compacte et indivisible n’est pas faite d’unités discrètes. En résumé, la khangpa est un espace fermé, replié sur lui-même, qui se reproduit à l’identique. Il est représenté par le gyut, la ligne qui glisse le long d’elle-même. Elle est à l’opposé de l’arbre généalogique: toutes les branches sont coupées pour qu’il ne reste que le tronc. La polyandrie fraternelle et l’envoi de fils au monastère ou vers des mariages makpa sont les moyens utilisés pour élaguer l’arbre. Elle forme une masse compacte et indivisible. Par contre le phaspun, même sans ancêtre commun, est comme un arbre qui se développe et s’épanouit. C’est un ensemble d’individus, d’unités discrètes, séparées. Les deux concepts sont contradictoires. Les Rites de Passage: La Naissance Lors des rites de passage, le phaspun se substitue à la khangpa sans pour autant complètement effacer cette dernière. Cette substitution facilite l’arrivée d’un nouveau venu ou la perte d’une personne. Ainsi la femme peut accoucher dans n’importe quelle maison du phaspun. Cela veut dire que le phaspun dans son ensemble a remplacé la khangpa. C’est à ce moment-là qu’un dadar (mda’-dar, flèche habillée) est planté dans un bo (mesure d’orge). Tant que l’enfant est représenté par ce dadar, il n’est pas tout à fait intégré dans la khangpa. Il ne le sera qu’au bout d’un mois, au ldagang (zla-gang) (Brauen 1980: 37–38), la fête finale qui conclut toute la série rituelle de la naissance. L’intégration de l’enfant se fait en trois temps: • Dans un premier temps la femme accouche théoriquement dans n’importe quelle maison du phaspun, en pratique le plus souvent chez son mari. Le cordon ombilical n’est pas coupé. L’enfant est et n’est pas 12

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une nouvelle personne séparée du corps de la mère. Il l’est malgré tout puisqu’elle a accouché et qu’il est représenté par le dadar. • Dans un second temps le cordon ombilical est coupé. L’enfant, plus éloigné du corps de la mère, plus autonome en tant que personne physique, n’est toujours pas intégré: il est toujours représenté par le dadar. C’est à ce moment-là qu’apparaît le dzemces (verbe qui signifie ‘ne pas recevoir de nourriture de’; nga dzemat: ‘je ne mange pas chez eux’). La khangpa du nouveau-né est polluée. Seuls les membres du phaspun peuvent recevoir de la nourriture de la maison polluée, respirer la fumée de son foyer et utiliser ses plats. Les autres maisons, pendant une durée qui dépend de leur propre pha(z)lha (zéro, sept, quinze ou trente jours), ne peuvent recevoir de nourriture de la maison polluée sans déclencher la colère du lha en question. Nous sommes donc dans une période intermédiaire. La khangpa réapparaît mais elle est polluée. Parce qu’elle peut donner sa nourriture aux autres membres du phaspun, elle reste intégrée au phaspun dont elle se détache néanmoins en tant que khangpa polluée. Les autres khangpa du phaspun peuvent recevoir sa nourriture, tout comme elles peuvent donner à manger aux autres maisons du village. Ce qui leur fait souvent jouer ce rôle, d’où l’aspect ‘groupe d’entraide’. D’un côté elles sont donc solidaires de la khangpa polluée en tant qu’appartenant au même phaspun qu’elles et de l’autre elles entretiennent avec le reste du monde des relations normales de khangpa à khangpa. • Dans une troisième phase le dzemces est terminé, le dadar est retiré, l’enfant est définitivement intégré à la khangpa, et à la khangpa avant tout. Le symbolisme du dadar est quant à lui très simple. Il est planté dans une mesure de céréales, un pot cylindrique taillé d’une seule pièce appelé bo et rempli d’orge. L’unité de la khangpa c’est ce bo, dont les membres sont les grains d’orge auxquels on agrège un nouvel arrivant représenté par ce dadar qui est planté dedans.

La Mort Les règles sont les mêmes en cas de décès. On peut mourir dans n’importe quelle maison du phaspun, mais pas en dehors (ou alors, comme à la naissance, il faut faire toute une série d’offrandes et de sacrifices aux lha). Mais, ici, le remplacement de la khangpa par le phaspun est encore plus fort: tous les membres du phaspun sont là pour aider. Autrement dit le phaspun est devenu une grande famille, une grande khangpa, dans laquelle la khangpa s’est dissoute. Là aussi la perte se fait en trois phases. Dans la première le cadavre est dans la maison (ou une maison du phaspun). Il n’y a pas encore perte. Il n’y a dzemces qu’à partir de l’incinération. A l’incinération il y a perte.

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Le mort est parti. Il a quitté la khangpa-phaspun (l’expression est de moi). C’est là que le dzemces apparaît. Comme dans le cas de la naissance, le dzemces marque un début de reconstitution de la khangpa dans l’ensemble phaspun à cause des règles déjà énoncées. Dans un troisième temps, la perte est définitivement assumée. Le dzemces disparaît. On le voit bien, le dzemces n’a rien à voir avec une pollution qui serait due au cadavre. Au moment où les phaspun lavent et arrangent le cadavre, il n’y a pas de dzemces. Ce n’est qu’après l’incinération, quand la perte est devenue réelle, qu’il y a pollution. Un Début de Synthèse Pourquoi la reprise en main de la khangpa par elle-même prend-elle la forme d’interdits alimentaires, plus précisément d’interdits de commensalité? Parce que—groupe cultuel d’entraide oblige—en période de crise le phaspun est devenu cette grande famille, une sorte de grande khangpa unique où tout le monde met la main à la pâte. C’est d’ailleurs souvent ce que disent les Ladakhi: “le phaspun c’est comme une famille.” Et cet aspect “groupe d’entraide” touche avant tout à la nourriture.13 Le nombre d’invités peut être impressionnant et c’est le phaspun qui assure la main-d’œuvre. Cette grande famille est un groupe de personnes physiques et non plus de khangpa, d’où sa capacité à intégrer ou perdre un élément. Une fois le nouvel élément capté dans les mailles du filet, ou une fois le trou dans le filet recousu, la khangpa traditionnelle doit se reformer. Dans la période intermédiaire, les liens avec les autres phaspun restent privilégiés dans la mesure où le dzemces ne les concerne pas: mais une faille est apparue puisque seule la khangpa est polluée. On objectera qu’il peut y avoir dzemces sans que cet aspect groupe d’entraide n’apparaisse, ce qui est le cas pour la naissance où l’aspect entraide est très limité, parfois inexistant. Mais le seul fait de pouvoir accoucher dans n’importe quelle maison du phaspun suffit à transformer la khangpa en khangpa-phaspun: c’est comme si toutes les maisons n’en formaient qu’une puisqu’on peut accoucher dans n’importe laquelle. En d’autres termes la contradiction entre les deux institutions a disparu.

13 Mais pas uniquement. C’est un phaspun qui va chercher les moines, ce sont des phaspun qui lavent le cadavre etc.

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Dans la géométrie de l’espace ladakhi, la somme de plusieurs espaces fermés peut former un espace fermé unique.14 L’appartenance de l’enfant au phaspun ne fait aucun doute, et cela dès la naissance, peut-être même dès la conception. Justement parce que le phaspun est un GFU. La filiation suffit donc. Par contre l’idéal de la khangpa c’est l’immobilité. Immobilité représentée par ce glissement sur elle-même.15 Mais un enfant qui naît est bien un nouveau venu qui brise l’immobilité, l’égalité à elle-même de la khangpa. Même réflexion pour un défunt qui la quitte. Il faut alors ‘casser’ la maison pour en faire un groupe de personnes physiques, d’unités discrètes, qui peut intégrer ou perdre une personne de plus ou de moins. La maison doit ensuite se ressouder. C’est ce qu’elle fait en rompant les relations commensales ce qui l’aide à se replier sur elle-même. Mort et Naissance Ceci dit en cas de décès les choses sont un peu plus compliquées. a) Je viens d’écrire qu’en cas de naissance le dzemces commence très exactement lorsque l’on coupe le cordon ombilical, c’est-à-dire lorsque l’enfant, séparé du corps de la mère, devient vraiment une personne de plus. En cas de décès il y a aussi un moment très précis: lorsque l’uksapa (celui qui a du chagrin, uksa), à savoir celui qui a porté le cadavre de la maison au catafalque (parfois, s’il n’y a pas de catafalque, il porte le cadavre jusqu’au lieu de crémation, situé à la limite du village, en dehors de l’espace cultivé), franchit la porte au retour. L’uksapa est en principe le fils aîné, à défaut le conjoint etc. et, en l’absence de parents, un phaspun (on retrouve ici la règle de l’héritage de Dainelli). On peut penser que, même décédé au sens biologique et occidental du terme, le défunt n’est toujours pas parti tant que l’incinération n’a pas eu lieu. On peut aussi penser que la paire uksapa-cadavre est comparable à la paire mère-enfant avant la coupure du cordon ombilical. La question est alors: pourquoi, en cas de décès, le dzemces se déclenche-t-il au moment précis où l’uksapa franchit la porte à son retour de la crémation? Y a-t-il quelque chose de comparable au cordon ombilical et au corps 14 Cf. khangpa = khangchen + khangchung: la maison principale et les maisons annexes ne forment qu’une seule entité. 15 Un garçon est choisi pour la cérémonie du yangguk parce qu’il n’est pas censé quitter la maison un jour.

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de la mère? On peut imaginer que l’uksapa, se chargeant du cadavre, se met, même pendant un court instant, dans une position fusionnelle comparable au couple mère-enfant. Et que, lorsqu’il le relâche—soit qu’il le pose sur le rumkhang (ro-khang, crématorium), soit qu’il le pose sur le catafalque—il se produit une véritable séparation comparable à celle de la mère et de l’enfant, que le défunt a vraiment quitté ce monde, et qu’il manque une personne à la khangpa. Il est en effet le parent le plus proche du défunt. Mais si le couple mère-enfant est comparable au couple uksapa-défunt, en quoi la coupure du cordon ombilical est-elle comparable au franchissement d’une porte? Parce que l’uksapa est dehors au moment de la crémation, et que ce n’est qu’au retour, au moment du franchissement de la porte, au moment où il réapparaît seul, que la perte devient manifeste. De même que la naissance ne devient effective que lors de la séparation de la paire mère-enfant, manifestée par la coupure du cordon ombilical, et ce dans la maison, de même le décès ne devient effectif que lorsque la disparition du corps du défunt des bras de l’uksapa, est constatée au retour dans la maison. Ainsi, si l’intégration du nouveau-né dans le phaspun découle tout simplement de sa naissance et le départ du défunt du même phaspun de sa crémation, l’intégration du nouveau-né dans la khangpa découle dans un premier temps d’une sorte de ‘scission’ de sa mère, scission qui est évidente biologiquement. Et il en est de même du départ du défunt de la khangpa. Comme cette fois-là la chose n’est pas évidente biologiquement, elle est créée rituellement. C’est le personnage qui fait l’objet d’un ‘dédoublement’ qui, une fois qu’il se retrouve lui-même séparé de son ‘double’, et cela à l’intérieur, qui induit la pollution. Pourquoi cette scissiparité? Parce qu’elle relève de la logique de la khangpa, et non pas de celle du phaspun. On l’a déjà vu à propos des scissions de maisons. On objectera alors que, si l’on peut choisir un seul parent considéré comme le plus proche comme uksapa, on ne peut éviter le fait qu’un enfant descend à la fois d’un père et d’une mère. Mais justement (Kaplanian, 1981: 246–47) le père subit le même sort que l’uksapa: ou bien il est en dehors de la maison au moment de la naissance et il n’est pas pollué tant qu’il n’y entre pas, ou bien il est à l’intérieur de la maison, est violemment pollué et n’a plus le droit de sortir. S’il sort, il doit prendre des précautions draconiennes, ne pas s’approcher d’un cours d’eau et de tout endroit habité par les esprits de l’eau, de la fertilité et du sous-sol que sont les lhu (klu) ni de l’autel d’un lha. Et cette très forte pollution—que j’avais appelée pangak par opposition au dzemces—mais la terminologie est floue—se déclenche aussi au moment de la coupure du cordon ombilical.

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b) D’autre part la procession qui amène le cadavre jusqu’au lieu de crémation n’est composée que d’hommes, parents, voisins, amis et membres du phaspun (lesquels se distinguent par le port d’une ceinture spéciale). Il est donc à penser que, contrairement à la naissance, il ne suffit pas, pour qu’un individu quitte le monde d’ici-bas, de dissoudre la khangpa dans le phaspun. Il faut a) séparer les hommes et les femmes b) quitter la maison. Ici un petit commentaire est nécessaire pour mieux comprendre. Si dans la vallée de l’Indus, contrairement à ce qui se passe au Zanskar, les femmes quittent totalement le phaspun paternel et intègrent le phaspun marital, le phaspun n’en reste pas moins une affaire d’hommes. Tout ce qui relève du culte du pha(z)lha, par exemple le renouvellement annuel de l’autel extérieur (lhatho; lha-tho) du pha(z)lha, est effectué par les hommes, et les hommes uniquement. Et cela se passe dehors (voir Rigal 2000, Kaplanian 2000b). Les femmes restent à l’intérieur de la maison. Dans le cas du village de Chiling, Rigal note même une coordination entre les activités culinaires des femmes dedans et celle des hommes dehors, sur la terrasse de la maison. Ce n’est véritablement que lorsque hommes et femmes sont séparés que le phaspun, masculin, trouve toute sa mesure. Ceci n’est possible que lorsque les hommes sont hors de la maison. En d’autres termes, la khangpa, cette unité compacte et, sinon insécable, du moins difficilement sécable, ne prend véritablement tout son sens que lorsque hommes et femmes sont réunis dans le cadre de la famille, dedans. Le phaspun relève d’une société purement masculine, dehors, et sans khangpa. C’est cette société là dont les individus sont des unités discrètes, véritablement séparées les une des autres, de telle sorte que l’une d’elles (un défunt) peut partir. Le mécanisme n’est donc pas tout à fait le même pour la naissance et pour la mort. Réunis sous forme de grande famille, les membres du phaspun, masculins et féminins, accueillent un nouvel arrivant, puis les khangpa se reforment à l’aide du mécanisme du dzemces. Mais dans le cas d’un décès ce n’est pas suffisant. Comme si le phaspun, devenu une grande khangpa, une grande famille, était encore trop soudé. Mais alors pourquoi cette différence? La réponse est très simple. Alors que le nouveau-né doit simplement intégrer la khangpa (il a déjà intégré le phaspun dès sa naissance en vertu de la règle d’unifiliation), le défunt quitte et la khangpa et le phaspun et même le monde des humains. D’où l’incinération au-delà de la limite des champs cultivés. D’où aussi non seulement la dissolution de la khangpa dans le phaspun, pour lui permettre de quitter la khangpa, mais un retour au phaspun lui-même, une déstructuration

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de la société, un retour aux temps primitifs en quelque sorte, à un âge d’or sans femme et sans maison. c) Reste une troisième différence: pourquoi n’y a-t-il pas de flèche en cas de décès? De la même façon qu’on plante une flèche pour intégrer un nouveau venu on pourrait en retirer une pour marquer un départ. Vraisemblablement parce que le dadar représente un être vivant. Il y a même eu un informateur pour me dire que le corps de la flèche était le srok (srog)—ce mot difficile à traduire que l’on pourrait rendre par ‘esprit’ ou ‘âme’—de la personne représentée. Avant d’attaquer le mariage, faisons donc le point. Dans le cas de la naissance une nouvelle personne physique est intégrée. Elle devient personne physique à part entière lorsque le cordon ombilical est coupé et qu’elle est séparée du corps de la mère. A ce moment-là commence le dzemces, lequel marque la séparation absolue d’une khangpa avec les khangpa des autres phaspun et la séparation relative de ladite khangpa avec les autres khangpa du même phaspun. Le dzemces sert à reconstituer les khangpa au sein du phaspun, de passer d’un système, les groupes exogamiques, à un autre, les familles enfermées et glissant sur elles-mêmes. Pour recevoir une personne physique du dedans, pour l’arrivée d’un nouveau-né, il suffit donc de transformer la khangpa en khangpa-phaspun . Pour un partant qui doit quitter les murs de la maison et se rendre à l’extérieur, pour un défunt que l’on doit emmener au crématorium, cela ne suffit pas. Il faut constituer une société d’hommes uniquement lesquels se situent à l’extérieur, à l’extérieur de la maison, fut-elle transformée en khangpa-phaspun. Le Mariage Dans le mariage enfin les phaspun se substituent aux khangpa. Cela Phylactou l’a déjà démontré. Les choses se passent comme si les négociations avaient lieu entre deux groupes de phaspun. Et ce sont les membres du phaspun du garçon qui remercient lorsque chez la fiancée on énumère le trousseau, lequel trousseau est ramené par un ou plusieurs phaspun avec toujours le gulus (que quelquefois, dit-on, la fiancée porte). Si l’on reprend le raisonnement qui précède, on devrait avoir, d’une part, une maisonnée (khangpa) qui perd un membre et, d’autre part, une autre qui incorpore un nouveau membre. On devrait donc trouver d’une part un mécanisme comparable à ce qui se produit en cas de

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décès et de l’autre un mécanisme comparable à ce qui se produit en cas de naissance. Or ce n’est pas tout à fait le cas: il n’y a dzemces, ni dans la maison qui perd une fille (que je note K2), ni dans celle qui reçoit une femme (K1). En fait le processus du mariage est assez différent des deux autres rites de passage. Peut-être parce que ces derniers sont l’objet de l’arrivée d’une personne totalement nouvelle ou du départ définitif de quelqu’un. On passe de 0 à 1 ou de 1 à 0. Ici il y a le passage d’une jeune fille d’un phaspun (P2) à un autre (P1) et d’une khangpa (K2) à une autre (K1), mais ni apparition, ni disparition de ladite personne. Ou bien parce qu’il y a deux khangpa en cause au lieu d’une seule. C’est ce que l’analyse devra éclaircir. Un rapide résumé des étapes est ici nécessaire (pour les détails Brauen 1980 et Phylactou 1989): • Chez le garçon, avant même le départ de la procession, un dadar est planté dans un bo. • La procession se met en route pour aller chercher la fiancée. Elle comprend le père du garçon, l’oncle maternel, azhang (A-zhang), le nathritpa (sna-’khrid-pa), celui qui tient la flèche qu’il a donc retirée du bo dans la maison, le phaspun qui tient le gulus (voir plus haut), d’autres phaspun qui portent un sac vide et qui rapporteront le trousseau, enfin des parents, des voisins et des amis, tous de sexe masculin. • La procession est reçue dans la famille de la fille, devenue pour l’occasion khangpa-phaspun. Le dadar est provisoirement replanté dans un bo. Il y a une vingtaine d’années dans le Bas-Ladakh (Sham) elle était aussi reçue à l’extérieur de la maison par les hommes du village ou du quartier et par les hommes uniquement. Et pendant cette cérémonie extérieure la flèche était, là aussi, provisoirement plantée dans un bo. L’intérieur de la maison était essentiellement occupé par les femmes. Et ce sont les hommes du phaspun qui assuraient le service. • La procession, essentiellement le nathritpa, va chercher la jeune fille à l’intérieur. Dans la cuisine on procède au déballage du raktak (rag-tag, le trousseau) dont la liste complète est établie par l’azhang de la jeune fille. Les membres du phaspun du fiancé présents remercient. Une cérémonie du yangguk a lieu. • La procession se remet en marche, le nathritpa tenant toujours la flèche et escortant la fille. Un phaspun du fiancé rapporte le gulus, d’autres phaspun portent le raktak (le trousseau), l’oncle maternel du garçon et le père sont toujours là. En principe il n’y a pas de filles à l’exception d’une ‘assistante’, le plus souvent une tante, idéalement une ane (c’està-dire une sœur du père) de la fille, mais aujourd’hui quelques filles se glissent pour accompagner leur ‘copine’. • Avant l’arrivée à la demeure du fiancé a lieu une cérémonie pour éliminer le bakkyak (bag-gyag), ce quelque chose de mauvais (kyak, gyag)

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patrick kaplanian que la fiancée (bagma, bag-ma) apporte avec elle. (Description détaillée dans Brauen 1980: 63) • A l’arrivée chez le garçon a lieu une cérémonie pendant laquelle les deux fiancés mangent une cuillerée du même plat. D’autre part, le dadar est replanté dans le bo. Il sera retiré quelque temps plus tard. Une grande fête commence à ce moment-là.

On peut se poser une première question: pourquoi la fiancée est-elle représentée par une flèche habillée? La question est d’ailleurs double: 1. Pourquoi la fiancée est-elle représentée par une flèche à l’aller, alors qu’elle devrait être absente, puisqu’elle attend dans la maison de destination? Pourquoi la flèche est-elle fabriquée et part-elle d’une maison dont elle ne fait pas encore partie? Et pourquoi va-t-elle à la rencontre d’elle-même, si on peut dire? 2. Pourquoi est-elle toujours représentée à son retour alors qu’elle est physiquement présente, cela ne fait-il pas double emploi?

On commencera par cette toute dernière question. Evidemment le rapprochement est à faire avec la naissance. Le bébé est représenté tant qu’il n’est pas totalement intégré à sa nouvelle khangpa. De la même façon la fiancée, nouvelle venue, fait et ne fait pas encore partie de sa nouvelle maison. Il faut un temps d’intégration où elle est représentée tout en étant présente. Elle ne devient intégrée qu’après son arrivée dans sa future maison, après avoir mangé une cuillerée du même plat que son mari. Car—comme dit plus haut—si le fondement du phaspun ce sont les liens de sang (d’ ‘os’ pour les Ladakhi) le fondement de la khangpa est la commensalité. On peut faire le parallèle avec le dzemces: la pollution est liée à la commensalité. Cela consiste à ne pas manger de la nourriture cuisinée par la famille polluée, à ne pas respirer la fumée du foyer pollué, et à ne pas manger dans la vaisselle (aussi propre soit-elle) de la famille polluée. Quant à la raison pour laquelle elle est déjà représentée lors de la procession à l’aller, la réponse réside dans le concept d’ome rin (oma’i rin, ‘le prix du lait’). Il s’agit d’un dédommagement que la famille preneuse donne à la famille donneuse pour avoir élevé la fille. En d’autres termes la fille était provisoirement chez ses parents biologiques. Une fois ceux-ci dédommagés pour avoir éduqué une fille qui n’appartenait pas vraiment à leur maison, la fille peut appartenir une fois pour toutes à la maisonnée à laquelle elle a finalement toujours appartenu. Ainsi s’explique peut-être l’absence de dzemces. Contrairement à la naissance ou au décès, il n’y a pas vraiment perte d’un côté, ni vraiment intégration d’une nouvelle personne de l’autre. La représentation par le dadar, d’une

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part, la cérémonie qui consiste à manger dans le même plat, de l’autre, suffisent à l’intégration définitive dans K1. La représentation par le dadar suffit aussi au départ de K2. Un détail illustre parfaitement le fait que la fille est déjà présente dans la maison à laquelle elle va appartenir. La procession qui va chercher la fiancée est polluée. Elle ne peut être reçue par aucune maison en route et, à l’époque où, avant l’arrivée de la voiture, elle devait parfois marcher plusieurs jours, elle devait camper. Ainsi, dans le cas du mariage, il n’y a dzemces que si la procession entre dans une maison sur le parcours, une maison qui n’a rien à voir avec les groupes alliés. Or les Ladakhi expliquent cela par le bakkyak, ce quelque chose de mauvais que la fiancée apporte avec elle. Mais quand on leur fait remarquer que la fiancée est absente à l’aller et que, à l’aller du moins, la procession ne devrait pas être polluante, le paradoxe ne semble pas les gêner. C’est qu’en fait elle n’est pas aussi absente que cela. Il faudra expliquer ce dzemces sur le trajet. Donc la jeune fille est déjà là dans K1. Mais que signifie ce ‘déjà là’? Est-elle déjà là en tant que membre du phaspun de son futur mari? Ou de sa khangpa? Ou des deux? La comparaison avec la naissance où le nouveau-né est, dès l’accouchement, représenté par une flèche elle aussi plantée dans un bo et qui, dans ce premier stade, n’est que membre du phaspun laisse entendre que c’est du phaspun qu’elle fait déjà partie. Mais la comparaison avec le décès incite à penser l’inverse, puisque le défunt quitte d’abord la khangpa avant de quitter le phaspun hors les murs escorté d’une procession masculine. Trois détails laissent penser que c’est à la khangpa qu’elle est déjà partiellement intégrée. Le premier est l’ome rin, car c’est une maisonnée qui dédommage une autre maisonnée du prix du lait semble-t-il et non un phaspun. Le second est le fait que la jeune fille dit formellement adieu à son pha(z)lha lorsqu’elle part de chez elle (P2) et monte saluer son nouveau pha(z)lha lorsqu’elle arrive dans sa nouvelle demeure (P1). Le troisième est que c’est du bo que la flèche est retirée par le nathritpa et nous savons maintenant que le bo représente la maison. Mais laissons pour le moment cette question en suspens. Notons simplement que, si la jeune fille fait déjà partie de la khangpa K1, elle est là en tant que fille ou en tant que sœur. Lorsqu’elle y ‘reviendra’, ce sera en tant qu’épouse. Donc la jeune fille ne change pas de maison. En fait elle change et elle ne change pas de maison et la contradiction est bel et bien là. Car, ome rin ou pas, elle est quand même née ailleurs et il faut bien qu’elle quitte la demeure paternelle pour rejoindre celle de son époux. D’une part, de

