EBHR 39

EUROPEAN BULLETIN OF HIMALAYAN RESEARCH • 39

ARTICLES

39
An Unpublished Account of Kinnauri Folklore 9
Sur Das, introduced by Arik Moran
Keeping the Hill Tribes at Bay: A critique from India’s Northeast 41 Autumn-Winter 2011
of James C. Scott’s paradigm of state evasion
Jelle Wouters
Shaping Secularism in Nepal 66
Chiara Letizia
REPORTS 127
INTERVIEW 147
OBITUARIES 165
BOOK REVIEWS 175

EBHR
ENDPIECE 207

EUROPEAN BULLETIN
OF HIMALAYAN RESEARCH

Autumn-Winter 2011
2011

published by the EBHR Editorial Committee

in conjunction with Social Science Baha, Kathmandu, Nepal
European Bulletin of Himalayan Research

The European Bulletin of Himalayan Research (EBHR) was founded by the late Richard
Burghart in 1991. It is the result of a partnership between France (CNRS), Germany
(South Asia Institute, University of Heidelberg) and the United Kingdom (School of
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of Durham), Ian Harper (University of Edinburgh), Sondra Hausner (University of
Oxford), Sara Shneiderman (University of Cambridge) and Mark Turin (University of
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The EBHR’s contributing editors are

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Tone Bleie (University of Tromso)
Pascale Dollfus (CNRS, Paris)
Martin Gaenszle (University of Vienna)
David Gellner (University of Oxford)
Ingemar Grandin (Linkoping University)
Marie Lecomte-Tilouine (CNRS, Paris)
Chiara Letizia (University of Milano-Bicocca)
Fiona McConnell (University of Newcastle)
Axel Michaels (University of Heidelberg)
Matthew Nelson (SOAS)
Judi Pettigrew (University of Limerick)
Philippe Ramirez (CNRS, Paris)
Anne de Sales (CNRS, Paris)
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Mark Watson (Royal Botanic Garden, Edinburgh)
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INFORMATION FOR AUTHORS
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[Monographs]
Bennett, L. 1983. Dangerous Wives and Sacred Sisters: Social and symbolic roles of high-caste women in Nepal. New
York: Columbia University Press.
[Chapters in books]
Ishii, H. 1995. ‘Caste and kinship in a Newar village’. In Contested Hierarchies: A collaborative ethnography of
caste among the Newars of the Kathmandu Valley, Nepal, edited by David N. Gellner and Declan Quigley, pp.
109-57. Oxford: Clarendon.
[Journal articles]
Scheppele, K.L. 2003. ‘Aspirational and adversive constitutionalism: the case for studying cross-
constitutional influence through negative models’. International Journal of Constitutional Law 1(2): 296-324.
We welcome reports on seminars and conferences. For advertising rates please contact the editors.
EBHR, Michael Hutt
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EBHR
SOAS, LONDON  CNRS, PARIS  SAI, HEIDELBERG
ISSN 0943 8254
 3

EBHR 39 Autumn-Winter 2011

ARTICLES
An Unpublished Account of Kinnauri Folklore 9
Sur Das, introduced by Arik Moran
Keeping the Hill Tribes at Bay: A critique from India’s Northeast 41
of James C. Scott’s paradigm of state evasion
Jelle Wouters
Shaping Secularism in Nepal 66
Chiara Letizia

LECTURE
Time, Identity and Historical Change in the Hills of Nepal 106
(Ninth Annual Lecture of the Britain-Nepal Academic Council)
Anne de Sales

REPORTS
The Catalogue of the Hodgson Collection in the British Library 128
John Whelpton and Michael Hutt
Report on ‘Changing Dynamics of Nepali Society and Politics’, 144
Kathmandu, 17-19 August, 2011
Khem Shreesh

INTERVIEW
Women, Law and Democracy in Nepal: An interview with 148
Sapana Pradhan-Malla
Gérard Toffin and Shova Shakya

OBITUARIES
Richard Keith Sprigg (1922-2011) 166
Heleen Plaisier
Michel Georges Francois Peissel (1937-2011) 169
Roger Croston
4 EBHR-39

BOOK REVIEWS
Daniele Berti and Gilles Tarabout (eds): Territory, Soil and 176
Society in South Asia
David N. Gellner
Hermann Kreutzmann (ed): Karakoram in Transition: Culture, 180
development and ecology in the Hunza valley
Davide Torri
Marie Lecomte-Tilouine (ed.): Nature, Culture and 183
Religion at the Crossroads of Asia
Nayanika Mathur
Martin Moir: Not Exactly Shangri-la 185
Michael Hutt
Nishchal Nath Pandey: New Nepal: The Fault Lines 187
Milly Joshi
Devendra Raj Pandey: Looking at Development and 192
Donors: Essays from Nepal
Jeevan Raj Sharma
Gérard Toffin: La Fête Spectacle. Théâtre et rite au Népal 195
Arik Moran
Mark Turin and Bettina Zeisler (eds.): Himalayan Languages and 200
Linguistics: Studies in phonology, semantics, morphology and syntax
Nathan Hill

ENDPIECE
Me at the Beginning of Life 208
Jhamak Ghimire
 5

EDITORIAL

The work involved in producing a scholarly journal is, more often than not,
a labour of love. Academics based in the Euro-American world are given
scant credit by their employers for editorial work, but we do it because of
our sense of belonging to an academic community, for which a Bulletin such
as the EBHR provides a focal point. It is therefore very heartening to draw
readers’ attention to two noteworthy examples of academic generosity
within these covers.
On 22 June I received an email from one Mr William Eustace of Malvern,
which read as follows:

A colleague of yours gave me your e-mail address as she thought you

may be able to help me. Whilst sorting out some old papers I came
across an old exercise book which was given to my Grandfather, Sir
Harold Glover, whilst he was Chief Conservator, Punjab Forestry
Service. Dated 1937 it is hand written and describes folk-lore stories
in the Kunawar region of Northern India. In spite of my being born in
Lahore (my father was in the Indian Civil Service and for a time was
District Commissioner of the Kangra District), my knowledge of Hindu
and Buddhist Gods and Deities is very limited and I find reading the
stories difficult. If I could find someone who understands this subject,
together with the place names, and is prepared to type the contents
of the book (only 66 pages), then it would bring to life a part of my
family history that both I and other members of my family could enjoy.
Whether the contents are of any interest to a wider audience, I have no
idea, but perhaps you would be able to answer that.
 
I forwarded this email to Arik Moran, and the result is the article published
in this issue entitled ‘An Unpublished Account of Kinnauri Folklore’. I am
most grateful to William Eustace for offering this to us, and to Arik Moran
for taking the time to edit and introduce this most interesting text.
The second example of academic generosity to which I would like to
draw readers’ attention is the contribution made by John Whelpton, Mark
Turin and Burkhard Quessel to the completion and online publication of the
Hodgson Catalogue, on which we report in this issue. I urge EBHR readers
6 EBHR-39

to visit the catalogue website and browse there at leisure: the Hodgson
archive contains something for almost everyone.
I am also very grateful to Anne de Sales for granting us permission
to publish the text of the lecture she delivered in London on 31 October.
Writing of this quality deserves an audience far wider than a university
lecture theatre can accommodate.
A specialist peer-reviewed journal such as the EBHR can provide young
scholars with an opportunity to present their work for the first time to a
Himalayan Area Studies readership. Usually, this is the work of researchers
working at postdoctoral level: Chiara Letizia’s highly topical article on the
evolving understandings of secularism in Nepal is a prime example. But in
this issue we are also very happy to publish an article by a Ph.D student,
Jelle Wouters, which recommended itself to us because of its focus on
India’s little-studied Northeast and its critique of a key text.
This issue also includes an interview with Sapana Malla-Pradhan, a
leading Nepali human rights lawyer, marks the passing of the great Tibeto-
Burman linguist Keith Sprigg and the Himalayan explorer Michel Peissel,
and ends by celebrating the achievement of Jhamak Ghimire, who is an
inspiration to us all.

Michael Hutt, January 2012
 7

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Jelle J.P. Wouters completed an M.Phil in Social Anthropology at the

University of Oxford in 2010. Currently he is a Ph.D candidate in the
Department of Anthropology at the North-Eastern Hill University, Shillong,
where he is working on state and nonstate, indigenous approaches to socio-
economic development. His publications include ‘Revisiting Srinivas’s
remembered village’ (Journal of the Anthropological Society of Oxford, New
Series 2(1-2): 44-65) and ‘Reconfiguring colonial ethnography: the British
gaze over India’s North-East’, in North-East India: A handbook of Anthropology
(forthcoming, edited by Tanka B. Subba).