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par la règle de filiation elle appartient au phaspun de son père, d’autre part elle a été introduite dans la maisonnée familiale par les cérémonies qui suivent la naissance décrites plus haut et qui sont les mêmes pour les garçons et les filles. Pour aller plus loin il faut décomposer le mariage en quatre mouvements. Le premier est le départ de la flèche-fiancée de la maison du garçon K1; le second, son arrivée à la maison de la fille K2; le troisième le départ de la fille de chez elle escortée de la flèche-fiancée. Le dernier est l’arrivée de ces deux dernières chez le garçon. On a donc deux khangpa, deux sorties et deux entrées. 1) Départ de K1. K1 n’est pas transformée en khangpa-phaspun. Il n’y a pas de fête particulière, de réunion importante, d’attroupement. Ce qui confirme que la jeune fille ne quitte pas, sous forme de flèche, P1, mais simplement K1. Cependant, représentée veut dire qu’elle appartient et qu’elle n’appartient pas à K1, comme le bébé à la naissance. L’appartenance pleine et entière implique l’absence de dadar et de bo, puisque ce sont ces éléments qui permettent justement une intégration pleine et entière. Ceci dit, le nouveau-né appartient déjà au phaspun et est physiquement à l’intérieur de la maison tandis que ce n’est pas le cas de la jeune fille. On le voit déjà, c’est à son retour, quand elle reviendra avec la fiancée ellemême, et que ladite fiancée sera allée saluer son nouveau pha(z)lha, que le rôle de la flèche du mariage sera comparable avec celui de celle de la naissance: la jeune fille sera physiquement présente en plus de sa représentation par une flèche, et elle sera déjà membre du phaspun. 1a) La procession se met en route. La flèche-fiancée qui a quitté K1 est dehors et n’appartient donc plus à K1, et pas encore à K2 pour le moment. On comprend alors pourquoi le nathritpa qui la tient ne doit appartenir ni à l’une, ni à l’autre famille (Phylactou). Peut-être est-ce aussi pour cette raison que la flèche ne doit pas toucher le sol. Pendant toute la marche de la procession les membres des demeures qui se situent le long du trajet sortent et accueillent celle-ci avec force cadeaux (chang, orge fermenté, et autres boissons et nourriture). C’est l’oncle maternel qui distribue de l’argent pour remercier. Ceci est répété comme une antienne par tous les Ladakhi: “L’azhang paie dehors, le père paie dedans”, même si la réalité ethnographique est plus nuancée, le père participant aux frais, assez élevés, pour qu’ils ne soient pas entièrement à la charge de son beau-frère. Si l’azhang paie dehors, c’est qu’il est le personnage le plus important de la procession, le chef en quelque

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sorte. Et si le père paie dedans, c’est que l’azhang et le père verront leurs rôles et leur statut modifiés lorsque la procession sera à l’intérieur de K2. Un détail confirme que l’azhang est le ‘chef ’ dehors: pendant le trajet l’azhang marche derrière le nathritpa, mais avant le père. Quel est donc, pour le moment, le statut de l’azhang? Il n’appartient ni à l’une, ni à l’autre maisonnée (sauf dans le cas, rare, de redoublement d’alliance). Et il n’appartient pas non plus à l’un et l’autre phaspun en vertu de la règle d’exogamie. La procession étant exclusivement masculine, on est tenté de penser qu’il remplace la mère, laquelle ne peut participer au défilé. Mais qu’est-ce qui explique que ce substitut masculin de la mère soit le ‘chef ’ de la procession? 2) A l’arrivée à K2, cette dernière est transformée en khangpa-phaspun. Les rôles y sont d’ailleurs assez strictement répartis entre les membres de K2 et P2, entre ceux qui cuisinent, ceux qui servent etc. La flèche est replantée dans un bo. C’est le père qui paie à l’intérieur. Nous sommes donc de retour à la ‘norme’, le père jouant son rôle de chef de famille. 3) A partir de là les choses ressemblent à ce qui a déjà été décrit pour les deux rites de passage précédents. La flèche étant désormais plantée dans un bo chez K2, la fiancée appartient maintenant à K2. Le nathritpa reprend la flèche, va chercher la fiancée, l’emmène dehors. Cette dernière quitte donc K2, elle et sa représentation. Et puis elle quitte P2 en allant dire adieu à son pha(z)lha. Le mécanisme est comparable à celui du décès. Mais l’ethnographie est beaucoup plus complexe. D’une part en cas de décès il n’y a pas de flèche pour représenter le défunt qui s’en va. J’ai déjà émis l’hypothèse que le dadar ne représente qu’un vivant et ceci le confirme. D’autre part la procession qui va chercher la promise et la ramène est très différente quantitativement et qualitativement de celle qui escorte le cadavre jusqu’au crematorium. Quantitativement d’abord. En cas de décès presque tous les hommes présents sortent. La maison se vide. Il s’agit de tous les parents, des phaspun, des voisins, des amis. En cas de mariage, la procession est très limitée; 10, 15 personnes peutêtre. Parfois plus dans les très grands mariages. Qualitativement ensuite. La procession se ramène aux personnages que j’ai déjà énumérés, soigneusement triés sur le volet, et quelques amis. D’autre part les hommes qui accompagnent le défunt constituent une masse compacte, une foule indifférenciée (sauf les phaspun du défunt qui portent une ceinture

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spéciale) alors que ceux qui vont chercher la fiancée marchent et s’assoient selon un ordre hiérarchique très strict (en tête le nathritpa, puis ses assistants, puis l’oncle maternel etc.). Cette seconde différence est la plus facile à comprendre: le défunt quitte totalement le monde des humains et c’est l’ensemble des humains qui l’escorte. La jeune fille ne quitte que sa maison, son phaspun et son village. Elle ne quitte pas le monde d’ici-bas. La procession qui va la chercher consiste en sa nouvelle famille (le père), son nouveau phaspun (représenté par celui qui porte le gulus et ceux qui rapporteront le raktak) et, enfin, quelques membres de son futur village. Il n’y a pas déstructuration totale de la société comme en cas de décès. C’est d’ailleurs pour cela qu’il y a un ordre hiérarchique et non pas une foule qui se regroupe. Synthèse sur le Mariage et Début de Conclusion 1) On peut déjà faire un début de synthèse. On remarquera d’abord l’opposition entre la façon dont le raktak est déplacé et l’extraordinaire complexité du transport de la flèche-fiancée. Le raktak est présenté dans K2 dissoute dans P2 aux membres de P1 qui remercient. Puis les membres de P1 le transportent jusqu’à K1. Pourquoi les choses ne sont-elles pas aussi simples pour la jeune fille? Il faut revenir à l’idéal de la khangpa et l’approfondir. Cet idéal est, aije déjà dit, le repli sur soi, l’insécabilité ou tout simplement l’immobilité. Immobilité et insécabilité impliquent que la femme reste là où elle est née. La sœur continue donc d’habiter chez elle avec son frère. Mais la règle de prohibition de l’inceste implique que le père de ses enfants soit un homme extérieur à la maison. Dans ce cas la khangpa idéale renvoie à une société matrilinéaire et matrilocale. L’azhang est le chef de famille, sa sœur vit avec lui, le père des enfants de sa sœur vit dans sa propre khangpa, et les enfants appartiennent à la maison de leur mère et de leur oncle maternel du fait de leur naissance dans cette maison et de la filiation matrilinéaire. C’est effectivement l’azhang du fiancé qui, en tant que chef du lignage matrilinéaire, donc en tant que tenant lieu du père du fiancé, négocie avec l’azhang de la jeune fille considérée comme appartenant idéalement à la famille de son propre azhang. Mais il existe une autre institution, le phaspun, qui prône clairement la patrilinéarité. Les enfants appartiennent au phaspun du père. Si le phaspun implique la patrilinéarité l’enfant appartient au phaspun de son père. Mais s’il appartient au phaspun de son père peut-il appartenir à la khangpa

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de sa mère? Non, puisqu’il ne peut y avoir simultanément une règle de patrifiliation et une règle de matrifiliation. Oui, à condition que la règle d’appartenance à la khangpa ne soit pas une règle de filiation mais une autre, en l’occurrence une règle de résidence. En d’autres termes, la contradiction n’est pas entre filiation patri- et matrilinéaire ni entre patri- et matrilocalité. Elle est entre une khangpa matrilocale et un phaspun patrilinéaire. 2) Comment ces deux institutions contradictoires se réconcilient-elles? Lorsque les différentes khangpa sont dissoutes dans le phaspun auquel elles appartiennent pour former une grande khangpa-phaspun. La société est patrilinéaire: l’enfant appartient à la khangpa et au phaspun de son père. Elle est aussi matrilocale: la femme doit accoucher dans une khangpa du phaspun de son mari. On comprend mieux maintenant pourquoi il est si important que la femme accouche dans une maison de son phaspun. Ceci suffit à résoudre les problèmes posés par la naissance et la mort. Mais le mariage en pose un autre, à cause de la règle d’exogamie. Si, en effet, il suffit, pour que ses enfants appartiennent à un phaspun, que la femme accouche dans ce phaspun, elle n’y est pas elle-même née et, de par la double règle de matrilocalité et de patrifiliation, elle appartient à une autre khangpa et à un autre phaspun. Comment tourner la difficulté? 3) La procession est en quelque sorte un retour à cet idéal de départ. L’azhang représente le chef de la maison auquel appartient idéalement le fiancé, en tant que fils de sa sœur, et le phaspun fait sa réapparition. Les deux sont remis à plat dans la procession exactement comme l’ethnologue les reconstitue par son raisonnement. a) L’azhang représente donc la maison du fiancé, fils de sa sœur et appartenant à sa propre khangpa, dans le cadre de la règle de matrilocalité. b) Le père représente la maison du fiancé, son propre fils, et appartenant à sa propre khangpa, dans le cadre de la règle de patrilinéarité. Le phaspun, dont fait partie le père, représente le phaspun du fiancé, toujours dans le cadre de la règle de patrilinéarité. Nous retrouvons, cette fois-ci dehors, la règle de la dissolution de la khangpa dans le phaspun à l’occasion des rites de passage. Les deux règles inconciliables cohabitent dans la procession. 4) A quoi sert cette remise à plat? A assumer la contradiction ‘elle change et elle ne change pas de maison’ mentionnée plus haut.

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a) Elle ne change pas de maison: pour assurer le repli sur soi de la khangpa il faut que la jeune fille soit considérée comme née dans la khangpa de son fiancé. D’où la notion d’ome rin, d’où la flèche qui part de l’intérieur même de la maison. La jeune fille est toujours la même, sa pérennité est symbolisée par la flèche, qui est toujours la même, et par le porteur de la flèche, qui est toujours le même aussi. Mais dans ce cas elle est une ‘sœur’ du fiancé et, de par la règle de prohibition de l’inceste, elle ne peut pas l’épouser. Il faut donc que la fille devienne femme, il faut qu’elle revienne avec un statut différent. La flèche, si elle est toujours elle-même, représente néanmoins d’abord une fille de K1, ensuite une fille de K2, enfin une femme de K1. b) Elle change de maison: c’est là qu’interviennent les oncles maternels. Ramsay (1890 s.v. wedding: cf. aussi, Hanlon, 1894: 87) raconte que l’azhang de la jeune fille devait porter sa nièce jusqu’à la porte du jardin ou de l’enclos de K2. Certes cette explication remonte à 1890 et cet aspect du rituel semble avoir complètement disparu. Ni Phylactou, ni Brauen ne le mentionnent. Mais il n’avait pas disparu dans les années 1930 si on en croit Ribbach qui nous fournit de précieuses précisions: l’oncle “porta sa nièce sur son dos en bas des escaliers puis à travers l’étable et la cour jusqu’à la porte” (trad. angl., 1986: 96). En fait, un azhang porte sa nièce jusqu’à l’entrée principale où le second, celui du garçon, prend le relais pour l’amener jusqu’à sa nouvelle demeure. L’affaire se passe entre azhang, ce que corrobore le fait que pendant les longues négociations entre les deux partis qui précèdent le mariage, les deux groupes qui négocient, composés de parents et de phaspun, sont en quelque sorte dirigés par les oncles maternels. C’est entre eux que se fait l’essentiel du marchandage à propos de l’ome rin et du raktak (voir Ribbach, trad. angl.: 41–60). Ceci est aussi corroboré par le fait que lorsque la procession est assise dehors avec tous les hommes, l’azhang du fiancé s’assoit en tête d’une rangée, suivi du père et des phaspun tandis qu’en vis-à-vis est placé en tête d’une rangée de parents masculins de la fille son azhang à elle.16 Même si la coutume que décrivent Ribbach, Hanlon et Ramsay a disparu, les autres éléments sont suffisants pour conclure que le mouvement se produit d’azhang à azhang.

A Himis Shukpachan et dans quelques villages du Bas-Ladakh, la procession ne loge pas dans la maison de la fiancée mais dans une autre, idéalement chez l’azhang de la fille. 16

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Si on comprend pourquoi la khangpa et le phaspun, empêtrés dans la règle de patrilinéarité, ne peuvent recevoir un nouveau membre, on se demandera pourquoi l’azhang le peut. Parce que la khangpa idéale repose sur la règle de matrilocalité et que, une fois hors les murs, cette règle n’a plus de sens (alors que celle de patrifiliation tient plus que jamais hors les murs). Dehors, à l’entrée de K2, l’azhang peut recevoir une nouvelle personne. 5) Le dénouement se situe peut-être au moment de la cérémonie pour éliminer le bakkyak. La jeune fille passe du statut de fille de K2 à celle de femme de K1 et la flèche, après avoir représenté une fille de K1, puis de K2, représente enfin une femme de K1 qu’il ne reste plus qu’à intégrer en la replantant dans le bo. A partir de là l’oncle ne représente plus que lui-même. Le bakkyak serait alors le résultat d’une situation anormale pendant laquelle l’oncle remplace le père. Ceci expliquerait pourquoi la procession ne peut être saluée que dehors. Car l’intérieur des maisons renvoie à la situation normale ou plutôt normative. La seule maison dans laquelle la procession entre est K2, mais dans ce cas le père reprend la première place. Conclusion La société ladakhi adhère aux règles de la filiation patrilinéaire et est organisée en GFU. L’idéal serait une filiation purement masculine. Mais on ne peut engendrer sans femmes. La règle d’exogamie oblige les femmes à quitter le GFU. Ce qui est contradictoire avec la patrifiliation. Tout ceci est banal et concerne tous les groupes de filiation patrilinéaires. Ce qui varie par contre, ce qui est plus original, c’est la solution propre à chaque société pour surmonter cette contradiction. Le GFU, le phaspun, est doublé d’une autre institution, la khangpa. La règle d’appartenance à cette dernière est topologique. Appartient à la khangpa celui qui habite dans ses murs. C’est cet aspect topologique qui a fait penser à certains auteurs que le Ladakh était une société à maison. Mais c’est une erreur parce que, justement, lorsqu’il est question d’entrer ou de sortir d’une khangpa, le GFU réapparaît. La khangpa est l’institution habituelle, ordinaire. Lors des réunions de village, on vote sur la base d’une voix par khangpa. Le village est un ensemble de maisonnées. Mais

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en cas de rite de passage, et ici le mot passage prend toute sa force, le phaspun réapparaît. On ne peut échapper aux règles de la patrifiliation. Bibliographie Aggarwal, R. 1994. From mixed strains of barley grains: Person and place in a Ladakhi village. Université d’Indiana. Thèse de doctorat. Brauen, M. 1980. Feste in Ladakh. Graz: Akademische Druck- und Verlaganstalt. Carrasco, P. 1959. Land and Polity in Tibet. Seattle et Londres: University of Washington Press. Crook, J. 1994. Social Organisation and Personal Identity in Zangskar. In J. Crook and H. Osmaston (eds), Himalayan Buddhist Villages. New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 475–518. Dainelli, G. 1932. Il mio viaggio nel Tibet occidentale. Milan: A. Mondadori. Traduction anglaise, A. Davidson, (1933): Buddhists and Glaciers of Western Tibet. Londres: Kegan Paul. Dargyay, E.K. 1988. Buddhism in Adaptation: Ancestor gods and their tantric counterparts in the religious life of Zanskar. History of Religions 28(2): 123–34. Day, S. 1989. Embodying spirits: village oracles and possession ritual in Ladakh, North India. Université de Londres. Thèse de doctorat. Dollfus, P. 1989. Lieu de Neige et de Genévriers. Paris: Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique. Geary, C.L.H. 1948. Western Tibet, a record of a threatenened civilisation. School of Oriental and African Studies, Université de Londres. Thèse de doctorat. Grist, N. 1977. Kinship, marriage and inheritance. In M. Phylactou, N. Grist et al. (eds) Reports on Ladakh, 1976–1977. Cambridge, manuscrit. Gutschow, K. 1995. Kinship in Zanskar: Idiom and practice. In P. Denwood and H. Osmaston (eds), Recent Research on Ladakh 4&5. Londres: School of Oriental and African Studies, 337–47. Hanlon, H. 1894. Ladak, the Ladakis, and their popular Buddhism. The Illustrated Catholic Missions, octobre 1894, 86–88. Heber A.R. and K.M. 1903. Himalayan Tibet and Ladakh. Londres. Réédition 1976, Delhi: Ess Ess publications. Jäschke, H. 1881. A Tibetan-English dictionnary. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Kaplanian, P. 1977. Entre lha et lhu. In Etiologie et perception de la maladie dans les sociétés modernes et traditionnelles (Actes du premier colloque d’anthropologie médicale). Sus la direction de A. Retel-Laurentin. Paris: l’Harmattan. ——. 1981. Les Ladakhi du Cachemire. Paris: Hachette. ——. 2000a. Les vérités de l’interprétation: jalousie, possession et guérison au Ladakh. 2ème édition des actes du 2d colloque sur le Ladakh, Paris-Pau, 159–65. ——. 2000b. Le jour de l’an à Choklamsar. 2ème édition des actes du 2d colloque sur le Ladakh, Paris-Pau, 183–209. Lamaison, P. 1987. La notion de maison; Entretien avec Claude Lévi-Strauss. Terrain 9: 34–39. Lévi-Strauss, C. 1979. L’organisation sociale des Kwatiutl. In La Voie des Masques. Paris: Plon. ——. 1984. Clan, lignée, maison. In Paroles données. Paris: Plon. Mercier, P. 1968. Anthropologie sociale et culturelle. In Anthropologie générale. Sous la direction de J. Poirier. Paris: Gallimard, la Pléiade, 881–1036. Phylactou, M. 1989. Household organisation and Marriage in Ladakh. Université de Londres. Thèse de doctorat.

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Pierre de Grèce et du Danemark. 1956. The phaspun of Leh Tehsil in Ladak, Eastern Kashmir, India. East and West 7(2): 138–46. ——. 1963. A Study of Polyandry. La Haye: Mouton. Pirie, F. 2002. The fragile web of order: conflict avoidance and dispute resolution in Ladakh. Université d’Oxford. Thèse de doctorat. Ramsay, H. 1890. Western Tibet: a Practical Dictionary of the Language and Customs of the Districts Included in Ladakh Wazarat. Lahore: W. Ball. Ribbach, S.H. 1940. Drokpa Namgyal, ein Tibeterleben. Otto Wilhem Barth Verlag: Munich-Planegg; traduction anglaise par J. Bray, 1986, Culture and Society in Ladakh. New Delhi: Ess Ess Publications. Riaboff, I. 1997. Le roi et le moine, figures et principes du pouvoir et de sa légitimation au Zanskar (Himalaya occidental). Université de Paris X. Thèse de doctorat. Rigal, J.-P. 2000. Le nouvel an à Chilling. 2ème édition des actes du 2d colloque sur le Ladakh, Paris-Pau, 83–96. Sander, R. 1984. Soziale Ordnung und Bevölkerung in Ladakh. Université de Constance. Thèse de doctorat. Singh, I. 1912. Code of Tribal Custom of Ladakh Tehsil. Jammu and Kashmir State. Allahabad: The Pioneer Press.

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WOMEN’S NARRATIVE LIFE HISTORIES: IMPLICATIONS FOR MATERNAL AND CHILD HEALTH IN LADAKH Nancy P. Chin, Tim Dye and Richard Lee Introduction With a big smile on her face, forty-two year old Tsering Dolma1 teased her sisters-in-law by telling us, “I wasn’t born here. I’m from a much more progressive village!” They howled with outraged laughter as she moved about her kitchen, tending to the fire, feeding children, and answering our questions about her life. For an hour she engaged us with forthright conversation about her childhood, her daily activities, her hopes for her daughters’ lives, and the changes she had witnessed. When she rose to bid us good-bye, however, Chin was startled at her size: thin and short, her seemingly stunted growth hinted at severe childhood malnutrition. Moreover, despite her pleasant demeanour she had just described a life of significant loss and hardship. Her father died when she was two years old. Her mother died when she was fourteen, leaving her orphaned and grief-stricken. Her life became much harder after her mother’s death, she told us. She missed the care her mother had provided. Her workload increased as she was compelled to assume her mother’s work. Tsering Dolma had been pregnant eight times, but only five children survived infancy. She herself was illiterate and irritated at herself for not pursuing an education as one of her childhood friends had. That friend now lives in Delhi and has a good job. Tsering Dolma wants her daughters to be educated and employed like her friend. She applauds the introduction of greenhouses, new seeds, and subsidised rice into her remote village. Her brave demeanour seems all the more courageous given her difficult circumstances. What are the stories that women in Ladakhi villages tell in order to make sense of a life that takes a significant toll on their own health, robs them of their mothers

1 All names have been changed to protect confidentiality. University of Rochester Research Subjects Review Board gave its approval for this study.

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prematurely and takes their babies? What would they change? What would they keep the same? Infant and child mortality rates in villages throughout the Himalayas are extraordinarily high. The reasons for this are not well understood. In order for programmes to effectively address the problem of maternal and child health, exact mechanisms need to be described. Drawing from the synthesis of three models showing the interaction of determinants of child mortality developed over the past twenty years, this study represents a preliminary investigation into possible mechanisms. The narrative life history method was chosen as an appropriate first step in this research for the open-ended format that allows the interviewees to control the content and direction of the interview, focusing on events that are important to them rather than the researcher. A careful reading of these narratives by multiple analysts revealed four reoccurring themes with significance for child survival: the importance of the mother-daughter bond, the lived experiences of hardship and deprivation, the desire for advanced education for daughters, and the welcomed increase in material well-being over the past 30 years. Programme recommendations that can be drawn from this work include: a broad focus on maternal health throughout the life cycle beyond women’s reproductive capacities; support for girls’ education; and continued development in conjunction with villagers to ease the burden of work-load and inadequate resources. Background and Significance Infant and child mortality rates from villages throughout the Himalayas is alarmingly high. Among Himalayan villages ranging from Bhutan to Tibet to Nepal and on to Ladakh, infant deaths alone are estimated to occur at a rate of 250–300 per 1,000 live births (Harris, et al. 2001; Crook and Osmaston 1994; Chin 1992; Levine 1988; Morrow 1987). Since the reasons for these persistently high rates are not well understood, the overall goal of our work in Ladakh is to identify and explain the causal pathways that link village life to child health in Ladakhi villages with the ultimate aim of making programme recommendations for child survival. Applying lessons learned from child survival programmes in other countries, like Bangladesh for example, is difficult, for although child survival programmes have been successful in stimulating a dramatic decrease in child deaths, since the 1980s the

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rate of decline has slowed. The causes of this decline are unknown, making it difficult to appropriately target public health programmes to maintain this decline (Ahmad, Lopez and Inoue 2000). Lack of understanding on the part of international health researchers about why the decline in child mortality has occurred also makes it difficult to know which programmatic components might work successfully in Ladakhi villages. More information is needed, especially at the level of the village and household. Over the past twenty years, a number of researchers have proposed conceptual frameworks for exploring and explaining the determinants of child mortality in developing countries. The research paradigm provided by Mosley and Chen (1984), for example, views the death of a child as resulting from many different causes, with a long time between exposure to an agent of disease (such as Mycobacterium tuberculosis) and the development of overt disease in the child. They also contend that child death occurs as a result of not just one illness episode but many episodes, each of which compromises the child’s health. In order to better understand child survival under these conditions they recommend not just looking at deaths within a birth cohort, but also looking at the overall health of children within that same group. Moreover, the Mosley-Chen model includes a consideration of not just biological variables, but also sociocultural variables at the level of the community, household, and individual. In a similar vein Millard (1994) organises possible causes of child death into three interrelated tiers: 1. Proximate: immediate biological causes of death. 2. Intermediate: Individual behaviours, general living conditions, and child care practices. 3. Ultimate: Broad economic, social and cultural processes.