Arik Moran completed a D.Phil in History at the University of Oxford in

2010. His research concerns the formation of communal identities in the
West Himalaya in the 18-19th centuries, and changes in social and political
culture among Rajput elites against the backdrop of British expansion and
oral epic traditions. He is currently working on a project on social memory
in oral traditions in Himachal Pradesh. He was appointed as lecturer in the
Department of Asian Studies, University of Haifa, Israel, in 2011. 

Chiara Letizia is a social anthropologist and historian of religions, and

a researcher and lecturer in cultural anthropology at the University of
Milano-Bicocca. Since 1997 she has been conducting research on religion
and society in Nepal. She received her PhD from the University of Rome in
2003 for a thesis on Hindu pilgrimages in the Tarai, and conducted post-
doctoral research at the CNRS in Paris in 2004 on the adoption of Buddhism
by Tharu and Magar communities in relation to ethnic claims and political
change. From 2009 to 2011 she was a Newton Visiting Fellow at the Institute
of Social and Cultural Anthropology, University of Oxford, where she
conducted research on understandings of secularism in Nepal.

Anne de Sales holds the position of Chercheur at the National Centre for
Scientific Research (CNRS) in association with the University of Paris Ouest
Nanterre. Her doctoral research focused on the shamanic tradition of the
Kham-Magar of Northwestern Nepal and resulted in a monograph entitled
Je suis né de vos jeux de tambours (Nanterre, Société d’ethnologie, 1991). Her
8 EBHR-39

recent work concerns the social and cultural impact of the Maoist uprising
in rural Nepal, with special attention to local narratives.  She is also co-
editor with Robert Parkin of Out of the Study and into the Field: Ethnographic
theory and practice in French anthropology (Berghahn Books 2010).
 9

An Unpublished Account of Kinnauri Folklore

by Sur Das, introduced by Arik Moran

Stretching along the banks of the Sutlej River from the border with West
Tibet to the Shimla Hills (Himachal Pradesh, India), the remote region
of Kinnaur (also spelled ‘Kanawr’, ‘Kunwar’, etc.) is among the most
fascinating, if least understood, parts of the Himalaya. A major obstacle to
comprehending the region is the notorious difficulty of its language, which
is a Tibeto-Burman dialect that greatly differs from the Indo-European
Pahari spoken in adjacent parts of Himachal Pradesh and Uttarkhand.
The complex cultural world of Kinnaur, which draws from the West
Tibetan, Hindu and indigenous Pahari cultural zones that surround it, has
consequently been exceedingly difficult to access, with the few insights into
it limited to comments found in travellers’ accounts and anthropological
interpretations by researchers specializing in and around the region.
This paper redresses this shortcoming by presenting a hitherto unknown
account of regional folklore that was written by a local Kinnauri in 1938.
The text, originally titled ‘Himalayan Folk-lore Stories’, was recently
discovered among the effects of Sir Harold Matthew Glover (1885-
1961), a high-ranking official in the colonial Forest Department.1 Glover
commissioned the account from a subordinate ranger while on tour in
‘upper and lower Bashahr’, the erstwhile kingdom of which Kinnaur formed
the easternmost portion. The author, the notable (negi) Sur Das of Sangla,
wrote the text in cursive English in a notebook of 67 pages, measuring 18x22
cm.2 Sur Das was highly esteemed by his superior, who cites a passage from
I wish to thank William Eustace for providing me with a scanned version of the text presented
in this paper and his permission to reproduce it here for a wider audience, as well as additional
documents and information on his grandfather, Sir Harold Glover.
1 Sir Harold Glover was born in Worcester, England, and educated at Worcester Royal
Grammar School and Magdalen College, Oxford. He entered the Indian Forestry Service in
1908 and served as Political Assistant to Superintendent Hill States, Simla in 1914. In 1925
he officiated as Conservator, becoming Chief Conservator of Forests, Punjab, from 1939
to 1943, when he retired. During 1944 he was employed on special duties by the Punjab
and Baluchistan Governments and in 1945-6 he was Forest Adviser to Allied Control
Commission, first in Germany and then in Austria. He wrote a number of technical articles
and, in 1945, published Soil Erosion in the Punjab.
2 Sur Das wrote his account over three days (3-6 June 1938), apparently in consultation with

European Bulletin of Himalayan Research 39: 9-40 (2012)

10 EBHR-39

the notebook (the concluding lines of ‘Phulma and the Ghost’, see below) in
a personal letter, asking his undisclosed addressee whether he did not ‘think
that well told? Particularly in a foreign tongue by a Bashahri!’ That the
officer’s appreciation of Sur Das was shared by the government of Bashahr
and his countrymen can be deduced from his elevated social status, his
father (who also finds mention in the booklet) having been the kingdom’s
appointed police officer (darogah) in Sangla, the Baspa Valley’s main village,
which is adjacent to Kamru, the original abode of Bashahr’s ruling dynasty.
The text thus offers a view of local customs and beliefs as perceived by the
early twentieth century Kinnauri elite, which had successfully guarded its
social status through privileged access to both the British and Bashahri
administrations.3 This does not detract from the account’s validity as an
articulation of popular perceptions, because (before the arrival of migrant
workers for the vast hydraulic projects along the Sutlej in recent decades)
the regional population was and remains truly miniscule.4
The insights to be gained from Das’s stories are far from trivial.
The first chapter, for example, offers an overview of the socio-political
functions of Kinnauri popular religion—locally known as devta ka raj or
‘government by deity’—that is startlingly congruent with the recent
findings of anthropologists working in the region. The devoirs of the
various postholders (mathes, kardars, chelas) attached to village gods (devtas,
here ‘deotas’) thus clearly point to a continuity between early twentieth-
century and present-day socio-religious practices (Sutherland 2006) that
is similarly reflected in the particular mode of possession exhibited by
the deities’ spokespersons (Berti 2001). Early evidence of the perplexed
effects of the introduction of novel technologies to Kinnauri society may
be discerned in the author’s defence of the devtas’ traditional function as
healers in light of the arrival of contemporary, western trained-doctors.
The same chapter also offers important information regarding the history
of Bashahr and evidence of its origins in the Baspa Valley. The visits of
the presiding goddess of Bashahr, Bhimakali of Sarahan, to the ancient

village elders. The notebook reached Glover in Lahore four days later.
3 On the relations and consequences of the British Forest Department’s activities in
Bashahr, see Moran (2007).
4 Even in 1971, a whole generation after Sur Das wrote this, the population of Sangla Tehsil,
which encompasses the entire Baspa Valley, constituted a mere 10,789 inhabitants (Raha
& Mahato 1985: 21).
 Das 11

goddesses at Astangche (a site between the ancient capital of Kamru and

Sangla) thus offer evidence of the royal family’s persistent ties with the
valley and its deities through ritual. The author’s comment that Kalan
Devta of Kamru is ‘the soul [of] ... the grandather of the present raja of
Bashahr’ (fn 32) further underscores the links between the kingdom’s
rulers and the Baspa Valley, while affirming the intuition that West
Himalayan village gods are frequently deified representations of deceased
human leaders. The interplay of theistic and human sovereignty is also
evinced in the ruler of Bashahr’s extending land grants (muafi) to Jubbal
Narayan, the paramount deity in Jubbal, a tract that had developed into
an independent chiefship by the time of Das’s writing. In doing so, the
raja would have increased his prestige among the followers of a deity
that lay beyond the political boundaries devised by the British with their
arrival in the West Himalaya (c. 1815). Such seemingly minor vignettes
add an historical depth that underlines Peter Sutherland’s call for a closer
scrutiny of the analytical categories used when addressing questions of
religion, power and sovereignty in the region (Sutherland 2006).
The stories appearing in the second and subsequent chapters are almost
exclusively derived from the subjective experiences of local inhabitants.
These provide a close encounter with Kinnauri narratives that is rarely
attained in contemporary sources. The altercations of peasants and
hunters with mythic creatures, for example, attest to the unique blend
of West Tibetan and Hindu beliefs that pervade Kinnauri society. This is
patently evident in the case of the Kalis, the female ‘fairy-like mountain
spirits’ who inhabit high altitude regions and who are believed to be vastly
more powerful than the devtas that manage village life. The same spirits
also control the elements and are habitually offered sacrifices to secure
good weather conditions, but they may also launch devastating hailstorms
and/or steal the highlanders’ crops when angered. The formidable risks
involved in incurring the Kalis’ rage are exemplified in the story of Malu
the hunter (shikari), whose venture into their territory and subsequent
killing of mountain game (which is considered Kali’s property) resulted in
lifelong madness (see story 3 in chapter II, below).
Beyond Kalis and devtas, Kinnauri folklore boasts of numerous ghosts
possessing lesser powers. These included not only maleficent beings such
as the ghoras and shin-dans, but also the spirits of deceased members of
the community. In possessing a member of the deceased’s family, these
12 EBHR-39

latter could enforce social norms and rules, such as ensuring the proper
dispersal of the ashes of the deceased in a selected location, or safeguarding
polyandrous marital contracts when these came under threat (stories 2 and
1, respectively, in chapter V, below). Again, the agreement of these early
twentieth stories with the findings of anthropologists in neighbouring
regions (e.g., Sax 2009: 21-22) points to the remarkable continuity in
Kinnauri (and, more generally, West Himalayan) society and help validate
recent explorations in the field.
Before delving into Das’s stories, a few technical notes on the body of the
text and its mode of presentation are in order. Apart from rare instances
of obvious misspellings (e.g., ‘fructure’ for ‘fracture’) and cumbersome
syntax, which have been corrected, the transcription below follows the
text’s original format, which consists of a ‘preface’ and five ‘chapters’: 1)
village deotas and devis, demi-gods and goddesses (pp. 1-15 in the original);
2) Kalis and Matingos, the fairies (16-32); 3) Other Spirits and Ghosts (33-
46); 4) Báyuls, the hidden habitations (47-53); 5) Life and Death (54-66). Das
also wrote numerous notes in which he translated Kinnauri and Pahari
terms into English, and sometimes added additional glosses. These have
been retained and, where appropriate, supplemented with the definitions
provided by Tikka Ram Joshi’s contemporary dictionaries of Pahari and
Kinnauri (Joshi 1989).5

Himalayan Folk-lore Stories

N. Sur Das

Preface
This short note briefly deals with Folk-lore Stories prevailing mostly in
Kunawar, and has to amuse its readers with what good spirits (deotas) and
rakshasas (evil spirits) do in human life over here. The belief in doings of
good and evil spirits and their very existence are being challenged now due
to the growth, though slow, of the new culture of this twentieth century.
In the remote past centuries, bad administration by the rulers ruled in

5 To many of Sur Das’s notes I have added definitions from the Pahari and Kinnauri
dictionaries (Joshi 1989), marking them as ‘PD’ and ‘KD’. Given the notorious difficulty of
the Kinnauri language and its limited spread (in 1971 there were less than 50,000 Kinnauri
speakers in all (Raha & Mahato 1985: 21)), it is hoped that these additional definitions will
prove useful.
 Das 13

difficult mountainous countries like Bashahr. No regular communications

were there. Four to five miles journey from one village to another formed
a whole day’s hard march. The man’s social position was in [the] dark and
spirits danced in his mind. But the man of today has already begun feeling
himself self-confident and is able to make use of rationality. Both deotas
and rakshasas, therefore, are growing weaker with the dawn of light on
man. But the thing is, today, good and evil spirits may be there, yet their
existence has not as much to do with human life as it was thought in the
remote past. It is difficult to deny the very existence of spirits – super
human beings.

Chapter I: Village Deotas and Devis6

Almost each village has got its deota or devi in Bashahr, like those in Kulu
and [in] part of Mandi. Deotas and devis are of different origin. Some
are Narain’s [Narayan, Vishnu], said to [have] come from Badrinath [in
Garwhal] and others are Nāgās [serpents], said to have sprung up in high-
lying mountain lakes. Again, other deotas are thought to have come into
being from this or that place. It is believed that some deotas came out
of ‘Gu-Rag’,7 a growing stone. For instance, the deotas of Pangi, Rarang,
Khawangi and Rogi are thought to be brothers springing up from a growing
stone (gu-rag) at Pangi.8 That growing stone is enclosed within a small
temple so that nobody touches it. If anybody touches a growing stone it is
desecrated. The person touching a growing stone is made to offer a sheep
or a goat, generally a young one, to the offended growing stone by the

6 Deotas=demi gods=good spirits, devis=demi goddesses=good spirits [PD p.31: deo ‘a deity, a
village god’; debi ‘a goddess’].
7 Gu=to grow or growing; rag=a stone [KD p.70: first person pronoun, ‘I’; KD p.120: rág/rágg
‘a stone’].
8 [AM:] These four villages are situated on the right bank of the Sutlej River, facing the
Kinner Kailash Range. Rogi (Roghi) lies about an hour’s walk west of Chini (also called
Kalpa), which is located immediately above the modern district headquarters of Rekong
Peo at an altitude of approximately 3,000 meters. Khawangi, Pangi and Rarang are three
villages along the Indo-Tibet Road (and thus closer to the Sutlej River) situated to the
east of Peo and opposite Powari, the administrative headquarter of the erstwhile wazirat
of Tukpa. The claim that these villages’ sibling devtas originated in the ‘growing stone’
of Pangi was nevertheless contested during a recent visit to Roghi (July 2008), where a
knowledgeable youth asserted that these deities had originally come from Rohru, hinting
at a past migration from the latter region to Kinnaur and incidentally explaining the
enduring ties between the devtas of both regions (see, for example, Moran 2007: 164-6).
14 EBHR-39

village community. Even if nobody sees a man touching a growing stone, he

fears [the] growing stone and confesses his contact with the growing stone
God. A man touching it and then keeping quiet is sure to come to grief. Why
should he not boldly confess his touching [the] growing stone and be away
from ‘doshang’?9
The deota or the devi of a village has got a ‘rathang’ [rath, a palanquin],
a body made of wooden framework, and the same is decorated with fine
cotton or silk clothes over the body and the neck is adorned with metal
faces [mohra], generally of silver or gold. The head for [the devta’s] hair
is provided with dark-red coloured ‘yak’ tail hair. The wooden framework
body receives two long well planed poles, one on each side, so that the two
poles project on both sides (back and front) of the carriage [of] the body so
as to facilitate [an] up and down motion of the body of a deota. Two men,
one for [the] back and the other for [the] front [of the rath], are required
to carry up the deota or the devi, as the case may be, and they have both
the poles on their shoulders and the devta or the devi dances up and down
[through their movements]. There is no difference in the [form of the] body
of a deota and that of a devi. The devis have got nose rings (‘balus’) in their
front face nose. The front face is called ‘shir mukhang’.10
It’s not that there is only one deota or devi in a village. Some villages
have got two deotas bearing [one] body.11 There are many other deotas and
devis in a village [that are] having some form of body, or [having] faces
only, or having none [at all]. These subordinate deotas or devis are under
the village deota. Some of them are advisors and others are just like peons
for carrying out the orders of the village deota. These village deotas or
devis are not to be touched by dogs, and some are not to be touched by
Kolis, Lohars and Badis. For example, Sangla Nag is not touched by these
low caste communities. All deotas and devis are not touched by a whole
family when a child is born or when a death of a member occurs, for 8 to
13 days. If touched by untouchables, the deotas and devis become polluted.

9 Doshang=anger of good spirits towards [an] offending man or woman [KD p.57: doshang
‘defect, blemish, fault’].
10 shir mukhang= Front face made of a complex of metals [PD p.115: shir ‘head’; KD p.83:
mukhang=khákang ‘the mouth’ (possibly from a joining of the Hindustani muh with the
Tibetan khá/khás); also, PD p.7: bálú ‘a nose-ring’].
11 [AM:] The custom of more than one deity sharing a rath is also found in Kulu, where the
devta Manu of Old Manali and Hidimba, the area’s presiding demoness, share a palanquin.
 Das 15

The effect of pollution is removed by offering a ‘bali’12 of a sheep or a goat.