A third is the Pathways model (Murray, et al. 1997). This conceptual framework illustrates not only the elements of childhood illness but also its management. In contrast to the other two models, the Pathways model elaborates household management of illness episodes and decision-making and takes into account government-level policies and programmes. Claeson and Waldman (2000) see the Pathways models as a conceptual shift in child survival strategies for its focus on people rather than diseases, noting that it lays stress on household behaviours that are not dependent on the performance of health systems, such as immunisation programmes and clinic services. We have taken elements from all three models to guide our investigation of women’s lives and

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the impact this might have on infant health. As shown in Figure 1, the model we have developed outlines the relationship between different causal factors, more or less proximate, including the community, households, individuals and the state. The life narratives described here are intended to illuminate just a portion of this complex model: specifically, the importance of maternal status, workload, male privilege (if it so exists) and division of labour. Methods Collecting women’s narrative life histories is a first step in understanding maternal and child health in the region. Employing an open-ended format, in which the women control the interview, a narrative approach encourages respondents to focus on events, stories, and memories that are of significance to them, rather than the researcher. Using this method, respondents are probed to discover meanings attributed to these accounts and how they feel about them. A narrative approach to life histories accomplishes several interrelated objectives seeking to: 1) Uncover aspects of village life that are unfamiliar to outsiders; 2) Highlight relationships that are important to people in their daily lives; 3) Reveal people’s ideas about the way the world works and their influence on those workings; and 4) Identify people’s resources and strengths in meeting life challenges.

A team of researchers led by Lee collected data for this study during the summer of 2001. The team spent a month in the mountains and interviewed twenty-two women in five rural villages2 as well as three women in Leh using the Narrative Life History method. The women ranged in age from twenty-seven to sixty-five years. A convenience sample3 of women willing to talk with us was contacted in house-tohouse visits in the villages. Women were also approached on their way to the fields or on the road to town. Everyone was willing to speak with

Lingshed, Photoksar, Honupatta, Alchi and Diskit in the Nubra Valley. A convenience sample consists of recruiting participants on an as met basis; so as the team encountered women on the road or approached them in their houses or fields, we invited them to sit for an interview. There were no refusals. 2 3

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Child Mortality

Proximate Biological Factors

Malnutrition Diarrhea

ARI

Intermediate Community Factors

Individual & Household Factors Land-holdings Income Livestock

Food Scarcity

Altitude, aridity, short growing-season

• • • •

Contaminated Water

lack of variety seasonal shortages breast-feeding practices distribution of food within a household

Maternal Workload Male Privilege

Exposure to Pathogens • •

Sanitation Indoor Pollution

Village-Level Health Care • • •

Amchis Others Referral to biomedicine

Maternal Status • •

Child Care Practices • • • •

Weaning Cleanliness Immunization Treatment for illnesses

Ultimate Government Policies Policies for health, nutrition, population expenditures, stewardship, monitoring & evaluation

Division of Labo r

Enteric, parasites, rotavirus Bacterial pneumonia

Policies for infrastructure, transportation, energy, agriculture, water, sanitation, etc.

•

• • •

Decision-making power Access to money or resources Education Household Health Care Recognition of illness Quality of care Use of outside health care

Public Sector & Markets

Availability, accessibility, prices & quality of public & non-governmental health services

Availability, accessibility, prices & quality of food, energy, roads, water, sanitation, etc.

Figure 1. Determinants of Child Mortality in HBVs.

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us. A native Ladakhi speaker from Leh provided translation. He was oriented to the project by the principle investigator.4 All conversations were recorded in a notebook. Using an iterative process, the team data was reviewed as it was collected. As themes began to emerge, further lines of enquiry were developed to better understand the significance of their recurrence. Findings Four key themes emerged from the analysis of these women’s narratives. All four themes were embedded in a wider cultural script that stressed hard work and local values of gaining merit through good works, conflict avoidance and cooperation. The first of these themes concerns the centrality of the mother-daughter relationship. Daughters in Ladakhi villages are highly valued for their contributions to farming and irrigation, as well as for the companionship they provide for their mothers during shared labour. A Lingshed woman told us, “Daughters are most important to mothers even after they are married”. A woman from Alchi explained, “Mothers and daughters are very attached to one another and take care of each other, more so than sons”. Shared labour is critical in Ladakhi villages for two reasons: 1) the division of labour, while not seemingly strict, does allocate farming work predominantly to women and 2) women in this study generally reported that their husbands were active in sectors of the economy—trading and herding—that took them away from the village for long periods of time. Thus mother and daughters often spent substantial time in each other’s company doing essential, highly valued and yet burdensome tasks together. Farming together seemed to support a different type of mother-daughter relationship than doing wage labour together would. The mother-daughter bond even evoked different emotional reactions than did other relationships. Women who lost their mothers early in life (that is, before the age of twenty-one) wept openly recalling the loss and reported that life became much harder for them without a mother. By contrast, women’s affect when describing their infants’ deaths appeared to be neutral: not one wept. Why women should react so

4 Clearly, using a male translator for women’s life narratives is not optimal, but we had no choice at this time. Tashi Chosphel understood his limitations and was interested in how he could nevertheless make a contribution to the research.

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differently is unclear, but its occurrence was consistent and surprising.5 Furthermore, there seems to be a relationship between early demise of one’s mother and subsequent reproductive wastage of the daughter. In other words, women who lost their mothers before the age of twentyone seemed to have fewer live offspring than women whose mothers survived to see grandchildren born. Lingshed resident Stanzen Dolma, for example, was twelve years old when her mother died. Life became harder, there was more farm work to do. Three years later her married sister died and her father forced her to marry her brother-in-law. She cried recalling these events, for the loss of her mother and for the unhappy marriage that resulted from her sister’s death. Stanzen was pregnant ten times, yet only five of her children have survived. When asked what she thought the ideal number of children was she replied, “two or three are good for a woman’s physical health; more than that is hard on the body”. By contrast, another Lingshed resident, Tashi Sonam’s mother, lived until Tashi Sonam was thirty years old. Although she is now just thirty-six years old and not at the end of her reproductive years, she has been pregnant three times and all three of her daughters are alive. Interestingly, when asked, she credited not her mother for her reproductive success, but the qualities of her husband: he was a hard worker; he helped in the household. Indeed, while we were there Tashi Sonam busied herself with her five-day old infant, massaging her with butter, while her husband made and served tea. A second, related theme that informed the lives of women in these villages was hardship and deprivation. One Hanupata woman told us: “Women’s lives are very hard. Tougher than men’s. We do childcare, farming, going to the mountains in the winter to gather wood.” Another woman said: “Our life is like donkey work. No rest. Just work.” Women are solely responsible for several of the agricultural tasks, such as weeding, watering and processing (roasting barley), and they undertake

5 It would be a mistake, however, to conclude on the basis of this data that women did not mourn the loss of their infants. While this apparent lack of emotional distress remains to be investigated, other works on child death and maternal sentiment suggest alternative interpretations of the absence of weeping. Scheper-Hughes (1992) links the tremendously high number of infant deaths in NE Brazil with delayed attachment of mother to child, resulting in a conceptualisation of infants as ‘visitors’. Nations (1988), working in the same region of Brazil, challenges this interpretation and posits that mothers do indeed mourn the loss of a child. According to her, lack of maternal affect occurs in response to local understandings that ‘angels with wet wings won’t fly’.

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a significant share of the laborious ploughing and harvesting work. During the summer a woman typically begins her day at 4 or 5 am and finishes around 10 pm. Women are also responsible for spinning, childcare and cooking. Some women recounted an extremely difficult and harsh childhood. In a summation we heard more than once, one fifty-year-old woman recalled: “My first memory is of being poor; we had no shoes, no good clothing, very little food.” She felt that this early hardship was responsible for the health problems that subsequently plagued her adulthood. A third key theme that emerged was the importance of education and wage labour for women. All women interviewed thought it essential for their daughters to be educated above the level of elementary school. This typically entails sending children to boarding schools for part of the year, a sacrifice parents were willing to make. This is atypical of South Asia where parents are often reluctant to invest in daughters’ education and reluctant to let daughters travel outside the village. Sending children out of the village to boarding school also means that they are not there to participate in farming, another potential sacrifice that families seem willing to make in pursuit of education for their children. All women interviewed hoped that a good education would lead to wage labour for their daughters (as teachers, medical assistants, government officers and so on) so that they could have a steady, predictable income. Women thought that wage labour would insure against the possibility of having a ‘bad’ husband as well as protection against the vagaries of farming. A fifty-eight-year-old woman from Alchi told us: “Education is most important for daughters, because then women’s problems are solved with a good job. [ With a good job they are relieved of ] the hard labour of farming.” When asked who would farm if the women were employed, respondents indicated that given the evershrinking size of farms, women could do both. The final key point concerned the improvement in material life over the past thirty years. All women agreed that life had improved since the 1970s. They cited the increased availability of good food from outside the local area (especially rice), improved facilities such as schools and clinics, the introduction of greenhouses and other farming techniques. Yet with the improvement in material circumstances a few women noted a change in relationships between people. Said a woman from Lingshed,

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Now there is more food and medicine, but thirty years ago people had ‘better sympathies’. People were kinder to each other. Now people are competitive.

Discussion and Conclusions The goal of this work was to test part of a hypothetical model for child survival against data collected through women’s narrative life histories. Specifically, life histories were used to determine women’s resources (social and material), life burdens and successes from their point-of-view. Clues to maternal status and its relationship to workload and male privilege (if it exists) were sought in the reading of the narratives. Readings of these narratives revealed a number of recurring themes with significance for maternal and child health in the region. Given the extraordinary importance of the mother-daughter bond and the subsequent reproductive loss of women whose mothers died before the woman reached twenty-one years, we hypothesise that a grandmother might act as an important resource for her child-bearing daughter by telling her how to take care of herself, her infant and young children and lending the household material support. This relationship needs to be further explored to better understand how grandmothers might contribute to child survival in the region and how women’s health in general might be sustained. The hardship and childhood deprivation women described may also be an important factor in maternal health. Given this finding we argue for expanding the scope of Maternal and Child Health (MCH) programmes beyond women’s reproductive capacities to include women’s health across the life-cycle. The need for an expanded MCH programme is supported in the literature by the findings of Wiley’s (1994) work in Leh, and Elford’s work in Zangskar (1994) both of which reported an unusually high number of infant deaths in the neonatal period (0–28 days). A preliminary study of this region headed by Dye et al. (forthcoming) also indicates that many infant deaths are occurring in the perinatal period. Since infant deaths during this period implicate factors in the mother’s environment a focus on women’s health is warranted. There is a strong and consistent relationship in international health research between maternal education and child survival. Will this hold true in Ladakh? Will well-educated girls have better child survival? What is the mechanism by which this happens? Increased access to material

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goods, health care, and schools may have a positive impact on infant and child survival. This presents a challenge as well as an opportunity to Ladakhi society for while it fosters physical well-being it might also promote social tensions that directly conflict with precepts promoting cooperation. This study supports the model proposed in Figure 1 while adding necessary detail around maternal status, workload and division of labour. Under maternal status can be added the following components: relationship with mother, maternal nutrition, and women’s health across the life-cycle. Division of labour that allocates responsibility for farming primarily to women while men are engaged in other sectors of the economy far from home has resulted in a heavy work burden for women that must be carried until the time of delivery. This again shapes maternal health and may become the focus for increasing child survival in this region. The women’s stories described in this paper were consistent about how they would like to see change occur: increased education, better nutrition, lighter work burden and mothers who grow into old age. A child survival programme for this region should consider a focus on improving women’s health in order to achieve these objectives. References Ahmad, O.B., A.D. Lopez and M. Inoue. 2000. The decline in child mortality: a reappraisal. Bulletin of the World Health Organization 78: 1175–91. Chin, N.P. 1992. Child growth in three Tibetan villages: An assessment of environmental, biological and social determinants. Rochester, NY: University of Rochester unpublished Master’s thesis. Claeson, M. and R.J. Waldman. 2000. The evolution of child health programmes in developing countries: From targeting diseases to targeting people. Bulletin of the World Health Organization 78: 1234–45. Crook, J. and H. Osmaston (eds). 1994. Himalayan Buddhist villages: environment, resources, society, and religious life in Zangskar, Ladakh. Bristol: University of Bristol Press. Dye, T.D. and R.V. Lee. 1994. Socioeconomic status: developing a quantitative, community based index in rural Kashmir. Journal of Community Health and Epidemiology 48: 421–22. Harris, N.S., P.B. Crawford, Y. Yangzom, L. Pinzo, P. Gyaltsen and M. Hudes. 2001. Nutritional and Health Status of Tibetan Children Living at High Altitudes. New England Journal of Medicine 344: 341–47. Kumik, Elford J. 1994. A demographic profile. In J. Crook and H. Osmaston (eds). Himalayan Buddhist villages: environment, resources, society, and religious life in Zangskar, Ladakh. Bristol: University of Bristol Press. Levine, N.E. 1988. The Dynamics of Polyandry. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press.

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Millard, A.V. 1994. A Causal Model of High Rates of Child Mortality. Social Science Medicine 38: 253–68. Morrow, R.C. 1987. A paediatric report on Bhutan. Journal of Tropical Medicine and Hygiene 90: 155–60. Mosley, W.H. and L.C. Chen. 1984. An Analytical Framework for the Study of Child Survival in Developing Countries (in Introduction and Conceptual Framework). Population and Development Review 10S: 25–45. Murray, J. et al. 1997. Emphasis behaviors in maternal and child health: focusing on caretaker behaviors to develop maternal and child health programmes in communities. Arlington, VA, USAID, the BASICS Project. Nations, M. and Linda-Ann Rebhun. 1988. Angels with Wet Wings Can’t Fly: Maternal Sentiment in Brazil and the Image of Neglect. Culture, Medicine and Psychiatry 12: 141–200. Scheper-Huges, N. 1992. Death Without Weeping. The Violence of Everyday Life in Brazil. Berkeley: University of California Press. Wiley, A.S. 1997. A role for biology in the cultural ecology of Ladakh. Human Ecology 25: 273–95.

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V. AGRICULTURE

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LAND USE, LAND ADMINISTRATION AND LAND RIGHTS IN SHIGAR, BALTISTAN Matthias Schmidt Shigar, located in the central Karakorum, is one of the main valleys in Baltistan. Traditionally, mixed mountain agriculture—a combination of animal husbandry and crop farming based on canal irrigation—forms the main element of the subsistence economy of almost all households in Shigar. Apart from water, which is essential in this arid region, land can be seen as the fundamental resource for economic activities. Consequently, the entitlement to dispose of land has always been linked with social status and political influence. It will be shown how land administration, revenue systems and property rights have changed over the past two centuries. An understanding of land use and property rights also offers a deep insight into the socio-political and economic system of Shigar. Introduction High peaks, masses of rocks and extensive glaciers on the one hand, and densely populated valleys with flourishing village oases on the other, are probably the most striking physical characteristics of Baltistan in the Central Karakorum. There is a stark contrast between irrigated agricultural land in the valleys—intense green spots in summer—which accounts for not more than 5% of the land cover, and the vast unpopulated and hostile high mountain terrain. The visitor wonders how people can sustain a living in such a desert-like environment, and is impressed by the achievements of the local population who have created village oases with elaborate forms of land and water utilisation. One goal of my research in Shigar is to gain an understanding of indigenous concepts of land use and land management, and how these concepts have been transformed over time by outside influences. Land resources with limited agricultural potential, such as semi-deserts and high mountain areas—in Shigar we find a combination of both—are often defined as ‘commons’ or ‘common property’ resources on which specified user groups hold usufruct rights (Hardin 1968; Berkes 1989;

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Ostrom 1990; Feeny et al. 1990; Singh 1994; Baker 1997; Berkes et al. 1998; Ostrom et al. 2002; Schmidt 2004a). While the more valuable irrigated lands in the valleys are mainly used and managed by smaller economic units, typically the household, and held as private property, the complex irrigation systems are the result of collective action and are generally overseen in a collective way. This leads to questions about the success, effectiveness and sustainability of past and present forms of land use and land management, in which rights of access, possession and ownership, as well as the role of autochthonous institutions, play a significant role.1 Utilisation of Land Resources for Agriculture and Animal Husbandry Geographically, Shigar is located in the Central Karakorum, north of Skardu, the capital of the historically and linguistically distinct region of Baltistan. Shigar, as a political unit, comprises the valleys of the Shigar, Basha and Braldo rivers, as can be seen in Figure 1.2 Its settlements are located only in the valleys, on alluvial fans, gentle slopes or terraces above the rivers, at altitudes between 2,300m (Marapi) and 3,050m (Askole).3 In an environment with limited agricultural resources, the population of Shigar needs to utilise different ecological niches to sustain its livelihood. Mixed mountain agriculture (Rhoades and Thompson 1975), a combination of crop farming and animal husbandry, forms the basis of the subsistence economy of the local population, whereby

Empirical fieldwork in Baltistan was carried out between 1996 and 1998. Within the empirical data collection, qualitative, reconstructive forms of empirical social research were preferred, including participatory observation and focused interviews. Semi-standardised interviews were conducted in all villages within the research area, and thematically focused interviews with local experts served to obtain more in-depth information about specific aspects. Rare monographs, documents and written material were analysed at the India Office Library and Records during a two-month stay in London. Colonial cadastres produced for every village during the land settlements at the beginning of the 20th century, with information on land possession, land revenues, and on water and pasture rights were appraised at local and regional offices in Baltistan. 2 Below, when Shigar is mentioned, the reference is to the whole region, including the Shigar, Basha and Braldo valleys. 3 Detailed papers on Shigar are given by Hewitt (1991), MacDonald (1994) and Schmidt (2004b). 1

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Figure 1. The valleys of Shigar, Basha and Braldo.

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the two elements not only complement but also depend upon each other (Ehlers and Kreutzmann 2000). In the valleys, with their arid to semi-arid conditions, the local populations of Shigar have established complex irrigation systems and arable lands in a long process of canal construction, ground levelling and amelioration. Gentle slopes and fans provide the ground for crops, fruit and vegetable gardens and meadows. The non-irrigated surroundings are not unused wasteland; they also function as pasture land, although the areas vary significantly in their fodder value. The lower parts of the steep slopes that surround the rivers of Shigar feature only a meagre vegetation of Artemisia (burse)4 and are often simply too steep and, thus, less favourable for pasture, while a belt of relatively dense grassy vegetation at altitudes between 3,500 and 5,000m serves as alpine pasture for livestock during the summer months.5 As regards irrigated crop farming, the most important crops in Shigar are wheat (tro) and barley (nas), grown in several different local and adopted varieties. According to statements from local farmers, the amount of barley cultivation has decreased over the past few decades in favour of wheat. The vegetation period in the areas lower than 2,600m, that is, the lower Shigar valley, allows the cultivation of two crops per season when barley is sown as the first crop, which is harvested in early July, while at all higher elevations only one crop per year can reach maturity. Usually buckwheat (blo) and millet (tsetse, chha) are sown as autumn crops. The latter is only used as a fodder crop and is generally harvested before reaching maturity. However, it is not only climatic factors that inhibit the cultivation of autumn crops but more often social aspects. Autumn crops will fail, for instance, if communal decisions do not guarantee that livestock is banished from the field area during the ripening period ending in October. In other words, the individual decision of a farmer to cultivate a second crop is dependent on collective actions. Other crops cultivated in larger amounts only in Basha and Braldo are beans (mothu, naqstran) and peas (boqstran). Formerly only planted in small amounts in kitchen gardens, potatoes (alu) Words in italics are transliterations of commonly used local terms either of the Tibetan dialect Balti or, in connection with land administration, of Pakistan’s lingua franca Urdu. 5 Non-agricultural activities such as trade, crafts and labour migration, which always played an important part in balancing the deficits of the subsistence economy, are not discussed here because of their lesser relevance regarding the management of land. For details about these aspects see Schmidt (2004b). 4

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have recently become important cash crops in the valley—a tendency that can be found in other parts of Northern Pakistan (Kreutzmann 1993: 37).6 The different cropping patterns of the double and single cropping zone can be seen in Figures 2 and 3. Different kinds of vegetables like spinach ( palak), cabbage (karam), salad (salad ), turnips (mulo), onions (tsong), pumpkins (wan) and tomatoes ( paghan) are grown mainly in kitchen gardens (drumba) or on small parcels at the edge of arable fields near the villages. It is remarkable that almost no fields in Shigar are sown with specific forage crops like alfalfa or rape. This fact can be interpreted as an indication of the limited availability of ground, which seems to be too valuable for the cultivation of forage. For the necessary stall feeding from late autumn until early spring, grass is cut on irrigated meadows (ol), which are located at the periphery of the field area, mostly in less favourable locations, such as on slopes. The small grassy strips along canals and paths as well as the numerous fruit gardens (tshar) are also mowed regularly. Apricots (chuli), the most important tree crop in Baltistan, are grown in at least 15 different varieties in Shigar. Other typical local fruits include mulberries (ose), walnuts (starga), apples (kushu) and grapes (rgun). Until the partition of India, dried apricots (pharing) and apricot kernels played an important role as barter goods, being exchanged for other products like salt, pots, and pashmina from neighbouring areas, especially Ladakh (Grist 1985: 92; Afridi 1988: 289; Sheikh 1998: 342; Rizvi 1999: 32). Finally, non-fruit trees—poplars (ghbyarpha), Russian olives (sarsing) and willows (hlchaxma)—not only deliver timber and firewood, but also leaves for fodder. Animal husbandry, the other pillar of mixed mountain agriculture, involves livestock being kept in villages from autumn to late spring and taken up to alpine pastures in summer. The livestock comprises yak (hyaq, hyaqmo), zo and zomo (a cross-breed of yak and cow), cows (ba), bulls (xlang), goats (rabaq) and sheep (lu) (Schmidt 2000). Yaks are kept only for breeding purposes, in order to produce the highly valued zo and zomo, but are not used for traction power or as pack animals, as is the case in some regions of Ladakh (Mann 1986: 106; Osmaston et al. 1994: 201). In contrast to other livestock, in the lower Shigar valley

6 The advantages of growing potatoes in the mountainous region of Northern Pakistan are favourable climatic conditions for the crop and a harvest time which differs from those in the lowlands of the Punjab, the main destination for the potatoes.

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Figure 2. Land use in Blaqchan (Union Council Marapi).

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Figure 3. Land use in Hoto (Union Council Braldo).

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yaks are not kept by individual households but by village communities. Normally only one yak is bought and kept by a village community or neighbourhood, while the number of yaks is significantly higher in Basha and Braldo, with their extended pasture lands, where several households keep yaks and sell them to village communities from lower Shigar. Zo and bulls have been, and in some villages still are, used for ploughing and threshing purposes, but since more tractors and threshing machines are becoming available in the valley the importance of keeping zo and bulls is declining. The infertile zo are mostly slaughtered before reaching maturity. Zomo and cows are the main milk animals; goats are also kept for their milk, skin and meat and sheep for their wool and meat. A small number of donkeys (bongbu) are used as pack animals, while today not more than twenty horses (hrta, rgunma) are kept in the whole area for the purpose of playing polo. Additionally, the dung of all animals is highly valued as fertiliser for the fields and the animals, themselves, are an important investment which can be transferred into cash in cases of emergency. Generally, one finds relatively large herds in the villages of Basha and Braldo, with an average of twelve to fifteen bovines and twenty to thirty head of sheep or goats per household, while significantly smaller herds, five to seven bovines and ten to fifteen sheep or goats, are kept by the farmers of the lower Shigar valley, reflecting the size of their pasture areas. As already mentioned, the people utilise various pasture resources at different altitudes by means of ingenious mobility patterns. Only the rich alpine pastures provide enough fodder for all livestock and they can only be used in the summer months. During the rest of the year the animals are dependent on the meagre pastures in the valleys and on the lower parts of the mountain slopes, as well as on forage gained from agricultural land. Crop residues, tree leaves and hay serve as fodder from autumn until spring. Therefore, the most important restricting factor for the size of a herd is the amount of fodder that can be supplied for the livestock during the winter months As shown in this article, there is an interdependence and reciprocity between arable farming, the cultivation of fruit and vegetable gardens, grass cropping and animal husbandry. The diversity of crops and animals can be seen as a strategy for securing a livelihood which not only helps to extend the food base but also results in a diversification of risks and, therefore, a reduction in vulnerability. For centuries, the agrarian

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utilisation of land in the form of mixed mountain agriculture was the main economic occupation which sustained the livelihood of the local population. However, due to a tremendous population growth over the last century (Table 1), the use of land for agriculture could no longer guarantee the livelihood of Shigar’s population. Topographical and ecological conditions, as well as a lack of financial means, restrict the potential for new land colonisation. Thus non-agricultural incomes are playing an increasingly important role in household strategies. Forms of non-agricultural employment practised in recent decades include labour migration—seasonal to Skardu and Gilgit, temporarily to big cities in Pakistan or to the Gulf States—employment by the government or the army and working as porters for the numerous mountain expeditions and trekking groups. Yet agriculture and animal husbandry still fulfil their function as the primary pillar of households’ survival strategies. The Land Administration and Revenue System in Historical Perspective Land as political territory has always been a source of power or, to put it the other way round, political power has generally been linked to holding sway over a specific territory. To retain power, rulers not only had to defend their territory against enemies from outside, they also needed to control their own populations, which meant raising funds to support a military force. In Baltistan, where cultivated land is a scarce, but fundamental, resource in the subsistence economy, agricultural, and to some extent pastoral, lands were always at the centre of the revenue systems. Table 1. Population of Shigar between 1911 and 1998 Union Council

1911a

1951b

1961c

1972d

1981e

1998f

Total

26,256

24,136

24,723

27,738

32,364

45,322

Sources: a Dainelli (1924: 392); b Afridi (1988: 271–74); c Malik (1961: 3–5); d-f, Government of Pakistan (1972: 46–49; 1984: 48–50; 2000: 2254–57). All numbers are based on census data.