The village deota or devi has a regular establishment consisting of
musicians, kardars, the mali or chela and two or more of māthās.13 Musicians
play upon musical instruments with the deota or the devi. Kardars are
responsible for the deota’s income and expenditure, treasury and the corn
stores. The mali or the chela has to issue the orders of the deota or the
devi by throwing his cap off his head by a special musical accompaniment,
[while] standing by the side of the deota’s or the devi’s ‘rath’. It is said that
the spirit of the deota or the devi enters the body of the mali and makes
him speak what he or she wants to order for. The māthās are meant to refer
the requests of the community or a man to the deota or the devi. Almost
every case touching the interests of the village community is referred to
the village deota or devi and his or her decision received.
If anybody in a village falls ill, the matter is caused to be referred to the
village deota or devi by the family members and the deota or the devi hint
out the cause of the trouble and at the same time the remedy for the cure
is told. The cause of illness is generally attributed to spirits and the remedy
therefore is told in offering a ‘bali’. The ill body, after making ‘bali’ by his
family, recovers. No doctor or ‘vaidi’ [Indian doctor] was consulted in the
long past. In these days, [the] use of a doctor or a vaid is coming into vogue,
but in many cases [an] ill man will first consult his village god or goddess
and with his or her permission he will avail himself of the services of a
doctor or a vaid. If the deota or the devi is not consulted, the treatment by
a doctor or a vaid is doomed to result in failure.
More than often, hopeless cases of illness are brought before the deota
or the devi of a village and it is not uncommon with the deota or the devi to
say beforehand that the case is hopeless and the patient is not going to live
long. Apparent wounds and fracture cases are not received by the deotas or
devis for curing. They used to go to vaids even in the distant past. At many
a time cases attended by the deotas or devis resulted in death of patients.
But do our modern doctors and vaids succeed in all cases that go to them?
Certainly not.

12 Bali=offering of an animal generally a sheep or a goat.

13 [AM:] The Kinnauri dictionary defines māthas as ‘a sept of Kanets’ (KD p. 102), the
dominant caste in Himachal Pradesh. In the ‘Pahari dialects’, the same term appears as
mauta or kamdar, which is given as ‘an official … [who] corresponds to a naib-tahsildar and
decides petty cases’ (PD p. 67).
16 EBHR-39

The village deotas and devis have the power to check epidemic diseases,
they can make the clouds to shed rains, [they] can dry up the clouds and
[they] can help a man or the whole community in fighting with his or their
foe. Some years past, there was rinderpest (cow disease) in the state. The
[presiding] deota, Nag, of Sangla Village, was requested by the village[rs]
not to let in the disease. The deota went to Sangla Kanda [a ridge west of
the village] and all the cows and oxen were gathered together at Rangalti
[probably at the foot of the ridge]. In the whole herd of village cattle, two
cows were already infected. The two cows foamed and frothed through
their mouths and were restless but were unable to walk on. The deota went
round and round the herd, the two cows inclusive, and drove the disease off
to the other side of ‘Rupau’ [the eastern ridge that flanks the Baspa Valley
and connects it with Rohru via the ‘Rupin Pass’]. The two cows immediately
recovered and there was no cattle pest.
This year (1937), summer cholera was proceeding upwards from Tranda
side [i.e., the tract along the left side of the Sutlej River situated between
Rampur and Wangtu Bridge, the western boundary of Kinnaur]. Chandike
Devi of the village and the deota of Chini said that they will not let in the
disease beyond Rogi, but they caused the people to offer some 24 sheep
and maunds [measuring unit roughly equivalent to half a litre] of wine
downside towards [countering the advance of the] cholera. The cholera was
bribed in time and did not come up even to Rogi.
Deotas single-handed or with the help of Kalis (to be dealt [with] in [a]
later, separate chapter) bring down rains for the good of the crops. The
writer of this note knows his village deota, the Nag of Sangla. Whenever
there is drought he is asked to bring down rains. He asks for a black coloured
goat and offers it to kalis and brings down rains. He offers a goat to his
[original] home side sometimes. His home is in ‘Borár’ in Mazibon Kanda,
the source of the Tons River [in Rohru]. He sometimes goes to the Barar
Lake, his home, [in order] to see his home folks and to bring down rains.
If he goes there rain is certain to come, but his going there is expensive to
the public. Some twenty sheep and goats are required to offer to the kalis
[encountered] in the way and [also] for his home gatekeepers, the ‘Prolias’.14
Some deotas and devis are more prominent and their prominence was

14 Prolias=the guard at gate, gatekeepers [PD p.104: praul ‘gateway of ruler or chief’; KD
p.118: prauli ‘the king’s gate’].
 Das 17

recognised by the state rulers of past times and they are still enjoying
the[se] prominent position[s]. For instance, Bashahr Deota of Rampur side is
awarded with a fairly big ‘muafi’ [stipend] in cash annually, which is a fixed
sum recorded in revenue papers. He is a State Deota for bringing rains when
required and stopping rains when no more required. Maheshwar of Sungra,
a village [between Sangla and Rampur, more on which below], also enjoys
an annual ‘muafi’ for presiding over the Dasahra (Dasmi) festival ceremony.
Badri Nath of Kamru village performs [the] ‘raj tilak’ [ceremony] of a new
Raja of Bashahr ascending to the ‘Gaddi’.15 [The] raj tilak [is performed] by
Badri Nath and that is performed in Kámru Fort. The new rajah has to go
there (to Kámru Fort) for Rajtilak.

[The last two lines of this page are crossed out in the notebook, but they
can still be made out to have read: ‘Chandike Devi of Kothi is [consulted]
to ward off epidemic diseases into the state.’ This phrase is repeated in
a slightly different form at the close of the chapter, below-AM].

Kámru is the biggest seat of deotas and devis in Bashahr with reference to
its connections with the state throne. Badri Nath Deota, [along] with other
deotas and devis in Kamru Fort and devis at Astangche (a place midway
from Sangla and Kamru), foresee and forebode the coming evils and
fortunes to the Royal family. The predictions are made once a year and that
in the month of Mágh (January-February). Other deotas within the state
also make predictions for the throne in the same month of Mágh annually,
but [the] fore-tellings of Badri Nath are correct in precision to a word.
Royal family members, when [they] pass away from this world, their souls
pay [a] visit to Kamru Fort and pay their respects in the way of farewell to
Gods and goddesses within the Fort. Some 7-8 years back, when the writer’s
father, negi Ram Sukh of Sangla, was the Kārdār, the State Darogha [head of
police] in Kamru Fort, he with Gita Ram Kaith were sitting within the fort in
their morning prayers, Sandhia.16 It was about 8 pm [when] two women in
Gágrá and Choli17 came flying in the air and they entered the fort through
one of the loopholes of the fort. [These] loopholes are not big enough to

15 Raj-tilak=coronation ceremony; gaddi or gadhi=throne.

16 Sandhia=morning and evening prayers to god.
17 Gagra=old Indian women dress worn below waist down to foot; Choli=old Indian woman
dress for a modern shirt [KD p.50: chólī ‘a woman’s upper garment’].
18 EBHR-39

receive in the body of a woman. But the two souls passed through without
bending. Wonder! They then went on to the body (Murat [murti]) of the first
goddess [and] paid their homage to the goddess by sitting on their knees and
drooping down their heads. After this they passed away through the same
loophole, flying in[to] the air. Negi Ram Sukh was simply aghast and did not
dare to talk with his companion, Kaith Gita Ram. When the two women[’s]
souls were no more near about the fort he uttered, ‘what a wonder we have
seen today’. Kaith Gita Ram said, ‘nothing of that’. Kaith did not see the
two souls. Negi Ram Sukh then related to him what he actually saw with
his [own] eyes. It was not a dream. It was living reality. Negi Ram Sukh is a
strict monotheist and he has got only one Parameshwar18 (all mighty god)
in his mind. His nine-year’s residence in Kāmru Fort seems to have shaken
his belief in monotheism. He is never given to gossip and lies.
In those days when the two women entering the fort through loopholes
and going away through and via [the] same route were perceived by N. Ram
Sukh, State Darogha, two of the Ranis of the Raja Padam Singh [r. 1914-
1947] were seriously ill. A couple of days later the sad news of [the] passing
away of both the Ranis were received to the grief of all [the] public.
The state has sanctioned budget provision for puja in the Kamru Fort
and at Astangche. The provision is renewed from year to year. Every third
year the state goddess Bhima-Kali or Māhā Mai comes to Kamru to meet
the goddesses at Astangche and in the Kamru Fort. These Goddesses are
elder than her (Bhimakali) – 100 goats are cut at Astangche by the state
when Bhima Kali meets those goddesses at Astangche. In the fort there take
[place a variety of] regular ‘pujas’. Some of the deotas in the fort want he
goats only. Some want she goats. Some want sheep, while Lankura19 wants
rams. The Devi wants pudding- Parshadr [prasad?].
Again, from the foregoing narration it will be assumed that each village
has only one or two deotas or devis. That is not so. Generally each house has
its Kim-Shoo20—a house god. Trifling matters of ailments, [the] fixing of a
day for going out for a journey, [the] striking of an auspicious day and hour
for sowing fields and [the] selection of this seed or that seed are settled

18 Parameshawar=omnipresent and all-powerful God, the only God of the universe.

19 Lankurá=a state god that lives at Sarahan, Rampur and Kamru.
20 Kim=house (kanwari), Shoo=demigod (kanwari), together ‘house god’ [KD p.88: kim ‘a
house, home, dwelling, from Tibetan ‘Khyim’; KD p.134: shú ‘a village deity in [the] ground,
the village god’].
 Das 19

at home by the house god, the ‘Kim-Shoo’. Of course there will not be a
foolish zamindar to repeat[edly sow] the same crop. There are alternatives
for the change [of crop] and the best alternative is required for the heaviest
return in the harvest. A man does not know what crop will succeed in a
particular year or a season. But the deotas and devis know the future and
their decision for the better into the future is sought for.
The state has different deotas for different purposes. As Bashahru Deota
is for the weather, Badri Nath is for the Raj Tilak [ceremony], Maheshwara
of Sungra village is for the Dasehra festival performance. [Thus] the state,
as has already been mention[ed], has deotas responsible for [the] prosperity
of the state. Chandike Devi of Kothi is for checking the prevalence of
epidemic diseases in the state. Narain Deota of Jabbal [Jubbal] Village in
Rohru Tehsil is for warding off evil spirits causing harm to the royal family.
Now, Sir Emerson, the late Governor of the Punjab, was in Bashahr as the
State Manager in his early service period. He was touring once in Rohru
Tehsil and one of his little babies fell ill at or near about Jabbal Village.
The zaildar of that ilaqa suggested to Sir Emerson that the deota of Jabbal
be consulted and be asked to cure the baby of its trouble. The deota was
accordingly consulted about the ailment of Sir Emerson’s child. The Narain
Deota of Jabbal said that he would make the ‘Tanda’21 from over the child
and he would be alright.
The suffering baby’s treatment was resorted to the ‘Tanda’ by the Jabbal
Deota. By the next day, after [the] ‘Tanda’, the child recovered fully well,
relief coming by slow degrees and commencing immediately after the
‘Tanda’ process. Narain Deota of Jabbal enjoys a lump sum Muafi annually
from the state revenue. Similarly there are other deotas in the state
responsible for this or that time of living.

[The] end with deotas and devis.

21 Fanda or Tunda or Tuna=a ceremony performed by a deota or a devi from over an ill
person to ward off the evil from him. It often consists of offering a sheep or goat for relief
of the diseased. [See also PD p.127: ṭunḍa ‘one who has no hands’].
20 EBHR-39

Chapter II: Kális or Jogins (Joginīs in Kulu) or Sonigs the Fairies, the
angels and ‘Matingo’22 the earth Goddesses
Greeks and Romans had their angels the fairies. Bashahr and other adjoining
hill states have their fairies, the Kális or Jogins or Sonigs and Matingo, the
Goddesses under [the] earth [/ground]. Those elderly people who ever had
the chance of seeing these spirits—the ‘Kalis’ and ‘Matingos’—make almost
no difference in their appearance. They wear black garments and they
keep their head uncovered with[out] any headdress. They have long golden
hair flowing down to their waist. They never grow old and they are ever in
their bloom. Kalis live in high mountains, [among] their peaks and in their
depressions, the lakes, while Matingo[s] live under [the] earth, lower down
the mountains and near habitations. Kālis like flowers and live amidst them
in mountains. In summer fairs flowers are brought by youths for the village
deotas and devis and it is believed that Kalis also come down with flowers
and meet with the village deotas, enjoy [the] sight of [the] fair and then go
back to their home.
Kalis and Matingo are more powerful than village deotas and devis. They
are able to bring down rains, [and] able to cause hailstones to fall down to
the destruction of crops when they are angry. They do lots of things that
are beyond the power of men and women. Kalis haunt human habitations
of their [own] accord. The following stories will show Kalis haunting human
habitations.

Story no. 1:
Some two hundred years or below have rolled away when Kalis were [last]
seen in Sangla Kanda. An old woman who was one eye blind had to remain
in her dogri [a shed for sheep and goats] in Sangla Kanda behind all [the]
other villagers. Her people were late in threshing barley and wheat grown
in Kanda and the old woman was left behind to keep watch over the harvest.
In Bashahr, in old houses and dogris, people kept and still keep only one
door-leaf [open] so that as little air goes in the room opened by the door as
possible.
In about the centre of the door leaf a hole about as big as an eye socket is
bored through so that the door leaf could be bolted with an iron key called
22 Matingo=Mating=Earth; o=belonging to – i.e., living under castle = goddess living under
earth [KD p.102: māṭing/māṭyāng ‘earth, mud’; KD p.110: o ‘in, appended to noun’]; Kālis=
[lit.,] attired in black garments=goddess in black dress, fairies living in mountains.
 Das 21

‘onthangsatang’.23 The old one-eye blind woman had to live in Sangla Kanda
in the month of Katak [October-November], when it is severely cold in
there. Once it was a moonlit night and she had already closed her door. She
heard somebody talking outside but she was sensible enough not to open
her door. She kept the door closed, but fixing her operative eye socket in
the keyhole, [she] had a glance outside, when she saw 12 black-garmented
virgins, the Kalis, the fairies, dancing in a circle hand in hand and round
about and round about they danced to a chorus of song sung by them and
[that was] about the old poor one-eye-blind woman inside the walls of the
dogri. The [lyric] of the song was ‘there is nobody in upper dimanthan
[place name?], nobody in lower dimanthan and nobody in upper serio
but there is one in lower serio. She is one-eye-blind old woman and she
is peeping at us through her door hole but we fear her and her eye’. They
danced together [in] full enjoyment of the dance and [at] the chorus they
brought forth upon the old woman. Then they went away. The old woman
was not harmed by the Kālis, the 12 Jogins/Joginis.

Story no. 2:
Phagli Fair comes around every year in the month of Phagan (February-
March). Once upon a time there was this Phagli Fair going on in Yangpa
[near today’s villages of Rispa and Ribba], the last village in Bhabe Valley
[apparently the name of that portion of the Sutlej Valley that runs from
Peo to Morang, i.e., along the northern aspect of the Kinner Kailash]. It was
daytime and the circle dance was going on. One [person], Pobi by name, of
Ráotain[?] family, was leading the dance. He was a very handsome youth
and was very expert in dancing. It must be remembered that fairies, the
Kális, enjoy [the] sight of fairs [even] though we are not able to see them.
Pobi was dancing, leading the circle dance. All of a sudden, in the broad
daylight, a swarm of humming bees came round about ‘Pobi’, the dance
leader, and the circle dance. The ‘Sonigs’,24 the Kalis, came in the form of a
bee swarm and hissed him into nothing for human beings and carried him
in their midst. A search was made for Pobi by all in the dance and in the

23 Onthangsalang=bolting key [KD p.111: onṭhang ‘a strong wooden bolt’). A sketch of a

hook appears next to the footnote with the caption ‘shape of a bolting key’. The ‘leaves’
mentioned in the text are, in fact, wooden planks that are vertically situated one next to
each other to form a door-Ed.].
24 Sonigs=joginis, kális, the fairies.
22 EBHR-39

village. [There was] no trace of him but his ‘chogā’25 sleeve that was found
on a mountain peak above Yongpa village. [That] the fairies took Pobi with
them was certain and Phagli [Fair] consists of singing songs in honour of
Kāli, and Kalis are given offerings of incense (‘dhoop’), good edibles and
libations of wine (‘sharing’.)26 But [what] did [the] Kalis do with Pobi nobody
knows. Kalis are offended with white or black garment[s] of men, they say,
and [a] nice singer and dancer is also likewise undone by Kalis.
Kalis are very particular in preserving wild mountain game. They are
offended when high-lying mountain game is shot. The following story (no.
3 under this chapter) will illustrate the anger of Kālis at Shikaris that shot
a ‘thofo’, a ‘warr’.27
There was a shikari [hunter] called Mālū of Chetha, a family in Sangla
Village. This story of Mālū is not very old, as Mālu was younger than the
writer of this story’s grandfather. This story is at the most 65 years old
[i.e., 1871 CE]. One day, Mālu with another Shikari companion went out
a-hunting and scaled up Kailash Mountain that stands at the back of Sangla
village. In search of shikar, the two shikaris reached the higher region of
Kailash beyond which even grass fails to grow. Mālu’s companion refused
to go on further. Mālu climbed up the cliffy Kailash when he came across
a herd of Blue Sheep, the ‘warrs’. He shot one of the ‘warrs’, which rolled
down to his exhausted companion. Malu hastened down to his companion
to join in [the] joy of his fellow shikari to see the ‘warr’ shot dead by Mālu.
The skinning of the shikar was at once started by the two shikaris and the
work was yet half complete when they ([the] two shikaris) heard Kālis
calling out [to] one another higher up in the Kailash and talking about
the shot [animal] and [the] diminishing [of] their cattle28 by one. The two
shikaris heard the Kalis saying: ‘all [the] other cattle have come but [a] one
horned ox which is missing seems to have been killed by yonder human
beings’. The shot ‘warr’ happened to be one horned while the other horn
was broken somehow or other, perhaps in the fight with others or due to a