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Until the middle of the 19th century, Shigar was ruled by local autocratic sovereigns (cho) (Schuler 1978; Emerson 1984; Hashmatullah Khan 1987), whose authority was grounded on a system of land revenues and dues. All land within the political boundaries of Shigar was defined as the property of the ruling cho, who allowed it to be cultivated by local farmers only in exchange for services (res) and revenues, which had to be paid in kind in the form of grain, livestock, butter, apricot nuts, wool, grass or wood.7 Nevertheless, according to Hashmatullah Khan (1987: 136f.), only soldiers or persons who enjoyed the favour of the cho might be given land as a gift and thus acquire the status of land proprietors. However, the cho could take such land back at will. In 1841, the Dogras conquered Baltistan, established a garrison and an administration in Skardu headed by a thanadar and subsequently ruled an area which included Shigar. Haider Khan, the former cho of Shigar and leader of an unsuccessful revolt against the Dogras, was imprisoned in Srinagar and replaced by a relative who was a puppet ruler for the Dogras. When, in 1846, the British signed the treaty of Amritsar and made Gulab Singh the maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir, Baltistan became part of the Princely State of Jammu and Kashmir. The maharaja declared that as he had purchased the valley of Kashmir from the British he was the sole owner of all lands in his territory and farmers were only his tenants-at-will (Thorp 1870: 26). However, at the regional and local levels, the cho of Shigar retained—at least for some decades—his right to collect revenues and to organise the administration, but the civil servants of the maharaja demanded tribute from him to finance their garrison and administration in Skardu. The authority of the cho was gradually undermined and after some decades land revenues were collected by the administration of Jammu and Kashmir State itself. A further nominal change occurred in 1899 when a Frontier District comprising Ladakh, Baltistan and Gilgit was formed. Two years later, in 1901, a newly established Skardo Tahsil became part of the Wazarat of Ladakh.

7 In contrast to the revenue collection per house or hearth, as practised in Ladakh (Cunningham 1854: 268f.; Imperial Gazetteer of India 1908: 101; Petech 1977: 158), revenues in Baltistan had to be paid according to land size, measured in ghund and yol (Vigne 1842: 258, 397).

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To sum up, prior to the appropriation of property rights by the maharaja, although the cho nominally owned all land, the local farmers acted as de facto landowners with inheritable property rights, a situation that was overturned by the new regime implemented by the government of Jammu and Kashmir. A land possessor was regarded by the state administration as a tenant-at-will, whose usage rights over land were dependent on the will of the owner—the state. However, it is not so easy to evaluate to what extent actual control over agricultural land at local levels changed over the years and who actually made decisions about land cultivation and land inheritance. Land Settlement (Bandobast): Measures and Effects Under British assistance a land settlement was carried out in Jammu and Kashmir, originally in the Valley of Kashmir, under the supervision of settlement officer, Walter Lawrence. This is said to be one of the most important reforms undertaken during the existence of this Princely State (Lawrence 1895; Imperial Gazetteer of India 1908). Skardo Tahsil of the Wazarat of Ladakh was settled for the first time in 1901 by Settlement Officer Clarke and a second time in 1911 under the supervision of Thanadar Singh. Means and measures of land settlements included a land survey resulting in different maps drawn on cloth, the definition of occupancy and property rights for land, a revenue assessment based on land cultivation and average yields, the laying down of pastoral rights for each village and the reorganisation of administration (Singh 1914; Afridi 1988: 238ff.). With regard to Shigar, the land settlement had the following effects: a) Reorganisation of administration: the head of the revenue administration within the tahsil became the tahsildar (district governor), followed by several naib-tahsildars. Shigar, including Basha and Braldo, formed a so-called girdawar halqa within Skardo Tahsil. Administratively, it comprised ten halqa (circles) and fifty-seven mauza.8 The girdawar controlled ten patwari, each of the latter being responsible for revenue collection and updating the settlement records in one halqa. In the first decades of the twentieth century the revenue officers were mainly Kashmiri and only after the first schools were opened in Baltistan did local Balti obtain some minor posts within the revenue

8

A mauza is an administrative unit consisting of one or several villages or hamlets (drong).

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administration. Apart from that, one man from each mauza was nominated as the nambardar, so that Balti people were involved in the revenue administration at local levels. The nambardar was accountable for tax collection in his mauza and received as a wage five per cent of the revenues exacted. Furthermore, he was responsible for certain communal affairs such as the settling of disputes or the organisation of res.9 b) Definition of occupancy and property rights: although the maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir declared all land within his territory to be his own, with the settlement, local villagers were given different occupancy rights, which were noted in the records by name and field— for the first time ever in Shigar. A differentiation was made between three types of land possessors or occupants: the Haq-i-asami had the right of possession as long as dues were paid, but he was not allowed to alienate the land; the utilisation right of the tenant-at-will was dependent on the will of the land proprietor and could be changed or cancelled at any time; in the case of the occupancy tenant, right of possession was protected, lease of land was fixed and his occupancy right was inheritable.10 In addition, the former cho of Shigar was given rights as a jagirdar (big landowner), which meant that he could keep his landed property and the right to collect leases from such land ( jagir). c) Land classification and soil categories as a basis for revenue assessment: as an important step for laying down a uniform, objective and controllable basis for revenue assessment, land was classified according to its usage and value. Only land within the so-called settled areas was assessed. Settled areas included villages with their irrigated surroundings, while all other lands like mountains, glaciers, pastures and other waste land fell into the category of unsettled areas. Within the settled areas land was divided into cultivable land (banjerkadim) and non-cultivable land ( ghermumkin), such as canals, paths and rocks. In Shigar the cultivable land was used as gardens for fruit and other trees, vegetable or kitchen gardens, meadows and crop land—the 9 Res was a system by which a village or group of villages was bound to supply transport and food for certain stages on certain roads (Afridi 1988: 249; Sheikh 1998: 341). Literally, res stands for turn system with regard to, for example, herding practices, communal work on canals or water rights. Sometimes res is used synonymously with begar to refer to forced labour. The concept of res is also known and applied in Ladakh (Cunningham 1854: 269; Imperial Gazetteer of India 1908: 100). 10 It was not until 1933 that property rights were granted and most land users became land proprietors (Lentz 2000).

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latter was further specified according to its quality as maljing (best agricultural land), bartshot (good agricultural land), and das (less favourable agricultural land).11 However, for the amount of revenues that had to be paid by the cultivators, not only size and defined type of soil were relevant but also the regional location. Villages, or rather their agricultural lands, were ranked into four classes according to climatic factors (altitude and exposition), types of crops that could be grown, possibility for double cropping and growing fruit. According to this list, the agricultural land of the villages in the lower Shigar Valley, where two crops per season could be achieved and a variety of fruits and crops were cultivated, was classified as the best, while the land in the upper Braldo was ranked as the worst, due to the unfavourable climatic conditions at 3,000m (Singh 1914: 7ff.). Figure 4 shows the different types of land as classified by the settlement. d) Fixing land revenues: in accordance with the aforementioned differentiation of land classes, taxes for a specific field had to be paid according to location (village category), size, land usage and soil quality. Revenues were fixed for fourteen years in the records for each field and each land proprietor, and had to be paid in cash, with additional payments being made in kind, mainly grain. The payable wheat and barley had to be brought by each farmer to the governmental grain depots (kothi ) and was used for the alimentation of the administration and garrison or sold on the market.

Figure 4. Land classification according to revenue records. It is remarkable that the terms used in the revenue records for the type of land utilisation and soil quality are in the vernacular Balti, which is a hint that the classification reflects autochthonous concepts of soil evaluation and land utilisation. Fields were classified roughly according to their distance from the villages: the nearer the fields to built-up areas the better the soil quality. 11

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All the results of the settlement were written down in the revenue or settlement records, which were composed of different registers (Misal-i-haqqiyat, Khasra-Girdawari, Register Intequalat, Dalbatch) and maps (masawi, lata). Land utilisation and crops grown on each field were inspected annually for the levy of revenues, an inspection that was called girdawari. When looking at the results and effects of settlement, one has to distinguish between the different groups involved. For the government, and especially the maharaja, the settlement without doubt increased the state income (Imperial Gazetteer of India 1908: 77; Younghusband 1909: 187). But for the tax-payers, the pressure to pay taxes was very high and tax exemptions or reductions for poor households were not approved. A significant number of farmers had to sell part of their land or livestock because they were unable to pay their taxes. As a result many young Balti left the Princely State of Jammu and Kashmir to avoid the hardship of taxation and emigrated to other parts of British India.12 Land Administration after 1948 and the Revitalisation of Autochthonous Institutions Immediately after independence in 1948, the first war was fought between India and Pakistan, resulting in the dissection of the former principality of Jammu and Kashmir by a still disputed cease-fire line. Baltistan, together with the former Gilgit Agency, came under the administration of Pakistan as disputed territory without achieving the status of a full province. Traditional links to Ladakh and to the valley of Kashmir were cut by the cease-fire line. Consequently, the direction and partners for commercial and political relations had to be modified. New roads had to be constructed linking Baltistan with the rest of Pakistan, first via the Deosai Plateau and, since 1968, via the Indus valley. In the first decades after independence, Baltistan became an Agency, with Skardu as its capital. Union Councils were established at local levels, but the revenue system persisted. Important reforms were carried

12 Other reasons for emigration included kar-i-begar, an onerous form of forced labour. Besides this, young men were forced to work as porters (‘coolies’), not only in Baltistan but also in the whole state of Jammu and Kashmir (Knight 1893: 66ff.; Lawrence 1895: 411ff.; Robertson 1896: 337; Younghusband 1909: 231ff.). See also Bray, this volume.

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out only during the government of Zulfikar Bhutto between 1972 and 1974: Baltistan was made a District within the Northern Areas and Shigar became a sub-division with its own Assistant Commissioner. The begar, res and jagir systems, along with the collection of all land taxes, were abolished and land possessors—apart from tenants—became real land proprietors. As a result, the post of nambardar for each mauza was no longer needed and was, thus, abandoned, with the effect that local institutions like the village elders (tsharma) were revived. On the other hand, the regulations that were fixed during the settlement for pastures and irrigation systems have remained in force and are still followed by the users. Land ownership and land transactions are still recorded by the patwari in the revenue records, but since there is no longer any need to do so for tax collection purposes, nowadays the settlement records are in a very bad condition and are only partly up to date. It is interesting to note how autochthonous institutions have persisted or been transformed by the different historical events. The village elders or headmen (tsharma) play an important role in communal affairs today. They settle disputes, determine the date for sending the animals to alpine pastures and fix the day of canal cleaning. Furthermore, the tsharma nominate canal watchmen (hrkongstrung) and sometimes organise the distribution of an estate amongst heirs. Conflicts about authority and competence occurred in some villages between former nambardar and the present tsharma, although it is not uncommon that the former nambardar became the tsharma of one village. The assertiveness and power of tsharma vary from village to village and depend on charisma, personal authority and competence. It seems that the authority of the tsharma is higher in villages at the periphery than in villages near the centre, probably due to their remoteness and, thus, the weaker presence of government administrators. Property and Utilisation Rights over Land Land as a Common Property Resource With regard to land rights in Shigar, one must recognise the existence of two main types of land resources primarily defined by their user groups. Irrigated agricultural lands, such as fields, gardens and meadows, are possessed and used by individuals or small groups of individuals like households or families, and correspond to the settled areas. Though they

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are also used by individuals, the utilisation rights for all lands outside the village ‘oases’, the unsettled areas, are either not defined, which is the case for the majority of mountain terrain—rocks, glaciers and steep slopes—or they are in the hands of user groups such as village communities. The latter is true of the majority of the best pasturelands. Due to the relatively small fodder base in Shigar, all reachable lands that are at least sparsely covered by grasses or bushes are potential pastures. Locals divide them into bloq or lungma, which refers to the alpine pastures located at altitudes between 3,500 and 5,000m, ranga, which covers the desert-like slopes near the villages and the periodically flooded alluvial land near the river, and ol, the irrigated meadows. All pastures apart from the privately held ol are legally government land (khalisa) and, thus, accessible for everybody. However, for the most valuable pastures, in particular the alpine pastures, access and utilisation is limited to well-defined user groups. Such specified pasture rights were written down for each mauza during the settlement and are still in force.13 Most likely they are based on local customs and are not an invention by the settlement administration, as locals have made statements about the form of pasture use practised before such customs were put into force by the settlement administration. In most cases, usufruct rights over pastures are related to the village communities of a specific settlement, mostly the nearest one, and are always linked with duties, such as the repair of paths and pasture huts. Thus, pastures are commons, used and possessed by a specified user group, while the pasture land is, and has always been, legally owned by the central authority, be it the cho, the maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir or the government of Pakistan. Although conflicts over the usufruct rights of pastures occasionally occur, mainly between different village communities, the present compromise between legal and governmental ownership and common possession seems to work. It does so, at least, under the present conditions in which pasture land has a relatively low value. The state does not normally interfere in communal affairs. This situation could, however, become precarious if the owners’ interest in land increased due to the identification of valuable resources in the area, such as minerals or wood, or due to other forms of land use, 13 Pasture rights are laid down for each mauza in a document called naql-kahcharai, while other land use rights regarding tree planting, the paying of craftsmen, rights to minerals, wood etc. are specified in the document wajib-ul-arz (‘what else has to be mentioned’) (Schmidt 2004b).

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such as for the construction of roads or governmental buildings, or establishing camp sites for trekking tourists. In such cases the government could insist on its ownership right and could exclude traditional user groups from the land. Land as a Private Property Resource Individually used or privately possessed lands include agricultural fields, gardens and meadows. All such plots are registered in the revenue records, which also include information about size, usage and proprietor. Fields are occupied, on the other hand, by single or several, mostly related, persons. Water mills, in particular, are owned by a number of people. Such cases are the result of the locally-practised inheritance system, which is discussed later in this chapter. Generally, land in Shigar is relatively equally divided between households. Apart from the former cho and some wazir families,14 there are no big landowners, and only a few households have no land of their own (Polzer and Schmidt 2000). In most cases, land is cultivated by the land proprietors themselves, but occasionally it is leased out to tenants. Today, three types of lease can be distinguished in Shigar: a) The permanent or occupancy tenancy (mustaqil kashtkari ) is based on the right of permanent possession, which is inheritable. Such lease contracts are mentioned in the revenue records and are found today only on land which is owned by the cho or by wazir families. Advantageous for the tenant is the fact that the landowner would find it very hard to increase the rent or cancel the contract. b) Most leases are today based on oral contracts between landowners and tenants. Referring to the annual basis of the lease one speaks of temporary tenants or tenants-at-will ( ghair mustaqil kashtkar). As rent, a specific amount of grain is fixed in spring and has to be paid by the tenant to the landowner in autumn, independent of the yield and of the actual crops grown on the field. c) A traditional, but today only very rarely practised, lease form is the so-called bartap system. Such leases are also arranged orally but differ in the form of rent: the harvested grain is divided equally between landowner and tenant, thus being dependent on the yield. In this 14 Descendents of former ministers (wazir) of the cho still use the title of wazir with their family names.

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sharecropping system, the advantages for tenants in case of a bad harvest are obvious, while the disadvantage for landowners can be seen in the lack of planning reliability. In general, the relationship between the landowner and the tenant goes further than the pure contract of lease. Tenants not infrequently carry out field or other work for the landowner without any payment, if the latter asks them. On the other hand, landowners often feel responsibility for their tenants and help them if they are in need of money, food or medicine. Although most of the settled areas in and around villages are in the possession of individuals and are subject to these individuals’ own decisions,15 there are local customs and rules which restrict the use to which a land proprietor may put the land. For example, in accordance with the ban on free grazing, livestock is kept away from the cropped land during the growing season. In most villages a watchman (lurapa), who is appointed by the village community or by a tsharma, checks that no animals enter the fields.16 The use of a farmer’s own fields is also affected by the rights of way which allow everybody to cross fields after harvest. Other local rights include customs about the construction of houses on specific areas, change of land use and the planting of trees. As land is not forever in the possession or ownership of one person, questions arise about the transfer and alienation of land. During the reign of the cho, most land was inherited and land transfers were carried out in an informal way or were subject to the mercy of the ruler, since he could permit or forbid the alienation of land. Under the maharaja of Jammu and Kashmir, at least until 1933, land alienation was strictly forbidden and land could only be transferred by way of inheritance. Since private landholdings in Shigar are small and most households depend to a high degree on the products of their agricultural land, there is only a small market today in which land is bought and sold, mortgaged or bartered. The most common way to transfer land is still by inheritance from one possessor to the next. Today, the practice of inheritance is a mixture of Islamic rights and traditional customs, although the persons who are consulted over the distribution of an Other lands within the settled areas include public pathways, sites and canals. The lorapa of Ladakh and Zangskar perform a similar function: apart from keeping livestock away from the fields, he tends the livestock that are kept in the valleys during the summer (Friedl 1983: 244; Jina 1995: 105; Labbal 2000: 169). 15 16

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estate, namely religious leaders (mullahs) or tsharma, would always state that the form of inheritance in Shigar is governed purely by Islamic law. The governing principle of this law could be outlined as follows: property is divided equally between all children with the exception that sons inherit twice as much as daughters.17 However, the reality differs from the theoretical concept, since daughters mostly gift their share to their brothers. This practice is in contradiction of Islamic law, but is a reminder of the traditional local customs under which girls were excluded from the inheritance. Due to the significantly increased survival rate of children and, thus, of heirs over the last decades the practised form of inheritance resulted in an extremely fragmented field area: not only is the land-holding of each household reduced from generation to generation, but also the sizes of the fields themselves, as can be seen in Figure 5. Conclusion In Shigar, where water and land resources are very limited, land use is directed mainly at sustaining the livelihoods of the local population. The mixed mountain agriculture practised here is a reflection of dynamic utilisation strategies developed for different ecological niches. It cannot, however, be explained simply as an adaptation to the natural environment, since decisions about land use are also influenced by political and economic incidents, as well as inheritance patterns. Arable farming and animal husbandry are in a reciprocal relationship, where each complements and is dependent on the other. Raising a whole range of agricultural plants and types of livestock can be seen as a strategy to minimise risks. Regarding the administration of land, today we find local indigenous institutions co-existing with governmental administration and rules. Important autochthonous institutions, such as the tsharma, lurapa and hrkongstrung, fulfil tasks and functions at a local level that are not covered by the governmental administration. Ownership and usufruct rights over land vary between different land resources. The vast majority of land, including high mountain regions, glaciers and waste land, is owned by the state, but since utilisation is not restricted such lands can be defined as open-access resources. Pastures are, in most 17 For further and more detailed information on the title of inheritance in Shigar see Lentz (2000) and Schmidt (2004b).

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Fig. 5a: Landed property of Xalbipong clan in Shigar, generation 1.

Fig. 5b: Landed property of Xalbipong clan in Shigar, generation 3.

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Fig. 5c: Landed property of Xalbipong clan in Shigar, generation 5.

cases, commons or common property resources with usufruct rights limited by the inclusion and exclusion of specific user groups. Individual ownership of land is only realised for the irrigated agricultural fields, fruit and vegetable gardens and meadows, and the utilisation of such land is legally the responsibility of the landowner. However, the utilisation of privately-held land is also regulated by local customs, such that individual strategies of land management are influenced by communal decisions. To sum up, land resources in Baltistan are managed by a well-defined group of interdependent resource users who are working within a given set of rules and regulations. Local institutions governing land use have been shown to be relatively robust and flexible. The good condition of the cultivated land, as well as the fact that there are no signs of serious degradation or over-utilisation of pastures in Shigar, show that the management of land is carried out by the village communities in a relatively effective and sustainable way. In order to achieve the goals of the Global Mountain Summit, held in Bishkek in 2002, namely “to improve the livelihoods of mountain people, to protect mountain ecosystems and to use mountain resources more wisely”, it seems obvious that local communities must be empowered and the principles of subsidiarity should be respected.

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Afridi, Banat Gul. 1988. Baltistan in History. Peshawar: Emjay Books International. Baker, J. Mark. 1997. Common Property Resource Theory and the kuhl Irrigation Systems of Himachal Pradesh, India. Human Organization 56(2): 199–208. Berkes, Fikret (ed.) 1989. Common Property Resources: Ecology and Community-based Sustainable Development. London: Belhaven Press. Berkes, Fikret, Iain Davidson-Hunt and Kerril Davidson-Hunt. 1998. Diversity of Common Property Resource Use and Diversity of Social Interests in the Western Indian Himalaya. Mountain Research and Development 18(1): 19–33. Cunningham, Alexander. 1854. Ladák: Physical, Statistical, and Historical; with Notices of the Surrounding Countries. London. (Reprint: New Delhi: Sagar Publications 1977). Dainelli, Giotto. 1924. Spedizione Italiana de Filippi nell Himàlaia, Caracorùm e Turchestàn Cinese (1913–14). Serie II—Resultati geologici e geografici. Vol. 8, Le condizioni delle genti. Bologna: Zanichelli. Ehlers, Eckart and Hermann Kreutzmann (eds). 2000. High Mountain Pastoralism in Northern Pakistan. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner. (= Erdkundliches Wissen 132). Emerson, Richard. 1984. Charismatic Kingship: a Study of State-Formation and Authority in Baltistan. Journal of Central Asia 7(2): 95–133. Feeny, David, Fikret Berkes, Bonnie J. McCay and James M. Acheson. 1990. The Tragedy of the Commons: Twenty-two Years Later. Human Ecology 18(1): 1–19. Friedl, Wolfgang. 1983. Landwirtschaft, Viehzucht und Handwerk in Zangla. In Detlef Kantowsky and Reinhard Sander (eds), Recent research on Ladakh: history, culture, sociology, ecology. München: Weltforum (= Schriftenreihe Internationales Asienforum 1). Government of Pakistan. 1972. Population Census of Northern Areas 1972. District Census Report Baltistan. Census Organisation. Ministry of Interior, States and Frontier Regions. Islamabad. ——. 1984. 1981 District Census Report of Baltistan. Population Census Organisation. Statistics Division. Islamabad. ——. 2000. 1998 District Census Report of Baltistan. Population Census Organisation. Statistics Division. Islamabad. Grist, Nicola. 1985. Ladakh, a Trading State. In Patrick Kaplanian and Claude Dendaletche (eds), Ladakh, Himalaya Occidentale: Ethnologie, Écologie. Pau: Centre Pyrénéen de Biologie et Anthropologie des Montagnes. Hardin, Garrett. 1968. The Tragedy of the Commons. Science 162: 1243–48. Hashmatullah Khan, Al-Haj Maulvi. 1987. History of Baltistan. Islamabad: National institute for Folk and Traditional Heritage (Lok Virsa). Hewitt, Farida. 1991. Women in the Landscape: a Karakoram Village before ‘Development’. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Waterloo. Imperial Gazetteer of India. 1908. Kashmir and Jammu. Provincial Series, 16. Oxford. (Reprint: Lahore: Sang-e-Meel Publications, 1983). Jina, Prem Singh. 1995. High Pasturelands of Ladakh Himalaya. New Delhi: Indus Publishers Co. Knight, Edward Frederic. 1893. Where Three Empires Meet: A Narrative of Recent Travel in Kashmir, Western Tibet, Gilgit, and the Adjoining Countries. London. (Reprint: Lahore: Sang-e-Meel Publications 1996). Kreutzmann, Hermann. 1993. Challenge and Response in the Karakoram: Socioeconomic Transformation in Hunza, Northern Areas, Pakistan. Mountain Research and Development 13(1): 19–39. Labbal, Valerie. 2000. Traditional Oases of Ladakh: A Case Study of Equity in Water Management. In Hermann Kreutzmann (ed.) Sharing Water: Irrigation and Water Management in the Hindukush—Karakoram—Himalaya. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 163–83.