25 Chogā=a man dress for a coat. In Kanawr it is called ‘chhubā’ [PD p. 25: chogā ‘a kind of long
cloak’; KD p.48: chhubā ‘a garment, cloak’].
26 Dhārang/Shārang=(Kanawri)=libations to deotas, devis and kalis, etc.
27 Thofo, warr=(kanawri)=blue sheep [KD p.158: wārr ‘a deer’; KD p.130: shárr (in upper
Kinnaur) ‘hill antelope’].
28 Cattles of Kalis=wild mountain game animals, the blue sheep, the Tibetan sheep, the
Langrols [?] and the shears [tigers?] are the cattle of Kālis. It is said that these are used by
Kalis to fetch up rice grams and shan; shān=rice grains with husks still unpounded, paddy.
 Das 23

fall that might have [been] had by the ‘warr’. The reply to the first talk from
new quarters by other Kalis was: ‘if our one horned ox is undone by those
shikaris, the shikaris, in case they do not compensate our loss of our ox,
should suffer heavily’. This last sentence of the Kālis in Kailash Mountain
was reverberated by Kailash Mountain as if it confirmed the sentence of the
Kalis for the two Shikaris. The shikaris came home with the day’s earnings
in warr meat and a gloom in their minds for the worst that they were sure to
befall to their lives. That night passed away and the following day brought
pain and unrest for them shikaris. Sangla Deota was consulted and the Kalis
were offered 2 goats from the shikaris and libations by the deota of Sangla.
Malu’s fellow shikari recovered alright. But poor Mālu! He became crazy
and mad. He lived long after in craziness.

Story no. 4:
The Kalis are offended when cow or an ox skin is put in any of the high lying
lakes. When there is a great drought year the village deotas cause a cattle
skin to [be] put in high region lakes and the Kalis, [in order] to purify the
lakes, shower down rains. It is said that there was a lake above Chini village
from which [there] gushed out water for the ample water supply of Chini
and the villages near about Chini. On a drought year day, [in order] to make
the Kalis bring down rain, a cow skin was thrown into that lake. [The] kalis
did not make the sky rain, but the lake goddesses transformed themselves
into two doves and flew off to the other side of the Sutlej River into Barang
Forest [opposite Chini, on the left bank of the Sutlej on the northern aspect
of the Kinner Kailash Range], where water gushed out just after the two
doves sat down on the earth. The lake above Chini went dry and it is not
ever likely to have it again [filled] with water. The fairies became very much
offended here with the cow skin and left the lake forever.
The Kālis are thought to use the wild mountain game animals as their
pack animals and [to] bring shān [unpounded, husky rice grains] upon them
from the rice growing valleys and ravines at the foot of the mountains.
Many years [have] passed [since] when the following story, no 5, was told
and heard:
Ramasarain is a good rice-growing valley in Tehri Garhwal State [south of
the Baspa Valley]. In that valley, rice crop was expected to yield the highest
outturn in kind in a particular year. It was just ready to be mowed when it
hailed heavily in hailstones so that the rice crop, the shān of Ramasarain,
24 EBHR-39

was half destroyed. The Kalis managed this fall of hailstorms with the sky
[so as] to snatch away the part of [the] rice harvest from Ramasarain, and
that in their usual [mode of] invisibility. The winter following that hail-
stormy autumn passed away and the spring came in when licensed or
unlicensed shikaris were out after shikar [game] that [had] descended to
lower elevations with [the] snowfall of the previous winter. Those shikaris
of Garhwal, as well as of Bashahr, in their respective shikar jurisdictions
in high elevations, [both] saw ‘shān’, the husky rice grains, fallen along
the highest mountain ridges in a regular track way. Some of the shikaris
thought that the storms blew up the shān and struck against the mountain
ridges and [that] the latter squeezed the former (storms) and made to shed
shān on them. Other shikaris thought a bit in a different way. For them, the
‘shān’ seen by them on high ridges was due to [a] whirlwind which might
have passed through and over, encircled [the] paddy in its action and took
[it] up to [the] sky, which threw the shān back on [the] ridges [that were
covered] with snow. It was at last that a shikari saw a ‘warr’—a he blue
sheep—dead in a high mountain Nulla [valley] with a sack full of Paddy on his
back, as ordinary pack animals would do often. Birds of same feathers flock
together. Shikaris often meet one another and exchange their experience
in shikar. The story of [the] paddy track along [the] high mountain ridges
was told and admitted to be a fact, a reality, by others, while at last the story
of a dead ‘warr’ with [a] paddy sack on his back was made known by a party
of shikaris. The Kalis brought ‘shān’, the paddy from Ramasarain, on their
pack animals, the blue sheep, via [the] high mountain ridges to Kailas or
[the] Rupan Series of mountains and [the] paddy kept falling off [along] a
regular track, and [it was concluded] that one of the loaded blue sheep, the
warrs, [had] slipped down [a] high mountain side and died of the fall with
[a] sack stuck to his back [only] to be [subsequently] found by humanity.

Enough with talk and stories on Kālis.

‘Matingos’, the goddesses under [the] ground, the sisters of Kālis, will be
jealous of their sisters and will curse us. The earth goddesses resemble
Kālis in their dress, in their behaviour and in their ‘Karāmāt’.29 But they do
not live on high mountains. They live under ground in valleys near about

29 Karāmāt=manifestation of power for the good of humanity by superhuman beings.

 Das 25

habitations. There are several Matingos, the earth goddesses, in outer

Tukpa, the tract above Ruturang [Rarang] Gorge to Chhitkul [the last village
in the Baspa Valley], and two of them are well known. One is at Batseri
Bridge on the left side of the Sutlej River [sic; the actual river is, of course,
that of Baspa] and the other at Astangche, midway [between] Sangla and
Kamru. These earth goddesses are very powerful. Those at Batseri Bridge
are given ‘puja’ by [the] deota of Batseri [a village further up the valley from
Sangla, midway to Rakcham] generally, and occasionally by the deotas of
Sangla and Kamru for the welfare of their respective villages. But whoever
the ‘puja’ giving deota may be, the deota of Batseri must be there to preside
over the ‘puja’ ceremony of the Batseri Bridge Matingos.
Astangche Earth Goddess, the Matingos, are given ‘puja’ [by] Badrinath
Deota of Kāmru once every month and the expenses are borne by the state
along with [the] Kamru Fort expenses. These goddesses are so elderly, as
has already been told in the first chapter, that the state goddess Bhima Kāli
comes to Kāmru Fort every third year (on the month of November) when
‘parnāwth’30 fair takes place.

Story no. 6:
Once upon a time, during the reign of Rajah Mahendar Singh of Bashahr
[1815-50], Maheshawar Deota of Sungra Village, at the concluding of
Dasehra Festival at Sarahan, solicited the then Rajah’s permission in writing
to go up to Kāmru and to offer ‘puja’ to the earth goddesses at Astangche.
[The] Rajah [at] first refused permission, saying that anything bad may
happen since the earth goddesses know Badri Nath Deota of Kāmru alone
and no other deota ever did go there. Maheshawara Deota persisted and the
Rajah’s permission had but to be given. Maheshawara of Sungra, with all
pomp and show [and] with all his musical instruments being played upon,
went on to Kāmru. A warm reception was offered by Badri Nath of Kāmru
for his guest deota, the Maheshawara of Sungra. A peaceful night [passed]
for the deota and his ‘parja’31 [praja, subjects] of Sungra at Kāmru.
[The] next morning, Maheshawara asked Badri Nath to accompany him
to Astangche to offer ‘puja’ to the great earth goddess there. Badri Nath

30 Parnawth=a religious fair held of Kāmru when the [state goddess of Bashahr] Bhimakali
comes there once every third year and various ‘puja’ ceremonies are followed by [the]
gathering together of [the] deotas of Baspa Valley and a dance in Kāmru Fort.
31 Parja=progeny, the public, the ruled, the subjects.
26 EBHR-39

refused to go with Maheshawara and advised him not to go himself too,

saying that no other deota ever gave ‘puja’ at Astangche but Badri Nath
himself, and that the idea of Maheshawara’s going there should be dropped
lest any harm may befall to either of the parties concerned. The resolute
Maheshawara would not drop his idea and alone he went to Astangche.
He bowed down his head to the earth and [raised his] feet up in the sky.
Whenever any deota goes to meet and to offer ‘puja’ to any Matingi, the
earth goddesses, the deota throws his ‘yak’ hair head down in the earth and
his feet go up in the air so that the deota assumes the posture of a man’s
summersault. Maheshawara Deota assumed this posture at Astangche. Lo!
He could not rise up, his head sticking to the ground. The earth goddesses
at Astangche were enraged at having a stranger deota at their place to
offer them ‘puja’. From under [the] ground, some of the earth goddesses
managed to catch hold of [the] hair of the deota’s head and held him firm
with his head downward.
Badri Nath was informed of the Maheshawara’s [being] stuck to the
ground with [his] downward head at Astangche. He (Badrinath) ordered
Kalan32 Singh Deota’s arm, the pole, to be sent on spot at Astangche and to
put one end of the pole sufficient[ly] down below the earth near the stuck
head of Maheshawara and then to pull up the pole with a jerk, as if the
deota of Sungra was a big stone or a log stuck to the ground, and [the] lifting
up was to be done by a big pole [that was] held and being manipulated by so
many hands. The process was acted upon and up erect the deota of Sungra
rose, but with him and stuck firm to his gigantic yág [yak?] hair head,
rose two Matingos, the earth goddesses, in rage [and] holding the deota
head hair in their clutches. They were attired in black and their golden
hair waved down their waist. They were very beautiful virgins, but they
were seen by [the] Sungra and Kāmru people [assembled] there [so] they
flew down to Gurguro near Sangla and the two Matingos have since then
become [the] Gurguro ‘Matingos’ [who] are given ‘puja’ by Nāg [Deota] of
Sangla. Poor earth goddesses! They were enraged with the deota of Sungra
and they insulted him very much [by] keeping him stuck to the ground.
But they themselves also lost their home for their becoming [exposed in]

32 Kalan Singh Deota=next deota to Badri Nath in Kāmru, bearing the ratha as Badri Nath
does. This deota is the soul of a raja, grand father of late Rajah Shamsher Singh. [AM:]
the person alluded to is most likely raja Ugar Singh (r. ±1775-1810), who died during the
Gorkha invasion of Bashahr, c. 1809-1815.
 Das 27

public. They could not, and still cannot, go to Astangche as their home.
Later on they were seen by many in the daytime going to Astangche to
see their sisters underground at Astangche and then to return [on the]
very [same] day to their new abode, Guguro. Nay, even some people heard
[the Astangche Matingi] calling, ‘Oh Gurguro living elder sisters; come
to us, have a talk with us and then go back to your place, Gurguro’. [The]
Astangche living earth goddesses liked their elder sisters going to them for
a chat and then back to their new place [that they’d] earned by their wrath
at Maheshawara. As for Maheshawara, he could not dare to go to Kamru
from Astangche but home at Sungra he went, [travelling for a] day and [a]
night with his dignity lowered down by the earth goddesses of Astangche.

Chapter III: Other spirits and ghosts.

Besides deotas and devis, kalis and earth goddesses, there are, it is said and
believed, other spirits, which stand in between good and evil spirits. [The]
‘ban shira’33 spirit is of this category. Ban Shira guides a man in his night
journey through a forest and quarrels with ghosts for a man and overpowers
ghosts the evil spirits. But at times Ban Shira causes men and women ill and
he has to be offered this or that offering for curing the diseased on account
of his ‘doshang’. In all cases of fairs, good edibles are cooked in each house
and then offered in the name of Kalis, earth goddesses, the village deotas
and devis, ‘Kim-Shus’, and Ban Shira is also named while making offerings.
The belief is that all good spirits participate in the offerings, the ‘pujas’,
provided they are named while making offerings. So ban shira is a deota
and not a rakshasa, the ghost.
‘Chan’ or ‘Chon’34 is much dreaded, as whoever comes across this ghost
cannot live. This ghost has one eye beset in the centre of his forehead and
the eye is very sharp and glaring and never misses to spy whatever comes in
front of it and within its range. Fortunately, it cannot see side ways nor can
it see upwards and downwards. It sees quite straight in front like a gunshot.
Kalis let it loose during [the] night and it descends along spurs and mounds
to the rivers in search of cremation grounds by the riversides. ‘Chon’ licks
up ashes of burnt dead bodies and he likes it as much as cattle would like

33 Ban shira=a spirit living in the forest and in big trees [KD p.34: ban, banang ‘forest’].
34 Chau or chon/chou=an apparition having horse-like body and a man’s head with only one
eye in the centre of forehead. It is believed to be the Kalis riding horse [see also KD p.47:
chho-gyāll ‘the deity Yama, from Tibetan’].
28 EBHR-39

licking up salt every now and then. It is for this purpose that Chon has
to come down from mountain peaks, the home of Kalis, to the riverbanks.
Chon walks on with a noise resembling that of ‘argas’,35 the bell-wreath
green [placed] round the neck of riding ponies and horses in Kanawar, and
in Tibet as [a] horse ornament. So it is fortunate that so cruel a ghost as
Chon has to give alarm when walking. In case anybody happens to hear
a Chon passing nearby he has simply to sit down not in the passage of a
path or a road but by the side [so as] to avoid sight of the ‘Chon’. Generally,
the spurs, the Dhárs, are seen having waving rags (flags) and ‘Māni-Phani’
stone heaps. This is done to keep the Chon away from there. The flags (Dhar
Chhad) and the Mani-Phani stone heaps (Māne) are near about villages
where Chon, if not driven away, would do [a] lot of harm to the people.

Some stories on Rakshasas will now justify the closing of this chapter.

Story no. 1:
There is a big cave just on the left side of the Themgarang Khad near Sangla
[about halfway up the valley to Batseri, alias ‘Boning Saring’]. Ag,36 the
cave, affords accommodation for hundreds of sheep and goats and their
phawals, the shepherds, and the cave is called ‘Bhujalang Ag’. In this cave
lived two shepherds of Sangla Village with their flock of sheep and goats.
One day, one of the two shepherds went home for fetching up rations for
themselves with a word to return back by evening of that very day. He
could not return with rations and his companion had to live alone with
sheep and goats in ‘Bhujalung’ cave. There used to live a ghost in Bhujalang.
He was on the watch to see the two shepherds part from each other [so as]
to play mischief with one of them when alone. The chance for the ghost
therefore came. The shepherd with flock at Bhujalang cooked food for
himself and his fellow shepherd who was to return out of the remaining
rations to their complete exhaustion. Light of the day diminished by slow
degrees and the darkness thickened likewise. No companion returned for
[the] Bhujalang cave shepherd. Just when it was quite dark he called out
for his expected colleague but the ghost responded [instead and said] that