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Lawrence, Walter R. 1895. The Valley of Kashmir. London: H. Frowde. (Reprint: Srinagar: Kesar Publishers 1967). Lentz, Sabine. 2000. Rechtspluralismus in den Northern Areas/Pakistan. Cologne: Rüdiger Köppe. (= Culture Area Karakorum Scientific Studies 9). MacDonald, Kenneth I. 1994. The Mediation of Risk: Ecology, Society and Authority in Askole, a Karakoram Mountain Agro-pastoral Community. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Waterloo. Malik, M. Bashir. 1961. Census of Northern Areas, 1961. Agency Census Report. Baltistan Agency. Parts I–V. Vol. 6. Mann, R.S. 1986. The Ladakhi: A Study in Ethnography and Change. Calcutta: Anthropological Survey of India. Osmaston, Henry, Rod Fisher, Janet Frazer and Tony Wilkinson. 1994. Animal Husbandry in Zangskar. In John Crook and Henry Osmaston (eds), Himalayan Buddhist Villages: Environment, Resources, Society and Religious Life in Zangskar, Ladakh. Bristol: University of Bristol Press. Ostrom, Elinor. 1990. Governing the Commons: the Evolution of Institutions for Collective Action. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ostrom E., T. Dietz, N. Dolsak, P.C. Stern, S. Stonich and E.U. Weber (eds). 2002. The Drama of the Commons. Washington: National Academy Press. Petech, Luciano. 1977. The Kingdom of Ladakh, c. 950–1842. Roma: Institituto Italiano per il Medio ed Estremo Oriente. Serie Orientale Roma 51. Polzer, Claudia, and Matthias Schmidt. 1999. The Transformation of Political Structure in Shigar Valley/Baltistan. In Andreas Dittmann (ed.) Mountain Societies in Transition: Contributions to the Cultural Geography of the Karakorum. Cologne: Rüdiger Köppe. (= Culture Area Karakorum Scientific Studies 6). Rhoades, Robert E., and Stephen I. Thompson. 1975. Adaptive Strategies in Alpine Environments: Beyond Ecological Particularism. American Ethnologist 2(3): 535–51. Rizvi, Janet. 1999. A Self-reliant Economy: the Role of Trade in Pre-Independence Ladakh. Ladakh Studies 12: 31–35. Robertson, George Scott. 1896. The Káfirs of the Hindu-Kush. London: Lawrence and Bullen. Schmidt, Matthias. 2000. Pastoral System in Shigar/Baltistan: Communal Herding Management and Pasturage Rights. In Eckart Ehlers and Hermann Kreutzmann (eds), High Mountain Pastoralism in Northern Pakistan. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner (= Erdkundliches Wissen 132). ——. 2004a. Interdependencies and Reciprocity of Private and Common Property Resources in the Central Karakorum. Erdkunde 58 (4): 316–30. ——. 2004b. Boden- und Wasserrecht in Shigar, Baltistan: Autochthone Institutionen der Ressourcennutzung im Zentralen Karakorum. Sankt Augustin: Asgard. (= Bonner Geographische Abhandlungen 112). Schuler, Sidney. 1978. The “Story of the Creation of Shigar” of Wazir Ahmad. Central Asiatic Journal 22: 102–20. Sheikh, Abdul Ghani. 1998. Ladakh and Baltistan through the Ages. In Irmtraud Stellrecht (ed.) Karakorum—Hindukush—Himalaya: Dynamics of Change II. Cologne: Rüdiger Köppe. (= Culture Area Karakorum Scientific Studies 4/II). Singh, Katar. 1994. Managing Common Pool Resources: Principles and Case Studies. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Singh, Thakar. 1914. Assessment Report of the Skardo Tahsil of the Ladakh District. Lahore. Thorp, Robert. 1870. Cashmere Misgovernment: An Account of the Economic and Political Oppression of the People of Kashmir by the Maharaja’s Government. London. Vigne, Godfrey T. 1842. Travels in Kashmir, Ladak, Iskardo, the Countries Adjoining the Mountain-Course of the Indus, and the Himalaya, North of the Panjab. (2 Vols.) London: H. Colburn. (Reprint: Karachi: Indus Publications 1987). Younghusband, Francis E. 1909. Kashmir. London: A. and C. Black.

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THE INTRODUCTION OF MODERN CHEMICAL FERTILISER TO THE ZANGSKAR VALLEY, LADAKH, AND ITS EFFECTS ON AGRICULTURAL PRODUCTIVITY, SOIL QUALITY AND ZANGSKARI SOCIETY J. Seb Mankelow Introduction Ladakh is currently in a period of rapid transition. Encouraged, in part, by the relatively recent flood of government and non-government development initiatives, many aspects of traditional Ladakhi life have experienced unprecedented levels of modernisation and change. The Ladakhi economy has been transformed such that it now offers a variety of incomes for those who do not work the land. Yet, despite this economic diversification, agricultural productivity continues, for many, to be of critical importance, not only for those still engaged in largely subsistence livelihoods, but also as a symbol of Ladakh’s independence. With such strong agrarian roots, and in the light of recent efforts to increase yields and stem the migration of farmers to Ladakh’s urban centres, agricultural productivity is a politically charged issue. Thus, as development sweeps this remote corner of northern India, the agricultural practices that together formed the basis of Ladakh’s traditional economy (Mann 1986; Norberg-Hodge 1991), are now attracting a host of new initiatives. Initially confined to the agriculturally active surroundings of both Kargil and Leh, the modernisation of farming practice has, with the help of a growing road network, found its way into some of Ladakh’s more remote pockets of habitation. Even relatively isolated communities in the Zangskar region of Ladakh now claim varying degrees of access to modern chemical fertilisers, hybrid seeds and a selection of new agricultural implements. However, many of these agricultural initiatives have been heavily criticised by Ladakh-based non-governmental organisations (NGOs). Advocated primarily through the Department of Agriculture, the ‘technological fix’ is seen by many environmentally concerned observers as having the “potential to disturb delicately

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balanced ecological and social systems” (Rizvi 1996: 179).1 Yet, enquiries made at the commencement of fieldwork for this paper, implied that many of Ladakh’s highest profile environmental NGOs (who largely condemn these new initiatives) were unable to support their concerns with empirical data from Ladakh.2 Based on fieldwork undertaken in Padum, Zangskar’s administrative capital, this paper examines one of Ladakh’s seemingly controversial agricultural initiatives: the introduction and encouraged use of modern chemical fertilisers. Using field data from both traditional and modern fertiliser regimes, and by drawing upon the social context surrounding fertiliser practice, this paper explores the integration of modern chemical fertilisers into the Zangskari farming system.3 In addition to the analysis of comparative data on crop yield and soil quality, attention is also drawn to relationships far more complex than the much quoted findings which simply link modern fertiliser use with short-term increase in yields, depletion of soil micronutrients and a decline in soil structure (Brady and Weil 1999). Traditional Zangskari Farming and the Introduction of Modern Chemical Fertilisers Despite an emerging cash economy and the subsidised sale of imported food staples, agriculture is still fundamental to Zangskari life. Figures obtained from the Rural Development Officer suggest that approximately 90% of people still depend on their farms to meet the majority, if not all, of their staple food requirements. Often regarded as backward (Singh 1992) and unproductive (Kaul 1998), traditional Zangskari agricultural practice can, perhaps surprisingly, be quite the opposite. Research based on traditional farms—those still using only animal manure and latrine manure as fertiliser—indicates that Zangskaris See also Norberg-Hodge (1991) and Deen Darokhan (1999). The majority of fieldwork (especially yield estimates and the evaluation of soil quality) upon which this paper is based was conducted in 1998. Field visits between 1999 and 2003 provided further insights into the social context of fertiliser practice. 3 This paper’s findings are largely based on the situation in Padum and several contiguous settlements. Much of Zangskar has yet to be exposed to modern fertiliser practice and whilst specific issues highlighted in this paper may well prove to be representative of Zangskari farming as a whole, it is likely that the individual requirements and constraints of each village will tailor the manner and extent to which these new methods of farming are embraced. 1 2

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are capable of producing grain yields little below those obtained from European intensive high input farming (Osmaston 1994: 169).4 To achieve this high level of productivity, traditional Zangskari farming is a labour intensive yet highly nutrient efficient system. In applying latrine manure, chak-lut (chag lud ), and animal manure, lut (lud ), to the fields as a fertiliser, Zangskaris effectively re-cycle the majority of nutrients removed through harvesting, back into the soil.5 With such a refined and productive agricultural system it would appear that there is little room for any improvement in crop productivity. However, as part of a four-pronged government initiative to further increase Zangskar’s productivity the Government’s Department of Agriculture have introduced modern chemical fertilisers to the region.6 Crowden (1976) suggests that a trial use of modern fertiliser was scheduled for 1977, although the records of the Padum-based cooperative that purchases and distributes the fertiliser date from 1980.7 The modern fertilisers currently being used in Zangskar are crystalline urea, muriate of potash (MOP) and diammonium phosphate (DAP), a combination of which represents an input of nitrogen, phosphate and potassium. Collectively, these fertilisers are referred to by many Zangskaris as government lut and in the majority of instances they are individually identified by their colour and texture. The application of modern fertiliser in Zangskar can best be described as careful experimentation. Due to an apparent lack of relevant education programmes, the Zangskari farmers—unaware of the correct methods and quantities to use—have integrated these fertilisers into their existing traditional fertiliser regimes. Consequently, most farmers who now use government lut also continue to apply varying amounts of Osmaston (1994: 167) provides yield estimates for wheat and two varieties of barley, yang-kar (gyang dkar) and che-ne (lce nas). The majority of barley grown in Padum is che ne, a naked six-row barley which, due to its ability to grow and ripen quickly, is often the principal crop in Zangskar’s high altitude villages. Unless otherwise stated, the sample data and observations referred to in this paper are based on che ne or che ne fields. 5 The manure used as agricultural fertiliser is primarily collected from the stables in which the Zangskaris over-night and over-winter their animals. Referred to as pa-lut (pa lud), stable manure is more appropriate for use as a fertiliser, whereas the dried dungcakes collected from the mountain pastures are usually set aside for use as fuel. 6 An interview with Kargil District’s Chief Agricultural Officer revealed that Zangskar is subject to four government agricultural schemes: desert development, the provision of High Yield Variety (HYV) seeds, the provision of subsidised agricultural implements and the provision of subsidised fertilisers. 7 Estimates for the introduction of modern chemical fertilisers obtained from the Department of Agriculture vary from 1973 to 1983. 4

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traditional fertiliser. The ratios of this mix vary according to the circumstances of each farmer. Size of family, number of kept animals and financial situation are just several factors that may influence the ratios of fertiliser applied to a particular set of fields. Indeed, the decision to continue farming traditionally and to decline modern fertiliser is also an option, and one that is practised by several farmers. Thus, in Padum, fields under both modern and traditional fertiliser regimes often exist immediately adjacent to each other. With contrasting fertiliser practices in such close proximity, Padum provides an ideal location in which to draw comparisons between fields and to explore the effects of modern chemical fertilisers on the social and ecological balance.8 Effects of Modern Fertiliser on Agricultural Productivity The Department of Agriculture claims an increase in Zangskar’s productivity due to the introduction and encouraged use of modern chemical fertilisers. However, field data from Padum is not so conclusive. Using a similar method to Osmaston (1994: 165), grain yield estimates were obtained for eleven of Padum’s fields.9 Five of these fields were traditionally fertilised with stable and latrine manure, whilst the remainder were fertilised with the modern regime of chemical fertiliser mixed with varying amounts of manure. Grain yield estimates for fields under either regime were found to be comparable, averaging at 5.2 ton per hectare (t/ha), a slightly higher average than that obtained by Osmaston (1994). A comparison between the data from Padum and the winter barley yield average of 4–5 t/ha from Rothamsted research farm in the UK (Halley and Soffe 1992), supports the assertion that Zangskari farming is capable of attaining relatively high levels of productivity. Enquiries revealed that the owners of the traditionally fertilised fields in Padum were unconvinced about the exact benefits of modern fertilisers. 8 Fields in Padum were also some of the first in Zangskar to be subject to modern chemical fertilisers. Any long-term trends relating to the use of these fertilisers are therefore assumed to be more apparent. 9 Yield estimates were obtained through the multiplication of: mean number of ears per 0.5m2, mean number of grains per ear and mean weight of grains. The number of sample stations per field (and the number of ears and grains used to obtain mean data) varied according to the respective field size. Care was taken when selecting sample sites in an effort to minimise the number of environmental variables (other than fertiliser practice) existing between fields. A detailed methodology can be found in Mankelow (1999).

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The majority of farmers practising the modern regime stated that grain yields temporarily increased but then declined; a problem frequently associated with use of modern fertilisers as they rapidly deplete soil nutrient levels. Indeed, at the time of sampling, it is possible that the productivity of the fields under the modern fertiliser regime had already begun to decline, hence the similarity in grain yield estimate to that obtained from traditionally fertilised fields. The depletion of soil nutrients was certainly supported by a handful of farmers who also claimed that they were forced to leave fields fallow every 3–4 years in order to allow time for the exhausted soil to recover. Osmaston (1989: 4) notes with reference to traditional farming that leaving fields fallow is an infrequent practice. Thus, from the recounted experience of Padum’s farmers, the use of modern fertiliser can be viewed as having a detrimental effect upon soil quality. The Effects of Modern Fertiliser on Soil Quality As a result of mixing animal and latrine manure with modern fertilisers the farmers in Padum are still, in part, farming in a manner that maintains a healthy soil. The application of manure represents a regular input of organic matter, a practice which promotes a healthy soil structure and increases the water retention of the soil (Donahue and Miller 1990). Sample analysis to determine any nutrient deficiency gave no indication of fields in Padum suffering from soil micronutrient depletion. However, as mentioned above, there were several claims that the increased productivity from modern fertilisers was short term, an indication, perhaps, that soils are becoming exhausted after several years of increased productivity.10 Despite the continued application of organic matter, interview data from the field suggests that soil structure, in some instances, is declining. Many Zangskari farmers associate the use of chemical fertiliser with an increase in soil hardness, a problem that ultimately leads to a decline in yield. Soil hardness measurements from sampled fields supported this claim by negatively correlating soil hardness and yield. Furthermore, one of Padum’s farmers claimed to have reverted back to only using manure as, over a period of five years, the use of modern fertilisers 10 Sampling over a period of years may be useful in determining change in soil micronutrient levels over time.

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progressively hardened the soil in his fields. This association is also supported by several Zangskaris referring to the situation in sTongde, a village close to Padum, where farmers are reported to be using less modern fertiliser simply because the soil is already recognised as being naturally much harder. In an attempt to explain this observed deterioration it is possible that farmers relying on government lut no longer apply the same quantities of traditional fertiliser. The spreading of animal and latrine manure is certainly considered to be much harder work. Estimations for the difference in time between the two regimes varied but several farmers implied that it took ten times as long to spread the required quantities of manure as opposed to the much easier government lut. In addition several farmers implied that they were now keeping fewer animals. It is possible that the preference for ‘easier’ farming and, in some instances, a shortage of animal manure has resulted in the decline of organic matter application and soil structure. Ease of fertiliser application is an important factor which has implications for the changing patterns of labour requirement, an issue that will be revisited later in this paper. The Effects of Modern Fertiliser on Grain Quality Whilst crop sample data revealed little difference between grain yields from either fertiliser regime, a number of farmers associated the use of modern fertiliser with a marked decrease in grain quality. Zangskaris explained that che ne grains from fields fertilised with government lut are soft, inferior tasting and, in some instances, hollow. Comparison between grains from both fertiliser regimes supported these observations and further enquiries into the decline in taste suggested that both the tsampa (tsam pa) and chang (chang) produced from chemically fertilised che ne is considered inferior in quality.11 Without further research in this area it is not possible to comment conclusively on the cause of this observed decline in barley quality. However, considering the potential of modern fertiliser application to improve the crop to water utilisation ratio in arid areas (see Hong and Zizhen, 1998), it is possible that the softer and inferior tasting barley is associated with a higher water content. It is also feasible that in the long term this variation in quality may result

11

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Che ne is primarily favoured for the brewing of chang.

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in differing values being placed upon grain, simply because of the way in which it is grown. Modern Chemical Fertilisers and Fodder Production In discussing the productivity of Zangskari agriculture it is important to recognise that the crop stem and root also constitute a valued percentage of the harvest. Literally pulled by hand and left to dry, cereal crops are then collected and threshed under hoof. Once separated from the grain, the remaining stems, roots and chaff are retained and added to the stores of winter fodder. Considered to be a major constraint on the number of animals that can be kept through the long Zangskari winter (Mann 1986), the amount of available winter fodder continues to be of critical importance for the majority of Padum’s inhabitants. Largely obtained from periphery grasslands, the cutting, collection and transportation of fodder is a tough and labour demanding period of the Zangskari farming calendar.12 However, one of the most pronounced effects of modern chemical fertiliser use has been the growth of a taller crop and the subsequent increase in the amount of fodder now available from the threshing circle. Although crop height measurements from sample fields did not reveal any statistical relationship with fertiliser regime, the majority of Zangskari farmers interviewed were convinced that using modern chemical fertilisers increased the height of their crop. One farmer stated, “with government lut the grain is not as good but the height is much better; we need to provide more fodder for the animals”. The verbal consensus that crops were taller was also consistent in the nearby villages of Pipiting and Sani, and with reference to several villages in the Indus Valley, Mann (1986: 103) also associates the application of modern chemical fertilisers with an increase in crop height. The growth of a taller crop may be attributed to a combination of two phenomena resulting from an increased availability of nitrogen. Research conducted by Lorentz and Rogler (1973) on low temperature soils (similar to those found in Zangskar) suggests that the application of nitrogenous fertiliser stimulates earlier and more accelerated growth in

12 Just as families hold the ownership to specific fields, they also maintain the right to cut and collect hay from certain field margins, banks of irrigation channels and the surrounding hillsides. These areas are a valued possession of each farming estate.

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spring when natural nitrification processes may otherwise be inhibited. It is possible therefore, that barley grown in Padum under the modern fertiliser regime is taller than its traditional counterpart as a result of these advantageous conditions. Furthermore, an excess of available nitrogen, which is almost certainly achieved through the unchecked application of manure, crystalline urea (45–46% N) and diammonium phosphate (18% N and 46% P), can result in the undue lengthening of the stem internodes (Lokeshawar 1997: 207–208), a phenomenon that not only increases the height of the crop in question but also the incidence of the crop falling over, or lodging.13 Using an excess of nitrogen to increase crop biomass, many of Padum’s farmers are choosing to increase the proportion of fodder directly available from their harvest. In recent years it would appear that changes in family organisation and available workforce have increased the reliance upon this resource. Land Division, Labour Demands and Fodder Availability Traditionally, the value attached to the ownership of productive land was such that Zangskaris adjusted their marital systems to ensure that over generations the agricultural estate was passed down through the same household. Adapted to a particular pattern of agricultural economics (Crook 1994), the system of polyandrous marriage actively prevented the fragmentation of land (and the required workforce) which, as Singh (1992) points out, is not agriculturally viable.14 Furthermore, by regulating population growth, this adaptive marital strategy recognised the relationship between reproductive success and Zangskar’s environmental carrying capacity (Crook 1994; 739).15 However, over the last few decades these adaptive marital systems have slowly begun to fall out of favour with Zangskar’s Buddhist com13 Observations recorded from fields subjected to modern fertilisers confirm that the incidence of lodging in Padum was greater in fields with taller che ne plants. Osmaston (1994), with reference to traditionally fertilised fields, notes a similar crop reaction in the village of sTongde where more heavily manured fields yielded a taller, denser crop that more readily lodged. 14 Whilst polyandry was widely practised in Zangskar, certain social and economic pressures also resulted in other marital arrangements (Crook 1994). 15 Mann (1978) provides a more functionalist analysis by associating a check in population growth with the ability of polyandry to lower the number of reproducing females in society.

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munity. Indeed, the majority of Padum’s Buddhists now practice a system more akin to Padum’s Muslim majority, whereby the farming estate is equally divided amongst siblings.16 The long-term consequences of this shift are already apparent in Padum’s Muslim community where steady population growth over a number of generations has led to the repeated division of farming estates.17 Encouraged by a combination of state legislation and a shift towards a more cash-based economy, Padum’s Buddhist households are now showing signs of a similar expansion.18 Zangskar’s population has nearly doubled since 1973 from 6865 to 12,167 in 2003, and much of this growth is centred on Padum. The growth in Padum’s population has increased the demand on existing agricultural land and the field margins relied upon for the collection of animal fodder. The subsequent burden on finite resources has prompted several farmers to develop marginal land to the north. However, agricultural expansion is limited as farmers from neighbouring Pipiting already claim much of the water required to irrigate this area.19 The majority of Padum’s farmers are left to struggle with a divided farm estate and the practicalities of trying to work ever-shrinking plots of land.20 Imported rice, wheat and vegetables from other parts of India compensates for any shortfall in Padum’s food production, whilst the growing scarcity of available winter fodder has prompted the development of a less orthodox solution. As Padum’s fields are shared out between new monogamous households, so too are the highly prized rights to collect hay from irrigation 16 Although Muslim households are obliged to divide the estate equally between siblings, daughters who marry patrilocally rarely accept their legal entitlement. However, there are cases where daughters who have married and moved to Kargil pursue their claim to a share of the estate in Padum. 17 Crowden (1976) states that in just 50 years the number of Muslim households in Padum grew from 20 to 50. 18 The passing of state legislation in the early 1940s prohibited the practice of polyandrous marriage and primogeniture (Mann 1978; Rizvi 1996). 19 Building new fields and irrigation channels is not only physically demanding; it also requires a great deal of political negotiation. Many young farmers do not have the labour resources or the political clout to undertake such a project (Gutschow 1998). 20 With reference to six families in Leh, Crook (1994: 755) notes that, despite a shift towards monogamy, the farming estate remains intact through an increasingly complex system of economic cooperation. In Padum’s Buddhist households a semifractionalisation of the farming estate appears to take place. Monogamous families are expected to cover their immediate needs by working their share of the farm estate from a khang-chung (khang chung), or little house. However, should the khang-chung later be disbanded the khang-pa (khang pa) or main household, would certainly reassert its ownership of land.

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banks and field margins. For several of the larger farming estates this division can easily be accommodated. Yet, for a growing number of young farmers, inheriting the rights to inadequate hay resources seriously limits the number of animals that can be kept through the winter.21 Increasingly, these farmers (who are usually younger brothers) are countering the resulting shortage of fodder through the use of modern chemical fertilisers. By increasing the biomass of their crop any shortfall in the availability of hay is offset by the increased percentage of fodder available directly from the threshing circle. Moreover, the ability to collect a greater quantity of fodder from the threshing circle dramatically reduces the labour and time demands of cutting and transporting hay. Traditional Zangskari agricultural practice is a highly labour intensive affair which, in many instances, requires the combined efforts of the extended family. However, the trend in Padum towards the division of farming estates has, in some instances, also resulted in the fragmentation of the workforce. Whilst some extended families continue to cooperate, others now struggle to provide the required labour for such fundamental activities as tending animals, sowing crops, harvesting and haymaking. The problem is complicated further by the relatively recent, time consuming commitments of government employment, tourism related incomes and schooling.22 With fewer household members available for agricultural activities, a number of farmers are now employing Zangskari or Nepali labourers to assist with harvesting and haymaking. Yet, not all farmers are in a financial position to do this. For many, the time and labour saving benefits of modern fertilisers are a more viable solution. The application of modern chemical fertilisers provides farmers with the option of decreasing the time spent on transporting manure to the fields in the autumn, spreading the manure in the spring and collecting and transporting fodder at the tail end of the harvest. By employing these time-saving measures to satisfy the individual requirements of each household, farmers have integrated the use of modern fertilisers as a means of meeting the increasing demands of modernisation. The fact that the majority of Padum’s farmers were more concerned about

21 Although considered by many farmers to be less important in terms of manure production, animal husbandry remains fundamental to life in Zangskar. 22 Summer schooling is a particular problem as many of the younger family members would traditionally have been given the task of tending the animals.

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fodder production than increased yield or taste is, perhaps, an indication of the value that is now placed upon this practice. Wealth, Status and Identity Initially encouraged by the Indian Government Department of Agriculture, prominent members of Zangskari society are now perpetuating the distribution and use of modern fertiliser. Firmly integrated into Padum’s economy, the acquisition and use of modern chemical fertiliser has, perhaps not surprisingly, become linked with issues of wealth and status. Despite being subsidised by the government, a number of Padum’s farmers who did not have regular cash incomes expressed concern and frustration over the cost of fertiliser. In many instances this frustration was exacerbated by the actions of wealthier, ‘higher-status’ farmers, who openly used corrupt channels to accrue more fertiliser than they actually required. Equality in farming practice is something that Guha (1991) associates with the basis of community solidarity. However, in Padum it is possible to see the potential fragmentation of this solidarity. In particular, many of the Buddhist farmers in Padum and neighbouring Pipiting consider the largely government-employed Muslim community as being able to afford greater amounts of chemical fertiliser. It would appear that such financially-motivated ill-feeling is only set to worsen as subsidised fertilisers are being phased out and fertiliser sales are being handed over to the Agro Industry Development Group.23 The asymmetric acquisition of modern fertiliser in Padum is further complicated by an apparent inconsistency in subsidy rates. Several farmers complained that they were prevented from buying the amount of government lut to which they were entitled. Additionally, a number of farmers also claimed to have purchased fertilisers at a 33% subsidy when both the co-operative and Department of Agriculture confirmed that the government subsidy was 50%. This unequal distribution can only be viewed as potentially contributing to community divisions based upon wealth and status. Exhibiting less concern over issues of wealth and agricultural status, Zangskari elders highlighted the increased reliance upon government lut as

23 The Agro Industry Development Group provides an assortment of essential agricultural products from machinery to poultry feed. Each state in India has its own group.

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one of many changes in practice that has begun to undermine the identity of Zangskar’s farming communities. Whilst many elders questioned the introduction of new technology, their primary concern was directed more towards the increased reliance upon imported goods brought in by road. Apart from trade in such essentials as wool, butter and salt, Zangskaris have historically been almost entirely self-sufficient. However, since the completion of the road link with Kargil, many elders consider their self-sufficient identity as being eroded by a growing dependence on imported goods. In light of the relatively recent conflict in Kargil and the associated disruption to road access in and out of Zangskar, the concerns of Padum’s elder generation are, perhaps, well founded. Conclusion Originally introduced to increase grain productivity, modern chemical fertilisers are playing a much wider role in Padum’s socio-ecological system. Rather than simply applying fertiliser in an effort to increase grain yield, many farmers in Padum have carefully integrated modern and traditional fertiliser practices in order to satisfy a broader set of requirements. Despite being somewhat unconventional, the majority of Padum’s farmers are applying modern fertiliser in order to grow a taller crop and increase the amount of fodder available from the threshing circle. By decreasing the percentage of fodder that needs to be cut and transported from various field margins, Padum’s farmers are using an unintended, yet arguably beneficial, consequence of unchecked fertiliser application to offset restrictions imposed by fodder and labour shortages. In this instance, it could be argued that modern chemical fertilisers are being used to maintain the social and ecological balance, rather than upset it, as many environmentalists fear. Problems relating to the use of modern fertiliser are also apparent. Yet, mainly through experience, many farmers are already aware of the short-term increase in yield and the tendency for soil structure to decline. Despite the increasing use of labourers during the harvest, the majority of Padum’s farmers still work their own land and remain heavily reliant upon their crops for food. This direct contact accounts for the apparent sensitivity of farmers to any positive or negative changes resulting from such variables as fertiliser practice. Indeed, the ability to adapt to shifts in both agricultural and social organisation is demonstrated by farmers

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who have integrated the labour and time saving benefits of modern fertiliser use to suit their respective household needs. Admittedly, excess nitrogen application is not a sustainable, long-term solution. Viewed in the context of deteriorating soil quality, asymmetric fertiliser distribution and the phasing out of subsidy, the reliance on modern chemical fertiliser to free-up time and labour will undoubtedly prove to be problematic. However, calls for farmers in Padum to heed the advice of local environmental NGOs and switch back to a traditional fertiliser regime simply do not recognise the complex way in which modern fertiliser has been integrated, monitored and adapted into what is now a rapidly modernising socio-ecological system. Even if the benefits are short-term, perhaps the use of modern fertilisers should now be recognised as having both positive and negative effects on the stability of social and agricultural organisation. References Brady, C.N. and R.R. Weil. 1999. The Nature and Properties of Soils. 12th edition. New Jersey: Prentice Hall. Crook, J. and S. Crook. 1994. Explaining Tibetan Polyandry: Socio-Cultural, Demographic And Biological Perspectives. In J. Crook and H. Osmaston (eds), Himalayan Buddhist Villages. New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass Publishers Limited, 735–86. Crowden, J.P. and F.M. Lumsden. 1976. Bristol University Ladakh Expedition. Expedition Report, Bristol University. Deen Darokhan, M. 1999. The Development of Ecological Agriculture in Ladakh and Strategies for Sustainable Development. In M. van Beek, K. Brix Bertelsen and P. Pedersen (eds), Ladakh: Culture, History, and Development between Himalaya and Karakoram. New Delhi: Sterling Publishers Private Limited. Donahue, R.L. and R.W. Miller. 1990. Soils: An Introduction to Soils and Plant Growth. 6th edition. USA: Prentice Hall International Editions. Guha, R. 1991. The Unquiet Woods: Ecological Change and Peasant Resistance in the Himalaya. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Gutschow, K. 1998. Hydro-Logic in the Northwest Himalaya: Several Case Studies from Zangskar. In I. Stellrecht (ed.) Karakorum-Hindukush-Himalaya Dynamics of Change. Köln: Rüdiger Köppe Verlag. Halley, R.J. and R.J. Soffe (eds). 1992. The Agricultural Notebook. 18th edition. Oxford: Blackwell Scientific Publications. Hong, L. and L. Zizhen. 1998. Research on the Regulation of Water and Fertilizers and a Crop Growth Model of Spring Wheat in Farmland of Semi-arid Regions. Ecological Modelling 107(2–3): 279–87. Kaul, H.N. 1998. Rediscovery of Ladakh. Delhi: Indus Publishing Company. Lokeshwar, R.R. (chief ed.) 1997. Handbook of Agriculture. New Delhi: Directorate of Publications and Information on Agriculture. Lorentz, R.J. and G.A. Rogler. 1973. Growth Rate of Mixed Prairie in Response to Nitrogen and Phosphorus Fertilization. Journal of Range Management 26(5): 365–68. Mankelow, J.S. 1999. The Introduction of Modern Chemical Fertilisers to the Zanskar Valley, Ladakh, and its Effects on Agricultural Productivity, Soil Quality and Zanskari Society. BA dissertation, Oxford Brookes University.

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Mann, R.S. 1978. Ladakhi Polyandry Reinterpreted. Indian Anthropologist 8(1): 17–30. ——. 1986. The Ladakhi: A Study in Ethnography and Change. Calcutta: Anthropological Survey of India. Norberg-Hodge, H. 1991. Ancient Futures: learning from Ladakh. London: Rider. Osmaston, H. 1989. Agriculture in Ladakh: Building a Coherent Policy. In The Future of Agriculture In Ladakh. Proceedings from an International Workshop organised by the Ladakh Ecological Development Group and The Ladakh Project, Leh, August 1989. ——. 1994. The Farming System. In J. Crook and H. Osmaston (eds), Himalayan Buddhist Villages. New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass Publishers Limited. Rizvi, J. 1996. Ladakh: Crossroads of High Asia. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Singh, H. 1992. Ecological Set-Up and Agrarian Structure of High Altitude Villages of Ladakh In H. Osmaston and P. Denwood (eds), Recent Research on Ladakh 4 and 5: Proceedings of the Fourth and Fifth International Colloquia on Ladakh. New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass Publishers.

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CHANGING CURRENTS: AN ETHNOGRAPHY OF THE TRADITIONAL IRRIGATION PRACTICES OF LEH TOWN Sunandan Tiwari and Radhika Gupta Introduction Situated on a branch of the ancient silk route, Ladakh has been exposed to a variety of external influences for several centuries. However, despite these, the people of this region have managed to preserve the core of their identity, traditions and practices. Over the last three to four decades the region as a whole has been exposed to yet more changes. These can be traced to the Chinese aggression in the early 1960s that brought the region into prominence at the level of the nation state. The advent of the army brought about development in the spheres of transport and communications that opened up the region to the rest of the country and the world. The last few decades have also seen the development of Ladakh as an important tourist destination. There has also been an increase in state-led development schemes in the region. The conjunction of all these factors has led to changes in the livelihoods of the local people. Despite this, agriculture remains an integral part of the lives of many Ladakhis and, though the principles and practices that surround the management of common pool resources have adapted to these changing circumstances, they remain intrinsically resilient. In this paper, by examining the set of traditions that have governed irrigation practices, we look at how traditional systems of common property are impacted by changes in the region. An ethnography of the irrigation system of Leh town demonstrates the changes and continuities. Being the fastest growing urban centre in the region, the town of Leh has been the primary locus of change. We discuss how various changes and developments have impacted the traditional system of water management.1 1 Fieldwork for this research was undertaken in October 2002 and facilitated by the Ladakh Ecological Development Group (LEDeG), Leh. We used a combination of key informant and household interviews and participatory mapping of the system. Key informants included elderly people and former water officials who could recall the changes in the system over time. In addition, we had discussions with relevant

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sunandan tiwari and radhika gupta Historical Influences and Livelihood Systems

Monarchs tracing their descent from the tenth century Tibetan king, Nyima Gon, ruled Ladakh until the mid-nineteenth century. It was conquered in 1834 by the Dogras led by Zorawar Singh, general of the Dogra King, Maharaja Gulab Singh. When the British colonised India they consolidated their rule in large parts of the country. Although the Kashmir territories were sold to the Dogras, the British continued to retain control over economic affairs due to the lucrative trans-Himalayan trade. However, the area remained largely unmapped until the British compiled census records, economic statistics, area maps and land surveys to document the region at the beginning of the twentieth century (Aggarwal 2001). Prior to this, accounts of Ladakh are confined to those of travellers and the Ladakhi Chronicles, compiled from around the seventeenth century (Francke 1998). Economically, too, Ladakh has been relatively autonomous from other parts of the country. It is a dry, cold desert with a barren and rugged mountain-scape and low precipitation, mostly in the form of snow, with an average rainfall as low as 100 mm annually. Greenery and habitation are only found in oases fed by streams running from melting glaciers and snowfields. The people of the region have adapted to this harsh environment, deriving a livelihood based either on pastoral nomadism in the higher areas where cultivation is not possible, or subsistence farming in comparatively lower areas. This subsistence agriculture has served the needs of the population, making them relatively self-sufficient given the lack of easy access to commodities from other parts of the country. The majority of the Ladakhi population have been farmers. The social and economic importance of agriculture is attested to by the proverb, ‘to take a bride by pretending that tetres is his main field’. As the historian Abdul Ghani Sheikh (1999) explains, Tetres was the largest field belonging to the King of Ladakh, which is now part of Leh bazaar. The affluence of a man was, thus, determined by the extent of the cultivated land he possessed. Like Moorcroft a century before him, Robert Roaf found in 1936 that in addition to agriculture there were also some local craftsmen:

government departments, headmen, land officials and local historians. Household interviews were conducted with ten per cent of the households in every area of the Leh catchment.

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metal- and wood-working, wool-weaving and wool-spinning were universal (Roaf 1995). The other major needs of the Ladakhi population were met through a vibrant trade in three directions with Central Asia, Tibet and India. Ladakh had been a major gateway in the Indo-Central Asian exchange of men and materials, with the town of Leh forming the central point of these exchanges. Fine pashm wool, salt, China silks, teacups, carpets, paper and musk were imported from Tibet. Coarse cotton goods from Eastern Turkestan, saffron and rice from Kashmir, and apricots and barley from Baltistan took passage to Tibet through Ladakh (Warikoo 1995). There also existed a local trade network in subsistence goods through trading expeditions, some undertaken by villagers themselves and some by a class of semi-professional traders known as shamma from the Sham Ilaqa, the Indus valley between Leh and Khaltse. Thus, located at the confluence of several trade routes, the town of Leh developed into an important entrepôt centre and acquired a cosmopolitan character (Rizvi 1996). Trade also created non-agricultural sources of income for the farmers in Leh and other surrounding villages that lay along the trade routes due to the demand for fodder for ponies, which led to the extensive cultivation of lucerne. Thus, although Ladakh may have been relatively isolated politically and geographically, it was connected to areas beyond its borders. Though sources of livelihood in the region were limited, people largely managed to meet their needs through agriculture and trade. Recent Changes and Livelihoods The relative isolation of Ladakh was altered at the time of Independence in 1947, which brought it within the purview of the Indian nation state, as part of Jammu and Kashmir. This, combined with the subsequent wars with China in 1962 and Pakistan in 1971, broke the trade routes that had linked Ladakh with Central Asia and Tibet, as borders were drawn up and defined more stringently. Ladakh acquired strategic status, leading to the deployment of large army forces in the region, which in turn developed a whole new infrastructure. The construction of roads and the introduction of telecommunication networks have been an important force in changing life in Ladakh. Not only was the local administration strengthened but a whole new administrative set-up was established in the region. In the last three decades another major catalyst of change has been the boom in tourism after Ladakh

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was opened up to tourists in 1974. This further necessitated the development of facilities such as hotels and guesthouses, as well as a demand for goods outside the scope of the local economy. As Sheikh writes, In pre-independence Ladakh, the number of shops in the town of Leh was no more than two hundred, and no shops existed outside Kargil and Leh. [. . .] According to Labour Department records, there are now two thousand shops in Leh alone and more shops can be found in most villages throughout the region. (Sheikh 1999: 339–41)

Together, these developments have had myriad influences on the economy and culture of the region. The most significant cumulative impact of these changes has been a diversification in the livelihood options available to the people. A brief examination of this is important in order to understand the place that agriculture continues to hold in Ladakhi society. This, in turn, will facilitate an understanding of the impact of ‘modernisation’ on an activity crucial to agriculture—irrigation. We take the example of Leh town, which has been the main locus of change in the region. In the past two decades or so, several avenues of employment have opened up to the people of Leh, ranging from joining the army, catering to the tourist industry and running guest houses and hotels, to working in the vastly expanded local administrative set-up. This has affected the people of Leh more than those of the remoter villages. With the decline in cultural practices, such as polyandry and inheritance by primogeniture, these new options have helped to absorb a large part of the increasing population. However, they have also led to changes in the agricultural system, which has been the basic source of survival. Agricultural production is increasingly shifting from being subsistence oriented to the production of cash crops. Most striking is the huge demand for potatoes and vegetables that the army set-up has generated. Marketing facilities have developed through the establishment of a ‘Cooperative Marketing Society’,2 which enables farmers to capitalise on this new and increasing demand. An increase in area under vegetables to the tune of thirty-four per cent was registered between 1973–74 and 1985–86 alone (Singh 1997).

2 Today there are five Farmers Cooperative Marketing Societies in all of Ladakh. Nearly twenty-two varieties of vegetables are being supplied by the Society to the army. In 2001–2002, Rs. 260 lakh worth of vegetables was sold to the army alone (Mr Tadpar: Cooperative Marketing Society, personal communication).

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Diversified livelihood opportunities have also led to the migration of people from villages to the town of Leh, leading to a shortage of household labour for agricultural activities.3 Villages in greater proximity to Leh are experiencing this change more rapidly and intensely, as the remoter villages still lack easy access to the town. This, in turn, has led many farmers to hire labour. Earlier, all labour-intensive work such as sowing, harvesting and house-construction was done on the basis of mutual exchange of labour among families. There has also been a concomitant reduction in livestock holdings. The changing cultivation patterns have not only reduced the availability of fodder, but the shortage of hands within the household (especially with children going to school) has meant that people are not available to take livestock to graze, traditionally the responsibility of children. The reduced livestock holdings have, in turn, led to a shortage of manure, which has meant that some farmers have started using fertilisers, which could threaten ecological agricultural practices. These changes in livelihood options and in the agrarian system have affected the land-use patterns in the town of Leh, and it is important to bear them in mind in order to appreciate changes in the irrigation system. Historically, all homes and habitations in Leh were confined to the area around Leh palace, now popularly referred to as ‘Old Leh town’. All other areas were agricultural lands. Roaf, when comparing Leh now to the town as it was in 1936, writes, “Leh—was much smaller in area than nowadays and the relatively few houses were surrounded by orchards, fields and trees” (Roaf 1995: 178). Over the years, as the population has increased and land fragmentation has begun to take place, houses have been built on agricultural land in other parts of Leh town. Furthermore, in order to cater to the demands of the tourist industry, hotels, restaurants and guesthouses have been built, leading to the conversion of agricultural plots. Singh writes that, Ladakh had no hotel or guesthouse till 1973. The only place to stay was the PWD rest-house and circuit-house in Leh town basically meant for visiting officials. (Singh 1997)

Other land in and around Leh that was previously pastureland has also been converted or encroached on by army settlements. As a 3 The population of Leh town has risen from a mere 2,895 persons in 1911, to 3,720 in 1961, to 17,587 in 1991 and 23,370 in 1995, this last increase representing a 32.88% growth in a mere four years (Sonam Dawa: 1999).

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result, several competing new demands on existing sources of water have arisen. Despite these changes, agriculture continues to be a livelihood option for most Ladakhi households, including those in Leh, particularly those situated in the upper parts of the town. It is, therefore, important to assess how the rules and norms that have traditionally governed irrigation have fared under the new circumstances. These rules can be traced back several centuries and were given legitimacy by the state in 1908, when they were codified as part of the Land Settlement Records or the bandobasti in documents titled the Riwaz-i-abpashi, which, translated literally, means ‘the custom of irrigation’. The Traditional Irrigation System of Leh Agriculture has always been central to the livelihoods of most Ladakhis. The region being resource-scarce, management of natural resources has traditionally been a precise, practical and well-organised exercise. Water, which is one of the vital but scarcest resources for sustaining life in Ladakh, has traditionally been managed with great care and even reverence. According to Abdul Ghani Sheikh, the Dards, who occupied the region even before the Namgyal dynasty, had introduced irrigation systems into Ladakh.4 The Baltis of Baltistan, now in Pakistan, were reportedly experts in constructing irrigation systems that consisted of networks of canals across and tunnels through mountains. The Dogras, during their reign over Ladakh, also constructed irrigation channels around Leh.5 However, agricultural and irrigation practices have existed in Ladakh for several centuries and during this period have developed and evolved. Leh is unarguably the fastest growing urban centre in Ladakh. Although over the past few decades the landscape of this town has changed significantly, agriculture is still practised. Irrigation channels can be found running along roads and pathways and diverting into fields at different points. Amid the hustle and bustle of modern living there continues an underlying tradition of agriculture. The continued practice of certain rituals surrounding agriculture demonstrates this point. Saka (sa kha) is a ritual that takes place in March, during which 4 5

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The Namgyal dynasty was established in the sixteenth century. This was around the area where the airport is now situated.

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the first ploughing of the year is symbolically carried out. Dzos (hybrids of yaks and cows) hitched to ploughs are taken seven times around Leh palace and then the simulation is repeated in the areas where the king’s fields used to be, before finally each farmer follows this ritual in his respective fields. The Saka festival heralds the onset of the spring season and indicates that it is time to start ploughing the fields. Agriculture, therefore, continues to remain an intrinsic and important part of the lives of the people of Leh. The Layout of the Irrigation System The irrigation system of Leh town begins at Gangles, the malla (habitation) that lies at the head-end, and finishes at Shenam, at the tail-end of the system. The entire system spans over seven kilometres, and between Gangles and Shenam there lie another seven major mallas, namely: Horzey, Gonpa, Changspa, Sankar, Yurtung, Tukcha and Sheldan. Some of the smaller mallas are clubbed together, for example Sankar, Yurtung and another known as Chubi Katpa are together known as Chubi Yangtse. Water for irrigation is distributed area-wise among these mallas. Flowing down from catchments above, water collects in the main drainage line that cuts through Leh. This is the main tokpo, or stream, from which water is diverted into smaller streams to feed the various mallas of the Leh catchment area. This main tokpo flows through Gangles and is tapped by way of earthen channels, or yuras ( yur ba), to irrigate the fields in this area. Once this stream reaches a point known as Tazey, which lies below Horzey malla and close to Gonpa malla, it bifurcates into two tokpos—the Shenam tokpo and the Sheldan/Tukcha tokpo.6 The Shenam tokpo flows down towards Old Leh town (the palace area) through Chubi Katpa, past Karzu Zing (rdzing,7 pond) into which water is diverted and stored at night, through Zangsti where there are now numerous hotels, restaurants and offices, into the Shenam malla and, finally, it makes its way to the charaga (grazing lands) of Leh that lie below the Shenam malla. Above Zangsti there is a small zing, Zing

6 It is referred to as the ‘Sheldan/Tukcha tokpo’ as further down this stream again bifurcates into two tokpos that are known as the Sheldan tokpo and the Tukcha tokpo. 7 The Karzu Zing is of the three big zings that are operational in the Leh irrigation system.

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Chung, into which water from the Shenam tokpo is also diverted. The Sheldan/Tukcha tokpo flows the other way, towards the Shanti Stupa. The Gyamtsa tokpo that originates from the phu, or alpine pastures, above Gonpa malla, feeding a large portion of its fields, merges with the Sheldan/Tukcha tokpo just above the War Zing, which is another of the big zings in this system and where, again, night-water is stored for distribution during the day. The stream then flows down towards the Pagale Zing, which is the third zing and where, as in the case of the other two zings, night-water is stored. After passing the Pagale Zing, the tokpo further bifurcates into the Sheldan tokpo and the Sangto/Tukcha tokpo. The former flows through the Sheldan malla and once again into the Leh charaga where there are several chu-migs (chu mig), or springs. The Sangto/Tukcha tokpo flows through Changspa and water is diverted from this stream to feed a small zing known as Peyog Zing, which lies below Changspa. Further down, as the tokpo reaches another small zing, Sangto Zing, it bifurcates once again to form the Tukcha tokpo which flows through the Tukcha malla and, finally, towards the Zorawar Fort. The Sangto tokpo carries water to Skara, a settlement situated below, which is not included in the irrigation system of Leh. At Skara there are several chu-migs from which the people get water for their fields. The story goes that the people of Skara had some dispute with the people of the mallas above over the distribution of water and informed the people of Leh that they did not require water from any of their tokpos. Therefore, although geographically Skara lies right below Shenam, it is not considered to be part of the Leh irrigation system. Nowadays, however, in times of great water scarcity, the people approach the goba (’go ba), headman, of Leh and request that some water be released into their fields from the Leh system. In such a case, one entire day’s and one night’s water is released through the Tukcha tokpo to the people of Skara. From each of these tokpos there emerge several yuras, some larger than others, which further carry water to different parts of each malla. These yuras are tapped through field channels which transport the water to agricultural areas. Along with this network of tokpos and yuras, there are several chu-migs located in various parts of Leh.8 For example, there are several chu-migs located above the Horzey malla and the water from these springs is collected in a zing—Gangles Zing. This water is often

8

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Leh refers to all the mallas mentioned earlier.

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used to supplement the water received through the tokpos. There are chu-migs located below Horzey, too, some more below the Gonpa malla near the Karzu Zing, and in the Changspa malla, which people use as a source for drinking-water. The tokpos and the chu-migs, therefore, form the two major sources of water for Leh. The reverence and importance attached to water is seen in the ritual of pungpa (bum pa). A pungpa9 is an earthen pot filled with holy water, which is placed at various sites where there are chu-migs, or points such as Tazey from where the main tokpo subdivides into two tokpos. It is believed that placing a pungpa will ensure that water is not only plentiful, but that the water flowing through the tokpo is imbued with holy qualities. The placing of a pungpa at various sites is the occasion for special religious ceremonies performed by a lama (bla ma) (monk) from the Matho gonpa (dgon pa) (monastery). A popular story which the people of Leh tell is that Choglamsar used to be a barren area until a Rinpoche, a reincarnate lama, placed a pungpa there, following which water became plentiful in the area. People still believe that the lu (klu), the spirits of the underworld, reside near water and have tremendous power for both good as well as evil. The Institution of the Churpon Deriving from the word chu, meaning water, the churpon (chu dpon) is a water manager in whom is vested responsibility for ensuring that the entire irrigation system works according to the rules. Churpons are appointed at the beginning of each agricultural season and in many cases they have traditionally been respected men within the village with an intimate knowledge of the rules governing the irrigation system. In other villages in Ladakh the position of the churpon rotates among households and is not vested in a single person. This reiterates the general impartiality and equity that inheres in Ladakhi society, in that, . . . water management is not a factor for the emergence of any kind of permanent authority. Churpons derive their temporary powers from the community and the responsibilities they hold do not last longer than the season of water shortage. (Labal 2000: 182)

9 A pungpa is also sometimes a metal pot which is, on some occasions, filled with grain (barley).

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In some villages, once a churpon is appointed a document called the kamgya ( gan rgya), literally ‘written agreement’, is drawn up to record the collective decision of the village. The kamgya is like a contract between the newly appointed churpon and the village people, outlining the roles and responsibilities of the churpons and stating his moral obligations to his fellow villagers as well as the payment he will receive for his services. In most villages the responsibilities of the churpon include ensuring that water is let out into the right yuras at the right time, facilitating the repair and maintenance of the system and also mediating and resolving any minor disputes. Where there is a greater scarcity of water, the task of the churpon is more onerous. According to people, the likelihood of a dispute occurring is, in fact, inversely proportional to the abilities of a churpon. If the disputes are of a more serious nature then the goba mediates along with the churpon. In such cases the riwaz-i-abpashi in the village bandobasti may also be consulted to reiterate the rules. The water distribution system in Leh, too, begins with the selection and appointment of churpons. Until 1965 there existed the institution of the Zaildaar, a district-level revenue officer introduced by the Dogras, who, along with the goba, used to select twelve to fifteen potential candidates for the position of the churpon for the coming agricultural season. While the Zaildaar was a government official, throughout Ladakh the goba is locally appointed by the people of the village themselves,. The names of the candidates came from the people of Leh and were usually those with a reputation for being responsible persons. However, churpons were not appointed from every malla. For example, as Gangles and Horzey are small hamlets at the head-end of the system and, therefore, have relatively low demands and greater access to larger quantities of water than the other mallas, the need for a specific person to manage water was not felt. The selection of churpons was also accompanied by a ritual in which candidates from all other mallas had to go to the gonpa at Gangles and offer a chunmey (mchod me) (oil lamp), to the deity there. This was a gesture for receiving divine approval for the men selected for the job, as well as an appeal for plentiful water. The lama at the gonpa used to then draw lots, and seven men out of all the potential candidates were chosen to be the churpons. Generally, two churpons were selected from the Changspa malla, one from Chubi Yangtse, one each from Shenam and Tukcha and, finally, two from Skyanos Gogsum (the areas below and above Leh palace). This combination, however, could vary. A specific area was then assigned to each churpon for managing the water distribution for that agricultural season.

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Several changes have come about in the selection of the churpon in the present time. The institution of the Zaildaar was abolished in 1965 and the goba is not involved in selecting the potential candidates, as they are no longer selected according to their ability to manage the irrigation system. Now each household (even the dependent ones or khang chung) has to take on the responsibility of the churpon by rotation. In some areas, only the original households (khang chen) (from which one or more khang chung may have separated) has to undertake this responsibility. However, in most mallas this changed when these original households insisted that all khang chung must take on the same responsibility. For example, in the case of the Yurtung malla, where there were thirty original households, the responsibility of the churpon was rotated only among these families. However, when the Kargil war broke out in 1999 and the people of Ladakh were requested to volunteer in carrying rations to the army on the frontlines, a list of all the households, including each khang chung, was prepared in Yurtung to facilitate the identification of volunteers. Using this list as a basis, the original households of the malla insisted that the dependent households also undertake the responsibilities of the churpon. In addition to this, a number of the khang chung have been taking allotments of land that were distributed by the government in the Skampari area.10 The khang chen therefore argued that if they could get allotments of land they should be considered as separate households and should also share the responsibility of becoming churpon. The rules were, therefore, changed and since 1999–2000 each and every household has to provide the churpon by rotation. This has now become the norm. Furthermore, whilst earlier seven churpons were selected, now as many as eleven are appointed as, with land fragmentation, the number of households has increased substantially. The ritual of going to the Gangles Gonpa and offering a chunmey and prayers is still followed. Another practice that has persisted through the years is that once the churpons have been selected, announcements are made in three different parts of Leh to inform the public about who the churpons for the coming season are going to be. A traditional practice of welcome in Ladakh involves offering a kalchor (kal cor), a brass jar filled with chang (chang), a local alcoholic drink brewed from barley, along with kataks (kha btags),

10 The area behind the Deputy Commissioner’s office is a newly developed area where offices and housing are being built, thereby expanding the town of Leh even further.

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ceremonial scarves. These are offered to the selected churpons. Each churpon also receives a sum of money from every household, more as a token than a payment for services rendered. While earlier this amount was around Rs. 10–15, these days it is Rs. 50. Chang, and the amount collected by the churpons, is used by the entire community to celebrate their selection. The rotation of water begins with the appointment of a churpon to the Sheldan tokpo, into which water is released first. The duty of the churpons begins in mid-April and finishes in midSeptember.11 During this period it is their responsibility to ensure that all the fields receive water and that all minor repair and maintenance works are carried out. Earlier, all the repair and maintenance of the entire system was collectively undertaken by the people of Leh under the supervision of the churpons. There has been a gradual shift towards the district administration playing some, albeit a minor, role in a system that was earlier entirely managed by the community. Now communities in Leh are dependent on the local administration to undertake major repair and maintenance activities, such as repairing zings, although they still undertake minor jobs such as repairing and maintaining yuras and sub-yuras themselves. Further, while earlier the churpons were paid in kind, now they receive monetary remuneration from the local administration. Each churpon receives Rs. 3,000 for the five months that he is appointed.12 In the irrigation systems of other villages, such as Alchi and Sabu, this change from payment in kind to cash is also found. However, it is interesting to note that it is only in the case of Leh that the churpon is paid by the government. The practice of the Notified Area Committee (NAC)13 paying the churpon was started in around 1984 and was a result of a growing unwillingness among people to take on the role of the churpon.14 Despite the government providing a monetary incentive to families to

11 Earlier, the duty of the churpons would end once the Shey Shrubla chos (prayer ritual) in the village of Shey was finished, signifying the completion of the irrigation cycle. This system is not prevalent any more. 12 According to the Additional District Magistrate, this amount has not changed since 1984. 13 The main responsibilities of the NAC include town planning and sanitation. 14 In addition to paying the churpons, the NAC also pays an equal amount to those who have been appointed as lorapas. These have the responsibility of ensuring that livestock do not stray into cultivated fields and damage the crops. Including the lorapas, the NAC pays around thirty people every year to take on traditional duties, and pays approximately Rs. 86,000 per annum towards this.

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become churpons, many in Leh have regular jobs or businesses to run and, therefore, cannot find the time required to fulfil the responsibilities of this institution. In such cases, these families negotiate with another family that is willing to undertake the responsibility in their place for a sum of money. These negotiated amounts can range from Rs. 3,000 to Rs. 10,000, that is, over and above the remuneration provided by the NAC. This negotiated amount is dependent on the predicted water availability for the coming season. If water scarcity is expected, then the task of the churpon is much harder and the price that they demand is, therefore, higher. It was also reported that some families that do not wish to pay another to take on their role as churpon, hire migrant labour from Nepal and Bihar to do the job for them as they cannot devote the required time and effort. This migrant labour is obviously not familiar with the functioning of the system which, at times, leads to problems and disputes. Today, people still acknowledge the important role that the churpons play in managing water resources. Due to a diversification in their livelihoods, the people of Leh are often disinclined to take up the responsibility of the churpon. However, rather than simply allowing these traditional systems to die out or fall into disarray, modifications and alternative methods have been developed to keep them functional. This indicates a certain open-mindedness and flexibility in Ladakhi society that allows traditional systems to adapt to changing circumstances and situations. This quality can also be found in the rules that govern the distribution of water. Rules Governing Water Distribution: Past and Present The earlier system of water distribution revolved primarily around three tokpos—Sheldan, Tukcha and Shenam—and two zings—Pagale and War Zing—and was applicable only to the mallas that lay below Tazey (see map). Gangles, Horzey and Gonpa, which lie above Tazey, were not included in the system as they had access to sufficient quantities of water from chu-migs as well as directly from the main drainage. The system of water distribution involved releasing water into each of the tokpos on a rotational basis when water was scarce and simultaneously into all three when it was plentiful. The tokpo-wise rotation started with water being first released into the Sheldan tokpo, followed by the Tukcha

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G YA M TS H GA OR NG ZEY LE S

A

TA Z E Y

Leh Valley. Map by Henk Thoma, adapted by Ea Rasmussen, Moesgård Museum/University of Aarhus.

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tokpo and, finally, into the Shenam tokpo. The water from the tokpos was transferred through yuras, sub-yuras and field channels into the fields, and irrigation was undertaken from upstream to downstream. Water was diverted to the next tokpo only when all the fields covered by the previous one were irrigated. In times of scarcity, the three tokpos were supplemented by night-water stored in zings—Sheldan and Tukcha tokpos received night-water stored in the War and Pagale zings, while the Shenam tokpo received water stored in the Karzu Zing. It was the churpons’ duty to ensure that the distribution of water was carried out in an orderly manner. Under this system each household, according to their turn, diverted water to their fields. At the point from which the water was diverted, the family marked the mud with a chakrgya ( phyag rgya), or seal, as a symbol indicating their right over the water at that point of time.15 If anyone else disrespected their claim and stole the water, they could easily be identified as their fields would be irrigated out of turn. The guilty party could either get away by apologising to the goba and the churpon concerned or, if the matter was not solved peacefully, they could be hauled to the Adalat, or court, where they could be penalised. However, in general, the existence of disputes over water is something which people tend to downplay and they are not very forthcoming with examples. One may infer from this that when there are disputes over water they tend to get resolved quickly without much fuss. There is a general attitude that disputes must be resolved locally as far as possible, and going to the court is associated with a sense of shame. Even when disputes do go to the court, they take many years to be resolved and eventually end up back in the village for the goba to resolve. Social sanction and disrepute emanating from the idea that wrong-doing and quarrelling are shameful or trelba (khrel ba) also prevent a preponderance of conflicts. As Pirie writes, A dispute is, therefore, conceptualised as a problem between the individual and the community that must, at all costs, be contained. This attitude […] is central to Ladakhi processes of dispute resolution. (Pirie 2002: 103)

In the 1970s, the system of water distribution in Leh was modified following a drought. Since then there have been no major changes and the 15 The last time the elders, with whom the mapping exercise of the Leh system was undertaken, could remember the chakrgya being used was in 1971 when there was a major shortage of water in Leh.

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same basic rules and regulations apply even today. On examining the modifications that were made to the earlier system and correlating it to the changes taking place in the region, especially in Leh, the rationale behind making the modifications becomes apparent. In 1971 there was an acute shortage of water in Leh and the people of Leh told us that they agreed that the existing system of water distribution was not effective enough as the tail-end fields were not receiving sufficient water. The old system was, therefore, modified in an effort to improve the efficiency of the arrangements for water distribution. The major modifications that were made were: the areas above Tazey were also included in the system and in addition to the tokpo-wise rotation a temporal rotation was also introduced. According to the new system the day is divided into four time-slots and during each period water is diverted to a particular area. The time-slots and the corresponding areas are: 04:00 Hours to 10:00 Hours

The water is used to irrigate the area between Gangles and Tazey. The distribution of water begins with the top-most yura, it then shifts to the one below and so on and so forth.

10:00 Hours to 16:00 Hours

Water is diverted to the Sheldan, Tukcha and Shenam mallas. This stretch covers the fields from Tazey right up to the Zorawar Fort. The system of distribution among these three areas is the same as it used to be in the previous system. Water is first taken to the Sheldan tokpo and when all the lands along it have been irrigated, the water is transferred to the Tukcha tokpo and, finally, to the Shenam tokpo. This part of the irrigation cycle has remained unchanged.

16:00 Hours to 20:00 Hours

The areas that fall under Chubi Yangtse (Sankar, Yurtung and Chubi Katpa mallas) receive water. Distribution is, again, yurawise.

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changing currents 20:00 Hours to 04:00 Hours (night-water)

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Water is filled in the zings to be released the following morning. Of the three major zings that are used in the irrigation system—War Zing, Pagale Zing and Karzu Zing—the first two lie on the side of the Sheldan and Tukcha tokpos, and Karzu lies on the side of the Shenam tokpo. Therefore, the water collected in the zings is distributed among Sheldan, Tukcha and Shenam. Depending on the ongoing rotation among the Sheldan, Tukcha and Shenam tokpos, water is stored in the War Zing and Pagale Zing if water is to be released into either the Sheldan or Tukcha tokpos. If it is Shenam tokpo’s turn to receive water, then water is stored in the Karzu Zing. During times of scarcity it is the duty of the concerned churpon(s) to ensure that water is not stolen from the zings.

In the other mallas, excluding Sheldan, Tukcha and Shenam, the system of water distribution is quite straightforward and water is distributed yura-wise from the top-most yura to the lower-most during the time-slot allotted to them. If the allotted time runs out before all the fields in a certain area are irrigated, irrigation the next day begins from the field receiving water the previous day. However, in the case of these three mallas, as mentioned above, the earlier system of rotating the water between the three tokpos prevails. The thak-chu, or the pre-sowing irrigation is vital for preparing the fields for the forthcoming season. Prior to the onset of spring and before the system of water distribution becomes effective, the fields in Shenam and Tukcha both receive their first irrigation. The former uses water stored in the Karzu Zing, while the latter uses water from the Tukcha tokpo. Later, when the water distribution system comes into effect, water is first released into the Sheldan tokpo, but only after the War and Pagale Zings have been filled. It takes about a month for all the fields along the Sheldan tokpo to be irrigated. The water is then either diverted into the Tukcha or Shenam tokpos—contingent on whether thak-chu in these areas has been completed or not. If the thak-chu is incomplete in both these areas, then water is first diverted to the Tukcha tokpo. If by the time Sheldan finishes its first round of irrigation, both Tukcha and Shenam have completed their thak-chu, then water is transferred to the Tukcha tokpo for the dhol-chu, or second watering, and then on

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to Shenam tokpo. From the second irrigation onwards the rotation falls into a regular fifteen- to twenty-day cycle between the three tokpos. During these cycles, the day and night waters are also rotated among the tokpos, that is, if the day-water is going to the Sheldan tokpo then night-water is given to the Tukcha tokpo and so on. It is at the beginning of the agricultural season that water is generally the scarcest, and the irrigation system is stringently implemented. Once water is plentiful, the system is discontinued. The modified version of the existing system has been recorded in the Bandobasti and people decided that this ‘new’ system would be tried for a period of twenty years. Then, if a need arose, further modifications could be made. Over thirty years have gone by since then and the system continues to remain the same. People across all the mallas told us that the current system is fine and no further modifications are required. Given this systemic understanding of the rules and regulations governing the management of water for irrigation in Leh, a closer examination of the key characteristics and related issues in mallas shows how these vary as we move down the system, starting with Gangles, which is situated at the head-end, to Shenam at the tail-end. It is especially interesting to take a look at these variations as the intensity of the impacts of urbanisation and change reduce as one moves upward in the system. A common feature across all the mallas is that agriculture (as well as service and business) continues to be an important livelihood option. When we look at whether agricultural lands have been converted to other land uses, such as for construction, this is found more in the mallas below Sankar, whereas in those above it this is not the case. As one moves away from the town centre the change in land-use patterns seem to decrease. It is interesting to note that while in Gangles and Horzey, people can collect water for drinking and other domestic purposes directly from the tokpo, in the mallas around the town centre, people have to rely on supply from the Public Health and Engineering Department to supply them with water through Public Stand Posts (PSPs), tankers, or private connections, as the water in the tokpos and yuras is much too polluted to be utilised. However, in Changspa, for example, people do collect water from their chu-mig for drinking and domestic purposes. Conflicts related to water management occur in all the mallas but whereas in most these are considered to be minor issues and are mutually resolved, in the bottom three—Sheldan, Tukcha and She-

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nam—people seem to rely more on the goba or the churpon to resolve these issues. Perhaps this can be construed as indicating a loosening in the social fabric in areas most highly impacted by external factors. Theft of water, as some people indicated, is the most frequent cause of conflict and is perhaps an indicator of a growing discrepancy between the demand and supply of water for irrigation. The discrepancy in demand and supply could perhaps be attributed to the fact that with increasing vegetable cultivation water is required at more frequent intervals than those needed for growing traditional crops. The density of population is also much higher in the lower parts of town, leading, perhaps, to more scarcity as compared to the upper parts of Leh. However, the ability of the people to mutually resolve conflicts again demonstrates that despite changing circumstances, the principles that traditionally underlie Ladakhi society—equity, mutual-aid, trust, and practicality—continue to govern their lives. Another indicator of their adapting to situations without losing the essence of their traditional practices is the fact that in each malla, the community is collectively involved in repairing and maintaining their respective yuras. Conclusion The effectiveness and acceptance of the traditional practices of irrigation in Ladakh can be gauged from the fact that these customary rules were codified as the riwaz-i-abpashi as part of the Land Settlement records in the early twentieth century and that the local administration consciously avoids interfering with these systems, limiting its role to minor repair works. The resilience and continuing appropriateness of these systems, which sustained the Ladakhi population for centuries through periods of significant changes, is also apparent when viewed in the current situation of modernisation and urbanisation. The functioning of the irrigation system in Leh and its adaptation to extensive change in the area is an example of how traditional systems do not necessarily die out in the face of modernisation. There is an inherent flexibility and dynamism in the traditional systems, which allows for modifications in the rules and regulations if they are found to be unsuitable at a given point in time. However, these modifications do not compromise the fundamental principles of equity, mutual-aid, trust and practicality that underlie the traditional irrigation practices in Ladakh.

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Aggarwal, Ravina. 2001. Introduction. In Abdul Ghani Sheikh, Forsaking Paradise: Stories from Ladakh. New Delhi: Katha Press. Crook, James and Henry Osmaston (eds). 1994. Himalayan Buddhist Villages. New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Francke, A.H. [1907] 1998. A History of Western Tibet. New Delhi: Pilgrims Books. Labbal, Valerie. 2000. Traditional Oases of Ladakh: A case study of equity in water management. In H. Kreutzmann (ed.) Sharing water —Irrigation and water management in the Hindu Kush-Karakoram-Himalaya. Karachi, Pakistan: Oxford University Press. Pirie, Fernanda. 2002. The fragile web of order: conflict avoidance and dispute resolution in Ladakh. D.Phil. thesis, University of Oxford. Roaf, Robert. 1995. Ladakh in 1936. In H. Osmaston and P. Denwood (eds), Recent Research on Ladakh 4 & 5: Proceedings of the Fourth and Fifth International Colloquia on Ladakh. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Rizvi, Janet. 1996a. Ladakh: Crossroads of High Asia. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. ——. 1999b. Trans-Himalayan Caravans: Merchant Princes and Peasant Traders in Ladakh. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Sheikh, Abdul Ghani. 1999. Economic conditions in Ladakh during the Dogra period. In M. van Beek, K. Bertelsen and P. Pedersen (eds), Ladakh: Culture, History and Development between Himalaya and Karakoram: Recent Research on Ladakh 8. Delhi: Sterling Publishers. Singh, Harjit. 1997. Ecology and development in high altitude Ladakh: a conflicting paradigm. In H. Osmaston and Tsering Shakya (eds), Recent Research on Ladakh 6: Proceedings of the Sixth International Colloquium on Ladakh. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass Publishers. Sonam Dawa. 1999. Economic development of Ladakh: need for a new strategy. In M. van Beek, K. Bertelsen and P. Pedersen (eds), Ladakh: Culture, History and Development between Himalaya and Karakoram: Recent Research on Ladakh. Delhi: Sterling Publishers. Warikoo, Kulbushan. 1995. Gateway to Central Asia: the transhimalayan trade of Ladakh. In H. Osmaston and P. Denwood (eds), Recent Research on Ladakh 4 and 5: Proceedings of the Fourth and Fifth International Colloquia on Ladakh. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass Publishers.

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS MONISHA AHMED is an independent researcher who has been visiting and writing about the Himalayan region of Ladakh since 1987. She has a doctorate in Social Anthropology from the University of Oxford and is the author of the award-winning book Living Fabric—weaving among the nomads of Ladakh Himalaya (Bangkok: Orchid Press, 2002). Since then she has continued her research on the textile arts of Ladakh with essays published on silk-brocades, trade in pashmina, textile production in Kargil and changing trends amongst the region’s weavers. She has co-edited Ladakh—culture at the crossroads (Marg Publications, 2005) with Clare Harris. MARTIJN VAN BEEK is an Associate Professor at the Institute of Anthropology, Archaeology and Linguistics at the University of Aarhus in Denmark. He has been conducting research in Ladakh since 1985 on politics, development and religion. He co-edited (with Kristoffer Brix Bertelsen and Poul Pedersen) Ladakh: Culture, History and Development between Himalaya and Karakoram (Aarhus University Press, 1999). JOHN BRAY edited an earlier collection on Ladakhi Histories: Local and Regional Perspectives in Brill’s Tibetan Studies Library series. He is President of the International Association of Ladakh Studies (IALS), and is currently based in Tokyo. NANCY CHIN is an Associate Professor in the Department of Community and Preventive Medicine at the University of Rochester School of Medicine and Dentistry. She received her PhD in social anthropology and Masters in Public Health from the Unversity of Rochester. She has examined issues in gender and health in Antarctica, the Kham region of Eastern Tibet, and Rochester, NY, US. She is currently co-director of Project Drolma, a long-term community health improvement project with a focus on maternal health in the Yushu Autonomous Region, Qinghai Province, China. SOPHIE DAY is Professor of Anthropology at Goldsmiths, London. She conducted fieldwork in Ladakh for her PhD (1989, LSE) and has maintained close connections with, and interests in, the region.

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PASCALE DOLLFUS is a social anthropologist and a senior research fellow at the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique (CNRS, UPR 299 Milieux, Sociétés et Cultures en Himalaya). She has been working for more than twenty-five years in Ladakh, first with populations involved in agriculture, then with nomadic pastoralists. Recently, she has been carrying out research in Spiti and upper Kinnaur (Himachal Pradesh), focusing on oracular religion. Her main interests are social organisation and forms of local religion, as well as material culture. TIMOTHY DE VER DYE is an anthropologist-epidemiologist specialising in health among marginalised and isolated populations around the world. He is a Fellow and Chartered Geographer of the Royal Geographic Society (UK) and currently serves as Vice-President for Global Health Systems and Research for Axios International, Ltd. based in Paris, where he is responsible for applied projects on HIV/AIDS, cancer, and maternal and child health throughout Africa and Asia, including the Tibet Autonomous Region. NICOLA GRIST was an anthropologist (BA Cantab, PhD London) who specialised in the anthropology of Ladakh alongside her other work, largely as a computer programmer. She had two children, Laurie and Jimmy, who live in London as Nicky did. RADHIKA GUPTA is a sociologist by training and has researched issues of community-based water management for Winrock International India. She subsequently worked with the International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development, an NGO based in Kathmandu, Nepal. She is now carrying out doctoral research at the Institute for Social and Cultural Anthropology of the University in Oxford, focussing on issues of identity formation in the Kargil region. PATRICK KAPLANIAN has been conducting research in Ladakh since 1975 and has published extensively on ritual, kinship and mythology. He is author of Les Ladakhi du Cachemire (1981) and many articles. He organised the second colloquim on Ladakh in 1985. RICHARD V. LEE, MD, FACP, FRGS is Professor of Medicine and Anthropology at the State University of New York at Buffalo and the Medical Director of Ecology and Environment Inc., an international consulting firm based in Buffalo. He has devoted his forty-five year

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medical career to research and care for the health of remote indigenous populations, pregnant patients and international travellers. SEB MANKELOW has visited Zangskar almost annually since 1994. Initially attracted by the wealth of trekking opportunities, he has also dedicated his time to researching Zangskar’s changing agricultural practices and irrigation development through the Watershed Development Programme. He holds a Masters Degree in South Asian Area Studies from SOAS, London, and he continues to pursue his interest in Zangskar as an independent researcher. MARTIN MILLS is Senior Lecturer in the Anthropology of Religion at the University of Aberdeen, Scotland, and co-director of the Scottish Centre for Himalayan Research. He obtained his doctorate in Social Anthropology at the University of Edinburgh in 1997. He is author of Identity, Ritual and State in Tibetan Buddhism: The Foundations of Authority in Gelukpa Monasticism (RoutledgeCurzon, 2003). His research interests include: Tibetan monasticism and government; Buddhist ritual and geomancy; and anthropological theories of religion. FERNANDA PIRIE is an anthropologist and University Lecturer at the Centre for Socio-Legal Studies of the University of Oxford. She has carried out research in Ladakh since 1998, focussing on processes of conflict resolution and relations between state and society. She is the author of Peace and conflict in Ladakh: the construction of a fragile web of order (Brill, 2007). LAURENT PORDIÉ is an anthropologist and director of the Department of Social Sciences at the French Institute of Pondicherry, where he leads the International Programme “Societies and Medicines in South Asia”. He is also an Associate at the Research Centre “Culture, Health and Societies” (CReCSS), of the Paul Cézanne University, AixMarseille (UPCAM). His publications concern the social dimension of healing, including the books The Expression of Religion in Tibetan Medicine (FIP 2003), and Panser le monde, penser les médecines (Karthala 2005). ISABELLE RIABOFF holds a doctorate in anthropology, and specialises in the study of the Tibetan-speaking populations of the Western Himalayas. Her PhD thesis focused on the royal and monastic institutions of Zanskar, while her current research deals with multi-ethnicity, cultural

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hybridity and the construction of identities in the Indo-Tibetan border regions, particularly in the Indian regions of Paldar ( Jammu and Kashmir) and Kinnaur (Himachal Pradesh). MATTHIAS SCHMIDT studied geography at the University of Bonn. He specialises in human geography and the political ecology of mountain areas in South and Central Asia and undertook his PhD on water and property rights in Baltistan. Since 2005 he has been a research associate and lecturer in the Department of Geography at the Freie Universität in Berlin. SUNANDAN TIWARI is an ecologist by training and has been working on and researching issues of community-based water management over the past several years. He has a particular interest in work on mountain areas and is currently a senior programme officer in the natural resource management division of Winrock International India, an NGO based in Delhi, India.

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INDEX Adalat, 295 aghas, 80, 84, 93–96 Agha Sayyid Mohammed, Miggi Ort, 80, 96, 98 Agha Najibul, 80 agricultural economy, See under economy, subsistence agriculture, 11, 17, 35, 37, 81, 83, 87, 88–98, 281, 284–87 and fertilizer, in Zangskar, 267–80 in Baltistan, 243–65 productivity, 35, 267, 269–71, 273, 278 traditional, 268–70 women and, 234–36 alamdar, 184, 189–91 Alchi, 69, 232, 234 ambrosia, bdud rtsi, 156, 165–68 amchi, 16, 17, 153–74, 182, 209 Chang Tang Amchi Association, 157 medicine, 15, 17, 153–74 Ladakh Amchi Sabha, 157–58 animal husbandry, 81, 83, 243, 244–51, 261, 267 anthropology, 5, 6, 8, 10, 30, 37 psychiatric, 139–45, 150–51 of rites of passage, 187–88 Api-Meme, 181, 182–93 Arabic, 87 aristocracy, aristocratic, 146, 158 army, 16, 81, 184, 281–85, 291 arrow. See under da Asboe, Walter, 6, 67, 72, 74 astrologer, astrology, 119–37, 157, 182, 189 almanack, 122–27, 132, 135 calendar, 121–22, 135 Dartsi, 120, 128–31, 133 texts, 120 Tibetan, Chinese, Indian, 121 See also onpos Atholi, 102, 103 Babar, 180–81, 182–93 Bagatham, 177, 187, 189 Baltistan, 14, 17, 32, 63, 80, 243–65, 286 bamo. See under spirits

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bandobast. See under Land settlement Bardan monastery, 111, 113 barley, 79, 83, 104, 109, 111, 112, 163, 167, 177, 235, 246, 255, 283, 291 types of, 269 quality, See under grain, quality yield, 270 bartap, 259 Basha. See under Shigar begar, 14, 17, 43, 45, 48, 49, 59–60, 257 See also corvée belpo/belmo. See under spirits Bhutna valley. See under Halango birth, 19, 106, 187–88, 191, 210–11, 213–16, 219, 230–31. See also naissance Blaqchan, 248 Bod, communities of Paldar, 101–15 Bon, 170 bone, rus pa, 106, 115, 198, 204, 207–08 names, rus pa, 115 ’Brog pa. See under Dards, Da-Hanu Braldo. See under Shigar Brauen, Martin, 197–200 British, 43, 48, 53, 282 in Baltistan, 252–53 influence, 80 intervention in Kashmir affairs, 55–56 Joint Commissioners, 52–53, 61, 63–64 officers, officials, 50–51 Buddhism, 8, 11, 13, 31, 32, 38, 80, 107, 139–40, 154, 179, 192 medical tradition and, 154–155, 167, 171 monastic, 13, 111–12 nuns, 13, 149, 158, 164–67 See also spirit possession Buddhist-Muslim relations, 8, 9, 12, 19, 30–32, 35, 38 Cambridge University Undergraduate Expedition (CULE), 4, 29 Cartesian dualism, 142–45 cash economy, See under economy, crops caste. See under class Central Asia, 44, 48, 52, 55, 283 cha-pa. See under lopchak

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306

index

Chagpori Medical College, 168 Changthang, 17, 60, 74, 109, 111, 157, 167 Amchi Association. See under amchi Changspa, 287–90, 298 children, 229–39 See also youth Chiling, 178, 215 China, 10, 11, 70, 168–69, 283 Chinese Turkestan, 34 Eastern Turkestan (Xinjiang), 52 chindak, 160–63, 170–72 cho, 252–54, 258, 260 chos, 155 chu-mig, 288, 289, 298 Chubi, 287, 290, 296 churpon, 289–93, 299 class, 20 rigs, 205 mangrigs, 205 colonialism, 1, 6, 80 conversion, 63, 80 common property, 243, 257–59, 281 communalism. See under BuddhistMuslim relations Cooperative marketing societies, farmers’, 284 corvée transport, 43–66, 80, 86. See also begar cosmology. See under religion Crook, John, 10, 11, 12, 139, 141, 146, 230, 274 crops, 246–47, 250 cash crops, 284 See also vegetables, fruits customs, local, 56, 192, 258, 260–61, 263 customs duties, 44 da, dadar, 181, 210–11, 216–22, 224 Da-Hanu (Dha-Hanu), 13, 46 Dainelli, Giotto, 6, 70, 198 Dalai Lamas, 1, 44 Dards, ’brog pa, 286. See also Da-Hanu death, 131, 197, 207, 211–12, 213–16, 223 deities. See under spirits Desideri, Ippolito, 45 development, 1, 4, 5, 8, 11–12, 14, 17–19, 33, 38, 80, 81, 83, 89, 98, 153, 160–163, 171–72, 230, 267–69, 281, 284 infrastructure, 11, 80, 233, 283 projects, 11, 38, 80, 153

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disputes, 12, 19, 35, 141, 254, 257, 288, 290, 293, 295 Dorje Shugden, 146–47 Dogras, 43 administration of, 49, 51, 56, 286, 289 government, 50, 60 in Baltistan, 252 invasion by, 5, 48, 80, 103, 282 rule, 32, 47–51, 61, 63–64 Dolpo, 170–71 dral, 182, 190–91 Dras, 46 Drew, Frederic, 52, 53, 101, 103, 107–08, 109 dzemches, 211–16, 217–19 ecology, 278 economy, 8, 10, 13, 18, 55, 63, 80–91, 96–99, 234, 238, 243, 244, 246, 251, 267, 277, 284 cash economy, 84, 87, 90, 268, 275, 292 government economy. See under government subsistence, 15, 87, 88–89, 91, 98, 176, 243–44, 246, 251, 267, 282–84 education, 10–11, 32–34, 79, 81–88, 90, 93, 276 teachers, 83, 94, 96 university, 97 women and, 229–30, 233, 236–38 elite, administrative, 88, 89, 90, 92, 93, 95–99 family planning, 98 farming. See under agriculture fertiliser, 267–80, 285 modern, 273–74 traditional. See under lut flèche. See under da fodder production, 273 Francke, A.H., 6, 112 fruit cultivation, 246–247, 250, 254–55, 263 Gaddi, 105 Galden Ngamchod, 176 Gangles, 287, 288, 290, 291, 293, 296, 298 gender, 11, 15, 17, 19, 91–94 masculinity in Kargil, 89, 93 women’s health, 229–39 women in Kargil, 89, 90 See also agriculture gewa, 161, 170 girdawar, girdawar halqa, 253

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index goba. See under headman gongmo. See under spirits Gonpa, 287, 288, 289, 293 government Department of Agriculture, 267, 277 Department of Public Health and Engineering, 298 economy, 38, 80–81, 83, 86, 88, 89, 98–99 employment in, 82, 83, 84–88, 89, 90, 93, 251, 276 institutions, 80 projects, 82 surveys, 10, 51–53, 98, 253, 282. See also bandobast See also colonialism, Jammu and Kashmir grain, quality, 272–73 yield, 270, 278 Grist, Nicola, 4, 9, 14, 29–40, 43, 45, 47, 62, 63, 79–100, 198, 202, 209 Gujar, 105 Gulab Singh. See under Singh Gyamtsa, 288 gyazhi, 120 gyut, 206, 210 Halango, 104, 107, 111–12 handicraft centres, 74 headman, of village, 82, 181, 189, 288 of Leh, 290, 295, 299 tsharma, 257, 260, 261 health, 12, 15, 17, 19, 105, 155, 162, 176, 229–38 See also family planning Hemis monastery, 59, 62 Hemis Shukpachan, 185, 192, 201, 206 Hindi, Hindus, 104, 105 Hindu values, 107 Hindu Law of Succession Act, 1956. See under law honorific. See under language hotels, 81, 284–85, 287 Hoto, 249 Horzey, 287, 288, 289, 290, 293, 298 households, 11, 35–38, 45, 81, 88, 91–94, 160 khangba, 201–26, 275, 291 Levi-Strauss, household society, 201–06 hrkongstrung, 257, 261 imperial, 6, 51 incest. See under kinship

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307

independence, Indian. See under India India Government of (pre-1947), 49, 51, 52, 55–59 Government of (post-1947), 4, 62 independence, 1, 7, 11, 61, 74, 81, 256 relations with, 15 state, 10, 33, 38 war with Pakistan, 81 International Association for Ladakh Studies (IALS), 4, 11, 30 colloquia, 5, 8, 14 irrigation, 19, 243–46, 257, 281–300 regulation of, 257, 286, 291, 293–99 Islam, 31, 34, 38, 80, 92 Islamic law/rights, 260–61 See also Muslims jagir, jagirdar, 254, 257 Jammu and Kashmir, 6, 9, 11, 12, 15, 33, 34 princely state of, 43, 48, 54, 252. See also Dogras maharaja of, 252, 254, 258 revenue settlements, 56 See also law Johnson, W.H. 10, 52, 53, 63 Kabön valley, 101–15 Kargil, town, 14–15, 17, 79–100, 111, 267, 275, 278, 284 district (tehsil, block, region), 9, 15, 32–33, 35, 37, 39, 79–100, 101, 103, 269 war, 81, 291 Karsha, 62, 102, 110, 112 Karzoo Zing, 287, 289, 295, 297 Kashmir conflict in, 81, 84, 256 See also Jammu and Kashmir Kennion, Captain R.L. 59 Khalatse, 67, 70 khangba. See under households Kharnag, 13 khral. See under taxation kings, kingdom, of Ladakh, 44–47, 49, 80, 119, 282 rituals, 119 See also cho Kinnaur, 50 kinship, 3, 5, 8, 12, 14, 34–38, 84, 88, 112, 197–227 incest, inceste, 36, 201, 222, 224 terminology, 114

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308

index

Kishtwar, 15, 103–04 Korzok, 7 Kulu, 53–54 labour, labourers, 82–83, 88, 94, 251, 285, 293 agricultural, 86, 89, 273, 274–77 Nepali, 276, 293 Ladakh relationship with Tibet, 8 links with Baltistan, 17, 256 Ladakh Amchi Sabha. See under amchi Ladakh Buddhist Association (LBA), 11 Ladakh Ecological Development Group (LEDeG). See under NGOs Lahul, 53–54, 101, 103, 108–09, 112–13 Lamayuru, 191 land administration, 243, 251–57, 291 classification, 254 rights, 243, 252–53, 257–562 settlement, 53, 251–57, 244, 286, 289, 298–99 taxation, 45, 46, 56–57, 252 transfer, 260, 274 use, 18, 35, 79, 89, 104, 243–44, 250–53, 257–262, 274, 278, 282, 285, 298 landholdings, 34–38, 53, 81–84, 89, 233 division of, 36, 83, 87, 259–61, 274, 285, 291 language, speech, 19 Balti, 255 of development, 163 honorific, 89, 94–96 Tibetan, 104, 106 law Hindu Law of Succession Act, 1956, 35 of Jammu and Kashmir, 84, 275 irrigation rules. See under irrigation Leh town of, 5, 7, 11, 16, 29, 31, 47, 51–60, 70, 72, 74, 80, 92–94, 108, 135–36, 147, 175–76, 191–192, 198, 237, 275, 281–99 district of, 9, 31, 33, 36–37, 81, 84, 135, 200, 206, 267 Leh-Srinagar road, 11, 58, 63, 198 Lévi-Strauss. See under household lha/lhandre. See under spirits lhamo/lhapa. See under spirit possession lhonpo, 206 Lingshed, 147, 184, 191, 232, 234, 235

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lopchak, lo-phyag, 47, 49–50, 52, 57, 59–60 lorapa, lurapa, 260, 261 Losar. See under New Year lo tho, le’u tho. See under astrology ltanmo, 184–85 lu. See under spirits lut, 269, 272, 277 maharaja of Kashmir. See under Jammu and Kashmir makpa, 110, 114, 203–04, 210 Manali, 1, 7, 13, 104, 112–113 manure. See under lut marriage, 8, 17, 34–36, 84, 90, 92, 106, 108, 181, 185, 187, 216–225, 235, 274–75 divorce, 36, 84, 200 intermarriage, 34–35, 112 nyopa, 181, 185 Matho, 35, 146, 289 medicine. See under amchi medicines. See under smandrup Mentsikhang, 169–70 merit. See under gewa metho, 176, 188–89 missionaries, 6, 50, 112 Moravian, 67, 72 modernisation, 10, 86, 94, 267, 276, 284, 299 monetisation, See under economy, cash Mohammad, Chaudhri Khushri, 60–61 Mon, 181–87 Moorcroft William (and George Trebeck), 5, 46, 62, 70, 282 mort. See under death mortality, 18, 36, 84, 230–31, 233, 237 Muslims, 8, 15, 31, 32, 35, 36, 37, 105, 184 activists, 12 Ladakhi, 30 relations with Buddhists. See under Buddhist-Muslim relations Shi’ah, Sunni, 79–100 in Zangskar, 110, 275 See also Islam myths, 108 naissance, 197, 204, 207, 208, 210–23. See also birth nambardar, 254, 257 Namsuru, 79, 82 nathritpa, 217, 219–21 See also nyopa Nepal, 1, 169–70 labourers from. See under labourers

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index

309

New Year, 47, 49, 106, 136 Losar, 16, 175–93 Nisbet, Col. Parry, 57 nobles, 80, 95, 146, 203, 206, 209. See also skutraks, aristocracy Nomad Recherche et Soutien International (NRSI), 158–49 nomads, nomadic communities, nomadism, 7, 13, 68–69, 74, 105, 109, 157, 282 See also pastoralism non-governmental organisations (NGOs), 12, 158, 233, 267–8, 279 LEDeG, 12, 281 Norberg-Hodge, Helena, 10, 12, 19, 163, 267, 268 Notified Area Committee (Leh), 292–93 Nubra, 44, 60, 232 nuns. See under Buddhism. Nyi, 156, 160 nyopa. See under marriage See also nathritpa

phaspun, 11, 17, 37, 106, 178, 179, 197–227 phalha. See under spirits Photoksar, 175–93, 232 political parties, politicians, 87 politics, 8, 12, 18–19, 33, 80, 99 pollution. See under dzemches polyandry, 35, 36, 274 population in Baltistan, 251 of Leh, 285 in Zangskar, 274–75 postal service, 58 Prantee, 79, 83, 91 Prince Peter, 7, 198, 201–02 property, property rights, 243–65 See also common property, land psychiatry. See under anthropology pungpa, 289 Purig, 80

ome rin, 218, 219, 224 onpos, 15, 119–136 lineage, 120 See also astrologer, astrology oracles, 13, 146–48, 150–51 See also lhamo/lhapa Osmaston, Henry, 4, 7, 11, 230, 247, 269–71, 274

Radha Kishen (Kaul), 53 raktak, 200, 206, 217, 222, 224 Ramsay, Captain Henry, 56–60 Ranbir Singh. See under Singh refugees (Tibetan), 1, 74, 112, 161, 170 religion cosmology, 16 local practices, 15 popular, 11, 13 religious leaders, Sunni and Shi’ite, 86, 89, 97 ritual, 136 See also Buddhism res, 61, 82, 252, 254, 257 revenue systems. See under taxation rilzan, 186, 191 rites of passage, 175, 187–91, 210–12 roads, impact of, 109–10, 113, 256, 259, 283 Rupshu, 13, 44, 62, 68, 109 ruspa See under bone names sa dag. See under spirits sa kha, 120, 286–87 Sangto, 288 Sangye Smanla, 156, 168 Sankar, 287, 296 Sankhoo, 79 shamanism. See under spirit possession Shanti Stupa, 288 Sheldan, 287, 288, 292, 293, 295–298 Shenam, 287, 288, 290, 293, 295–298

Padum, 83, 103, 110, 268–79 opening of road to Kargil, 111 Pagale Zing, 288, 293, 295, 297 Pahari, 104–5, 107, 109 Pakistan, 10, 11, 16, 81, 177, 246–47, 258, 283 Government of, 258 Paldar, 101–15 Pallis, Marco, 67 panch, panchayat, 182 Panikhar, 79, 83, 90, 91, 92 Parkachik, 79 pashmina, 74, 283 pastoralism, 18, 44, 105, 176, 253, 282 See also animal husbandry, nomads Pathways model, 231 patimo, 184, 189–91 patrifiliation, rule of, 223–26 patrilineal society, 207–08 patwari, 82, 253, 257 patwari, 253 perak, 181, 183, 186 Peyong Zing, 288

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Qamar Ali, 97

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310

index

Shi’ahs, 9, 12, 32–36, 79–99 shimi tsalma, 178 shops, 83, 90, 284 shop-keeping, 88 shukpa shpowa, 177–78 Shigar, 243–65 Shi’ites. See under Shi’ahs Singh Mehta Mangal, 52 Pratap, 55 Raja Gulab Singh, 47–51, 63, 103, 252, 282 Raja Ranbir Singh, 51–55 Zorawar Singh, 282 See also maharaja of Kashmir Skampari, 291 Skara, 288 Skardu, 46, 244, 252, 256 skutraks, sku drag, 209 Skyanos Gosum, 290 smandrup, 153–74 soil, 271, 278–79 South Asia, 8, 9, 48 studies, 10 trade routes. See under trade sparkha. See under spirits sponsors. See under chindak social order, 189–91 sowa rigpa, 153–54, 165–66 spirits, 139–42 bamo, 140, 141, 148–50 belpo/belmo, 186 demons, 108 gongmo, 140, 149 lha/lhandre, 140, 141, 147, 176, 190 lu, 176, 214, 289 phalha, 178, 200, 208, 210–11, 215, 219–21 protector deities, 141, 146–48, 190 sadag, 130 sparkha, 140, 141, 149 spirit possession, 16, 139–52 lhamo/lhaba, 16, 141, 183 tutelary deities, 106 yullha, 141, 148, 183, 184, 190, 210 Spiti, 44, 53–54 Stakna monastery, 112 status, 88, 89, 92, 94, 96, 190, 243, 277–78 male authority. See under gender See also class, language, dral ston zang, 178, 188 storma, 163, 180, 185–87, 188, 191–92 Sunnis, 34, 35

BEEK_index_305-311.indd 310

Suru, Suru valley, 29, 31, 32–34, 36, 37, 79–100 tahsil, tahsildar, 253 Taisuru, 79, 83 taxation, 43, 45– 46, 56–57, 243, 251–57 See also corvée Tazey, 293, 296 teachers. See under education tehsil. See under tahsil telecommunication, 283 thanadar, 252 Thangpa, Daniel, 73 Thupstan Shanfan, 121, 135 Tibet, 1, 8–10, 43, 44, 48, 60, 68–70, 111, 154, 158, 161, 168, 283 Autonomous Region, 156, 169 Government of, 49 King of, 282 Sakya, 62 Samada village, 62 studies, 9–11, 16 trade with, 15, 43–64, 68, 283 tourism, 11, 81, 276, 281, 283, 284, 285 trousseau. See under raktak trade, 14, 15, 69, 110–11, 278, 282–83 caravans, 110 intermediaries, 109 traders, merchants, 61, 70 trade routes, 44, 69 See also Tibet trongba. See under households tsharma. See under headman Tukcha, 287, 290, 293, 295–298 uksapa, 213–14 unemployment, 81, 87, 91, 98 urbanisation, 89 Urdu, 86, 87, 95, 96, 246 vegetable cultivation, 19, 64, 79, 89, 246–47, 251, 254, 263, 284, 299 War Zing, 288, 293, 295, 297 wazir, 10, 52–53, 57, 60, 63–64, 259 weaving, 14, 67–75 wedding. See marriage Wilson, Andrew, 54–55 witches. See under bamo women. See under gender wool, 44 See also pashmina

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index yangguk, 209, 213, 217 Yarkand, 52, 55, 69–71 yield (of grain). See under grain youth, youngsters 54–55, 90–91, 94, 96, 98, 112, 176, 181, 183–85, 187–91, 256, 275–76 yullha. See under spirits Yurtung, 287, 291, 296

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311

zaildar, zaildaar, zeldar, 82, 290–91 Zangskar, Zanskar, 8, 13, 15, 17, 54, 101–15, 198, 200, 207, 267–80 Zangsti, 287 Zorawar fort, 288, 296

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Brill’s Tibetan Studies Library ISSN 1568-6183 Recent volumes in the series: 10/1

Beckwith, C.I. (ed.). Medieval Tibeto-Burman Languages II. 2006. ISBN 90 04 15014 5 10/2 Klieger, P.C. (ed.). Tibetan Borderlands. 2006. ISBN-10: 90 04 15482 5, ISBN-13: 978 90 04 15482 7 10/3 Cuevas, B.J. & K.R. Schaeffer (eds.). Power, Politics, and the Reinvention of Tradition. Tibet in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries. 2006. ISBN-10: 90 04 15351 9, ISBN-13: 978 90 04 15351 6 10/4 Davidson, R.M. & C.K. Wedemeyer (eds.). Tibetan Buddhist Literature and Praxis. Studies in its Formative Period, 900–1400. 2006. ISBN-10: 90 04 15548 1, ISBN-13: 978 90 04 15548 0 10/5 Ardussi, J.A. & F. Pommaret (eds.). Bhutan. Traditions and Changes. 2007. ISBN-10: 90 04 15551 1, ISBN-13: 978 90 04 15551 0 10/6 Venturino, S.J. (ed.). Contemporary Tibetan Literary Studies. 2007. ISBN-10: 90 04 15516 3, ISBN-13: 978 90 04 15516 9 10/7 Klimburg-Salter, D., Tropper, K. & C. Jahoda (eds.). Text, Image and Song in Transdisciplinary Dialogue. 2007. ISBN-10: 90 04 15549 X, ISBN-13: 978 90 04 15549 7 10/8 Heller, A. & G. Orofino (eds.). Discoveries in Western Tibet and the Western Himalayas. Essays on History, Literature, Archaeology and Art. 2007. ISBN 978 90 04 15520 6 10/9 Bulag, U. E. & H. G. M. Diemberger (eds.). The Mongolia-Tibet Interface. Opening New Research Terrains in Inner Asia. 2007. ISBN 978 90 04 15521 3 10/10 Schrempf, M. (ed.). Soundings in Tibetan Medicine. Anthropological and Historical Perspectives. 2007. ISBN 978 90 04 15550 3 10/11 Barnett, R. & R. Schwartz (eds.). Tibetan Modernities. Notes from the Field on Cultural and Social Change. 2007. ISBN 978 90 04 15522 0 11. Karmay, S.G. The Great Perfection (rdzogs chen). A Philosophical and Meditative Teaching of Tibetan Buddhism. Second edition. 2007. ISBN-10: 90 04 15142 7, ISBN-13: 978 90 04 15142 0

BTSL-21-serie_CS3.indd i

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12.

13. 14. 15.

16/1 17. 18. 19.

20. 21.

BTSL-21-serie_CS3.indd ii

Dalton, J. & S. van Schaik. Tibetan Tantric Manuscripts from Dunhuang. A Descriptive Catalogue of the Stein Collection at the British Library. 2006. ISBN-10: 90 04 15422 1, ISBN-13: 978 90 04 15422 3 Pirie, F. Peace and Conflict in Ladakh. The Construction of a Fragile Web of Order. 2007. ISBN 978 90 04 15596 1 Kapstein, M. T. & B. Dotson (eds.). Contributions to the Cultural History of Early Tibet. 2007. ISBN 978 90 04 16064 4 Thargyal, R. Nomads of Eastern Tibet. Social Organization and Economy of a Pastoral Estate in the Kingdom of Dege. Edited by Toni Huber. 2007. ISBN 978 90 04 15813 9 Tarr, M. A. & S. Blackburn. Through the Eye of Time. Photographs of Arunachal Pradesh, 1859-2006. 2008. ISBN 978 90 04 16522 9 Balikci, A. Lamas, Shamans and Ancestors. Village Religion in Sikkim. 2008. ISBN 978 90 04 16706 3 Achard, J-L. Enlightened Rainbows. The Life and Works of Shardza Tashi Gyeltsen. 2008. ISBN 978 90 04 16823 7 Childs, G. Tibetan Transitions. Historical and Contemporary Perspectives on Fertility, Family Planning, and Demographic Change. 2008. ISBN 978 90 04 16808 4 Beek, M. van & F. Pirie (eds.). Modern Ladakh. Anthropological Perspectives on Continuity and Change. 2008. ISBN 978 90 04 16713 1 Pirie, F. & T. Huber (eds.). Conflict and Social Order in Tibet and Inner Asia. 2008. ISBN 978 90 04 15817 7

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