35 Argās=a number of small bells wreathed in a leather strap and put round the neck of
riding horses and poneys in Kanawr and in Tibet [KD p.31: argā ‘a garland of small bells for
ponies’].
36 Ag=a cave [KD p.29: agg ‘a cave, den’].
 Das 29

he was going to him. The shepherd not knowing that the answer was from
the ghost, was very glad that his companion returned to him and did not
leave him alone. The ghost, assuming the form of the body of a man, came
on. The ghost had no clothes on his body, but had long hair like monkeys
or apes. Goats are more sprightly and alert than sheep. They sneezed
and flocked together as if a leopard pounced upon the flock. The ghost
proceeded on to the fireside and took his seat just opposite the shepherd
who was pale with fear. The shepherd and the ghost did not enjoy any
indulgence in talk nor [had] they stood up for boxing. The ghost assumed
imitative behaviour. So, if the shepherd stood up the ghost too stood, and
[if] the shepherd offered fuel to the fire the ghost would do the same. If the
shepherd feared the ghost, the ghost repaid. When the shepherd spread
out his bed for sleep the ghost jumped in the bed and was ready to sleep
with the shepherd.
The shepherd rose up and had a stick in his hand and lifted up the stick
for striking at the unwelcome companion, the ghost. But the ghost did
not fail to have another stick in his hand and rose [as] if to strike at the
shepherd. The shepherd lost courage and let his stick down and the ghost
followed immediately his example. The poor shepherd was fatigued after
all [of this] and felt sleepy in spite of the fear of the ghost. He slept a little
while sitting and the ghost is said to [have] be[en] going away laughing and
shrieking when the shepherd woke from his nap. Poor shepherd! He ought
not [have] go[ne] to enjoy his nap. He lost his soul while he was asleep [in]
a nap. The ghost had the upper hand and snatched away the soul of the
shepherd when he was inactive in sleep. But he lived for some time later
after this event, but actually to what period nobody can now say. [The] next
day, the home-gone shepherd came with rations to hear the story of the
visit of ghost to his companion at Bhujalaing. The story of the ghost was
related in full details to his companion that came with a load of rations by
the shepherd who had the bad luck of having a ghost the previous night.
The story was narrated in sobs as the experience of the preceding night was
so bitter and the arrival, after all, of his colleague, so comforting and relief-
inspiring that the story was doomed to come out in sobs.

Story no. 2: Of a skin ghost.

Some 35-45 [c. 1895-1905] years ago, a skin ghost is said to have been seen
and have been encountered in Sangla Village. One of the Māthes of Sangla
30 EBHR-39

Deota, named Phulma Nand (now dead), was going from his (home) house
to the deota temple to join with his colleagues in keeping watch at the
temple. When he was halfway [to the temple], a skin rolled [to] this side
and that side in [front of] his feet so that the effort of the skin was to fell
down the Māthes. He took courage and did not fall but kept treading on
the rolling skin ghost till at last the skin ghost was tired and transformed
itself into a tree-like, long erect shape. He looked like a ‘prai’37 in darkness
and went on growing thicker and still longer whenever Phulma Nanad the
Māthes looked up at him the ghost, Phulma was about to lose courage when
he recollected two things said of ghosts—(1) never to fear them but to take
them as toys for man’s play and (2) never to look up but to keep the eyes
looking downside so that the ghosts are never able to defeat a man nor are
they able to grow up bigger and bigger. Phulma kept his eyes down and
gathered himself, ready for the wrestle with the ghost. The ghost became as
little in size as a man. Phulma caught hold of him and they went on boxing.
The Māthes Phulma got the ghost within his embrace, pulled off some hair
of [the] moustache of the ghost, [a portion of] which hair, it was said, the
Māthes possessed during the whole of his afterlife, to show to people and to
relate the story. Unfortunate it is for the writer of these few pages [that he]
missed seeing the ghost moustache hair with Phulma Nanad, the Māthes.
When within the strong embrace and [as it] was losing [its] moustache hair,
the poor ghost wept and shrieked shrill[y] and grew thinner and thinner till
at last [he] transformed himself into nothing and got out of cruel Phulma’s
grasp and ran away shrieking in [a] shrill [voice] again and again. A ghost
is a toy for a man!

Story no. 3:
As has already been told that Phagli fair comes round every year in the
month of Phagan and the Phagh Fair at Kāmru lasts for [a] full 15 days.
Badri Nath Deota of Kamru has seven elderly deotas, the Le-Shu, in Kamru
Fort, who come out to preside over Phagli and give ‘darshan’ to the public.38
Each deota has his metal face (muhra or morang) and the seven faces of the
seven elderly deotas are taken to Shuwindang, a place about half a mile [on
the] Sangla side from Kamru. There at Shuwindang is a prai [pole; see fn
37 Prai=a long post erected just in front of temples generally.
38 Le-Shu (Shoo)=leg or le (Kanwari)=elder or elderly; shu=deotas, demi-gods; darshan=
conspicuous sight of big sould or deotas enjoyed by others, the public.
 Das 31

37, above] and this is decorated with cloth and then the seven faces of the
seven elderly deotas are set in the clothed prai in a column for ‘darshan’,
the public view of the seven gods. The seven villages above Brua Khad
are represented on that auspicious day of ‘darshan’ of [the] seven deities
by a fairly big number of people from each village. [It was] for this fair at
Shuwindang that villagers of Chausu came once in a bad, snowing weather.
In the number was a woman who left her little baby in preference to [having
the] sight of [the] seven deotas. After full enjoyment of the darshan, the day
was closing and the villagers of Chausu stayed at Kāmru for the night, but for
the woman who left her little child behind. She could not rest for a night of
Kāmru but ran away alone for Chausu, though it was getting dark when she
left Kamru and her companions. Pulio is a place midway from Chausu and
Ruturang [Gorge]. There lived a ghost, ‘Pulio Rakshasa’. The poor woman
was benighted and the ghost stood in her way at Pulio. Nobody knows how,
but the poor woman running home for her child was transformed into a
stone [that is] still lying there and her ornaments, worn by her that day for
the fair, are also said to be there in the form of 8 stones set in that big stone,
the [petrified] body of the woman. [The] next morning, the fair-going party
from Kāmru returned, but the mother of that little child, [who was] being
looked after by its father, never returned. [An] enquiry was made on her
[fortune], but she had left Kāmru for Chausu the previous evening when the
fair concluded and when it was getting dark. Even at Kāmru a search was
made, but they [only] found at Pulio an unusual stone in the path with small
stones set in it. ‘Pulio ghost devoured her and transformed her body with
ornaments on it into this stone’, was the judgment passed by the searching
party. We do not know if Pulio Rakshasa is still so cruel as it was when it
transformed the poor woman into stone.

Story no. 4:
Once upon a time Phulio Fair was going on at Sungra, nearly 2 miles [on the]
Sarahan side from Nacher. All the people having danced [they] went home,
but one man [stayed there] asleep, as he was remaining at the temple. When
no human being but himself was there, a gang of Rākshasas, the ghosts,
came in the Santang39 saying: ‘there is a human smelling here about and

39 Santang=dancing ground attached to a temple [KD p.128: sāntan, sāntang ‘the enclosure of
a temple, where the village people assemble to sing and dance at certain ceremonies’].
32 EBHR-39

the human being will make a nice morsel for us’. This is translation of their
dialogue in Kanawri. The utterance of Rakshasa was: ‘Mānus gānan dundule,
āng e-grassāng’.40 The man was courageous, he ought to [have] be[en]. He
rose on his feet and said: ‘do not devour me now but let me lead a dance
of your party.’ He snatched away the ‘Pyurg’, a small three edged sword,
from the hands of the Rākshasa, the ghost who was about to lead the dance,
and the dance went on whirl about and whirl about, but he, the only man
leading the dance of ghosts, was busy thinking of getting out of the gang
of dancing Rakshasas. He thought of a water-well near Sungra temple and
led the dance of ghosts to that direction. All the ghosts were fully absorbed
in the dance and it came to the well site. The man with ‘gurze’ [dorje?] in
his hands jumped into the well, which was not more than knee-deep. He
turned himself under [the] half roping of the well, but the ghosts, too, were
good engineers. They thought of ‘measuring’ [the] water depth. They had a
ball of woollen string. They tied a small stone at the end of the thread and
plunged it in the water. The man, being under [by] half [the length of rope]
of the well, kept rolling up the thread again into the ball, so that the ghosts
finished their ball of thread and said: ‘the water is endlessly deep and we
can do nothing to have the man out of it now. Alas, we lost the first chance
of devouring him. We lost a ball of fat in that man’. [And in Kinnauri:] ‘grosu
petingo Panang Chhos ne māmima Fone zhub’41, [that is:] ‘we [should have]
devoured that man of Sungra village, [with] a ball of fat in his stomach,
when we first saw him’.
The day dawned and the gang of ghosts could no longer harm the man
in [the] well. They had vanished. The man came out of the water well,
related the story and showed the ‘gurze’ of the ghosts. The man was of [the]
‘Borantu’ family of Sungra and in honour of his cheating the ghosts, his
successors have to dance with that very ‘gurze’ of [the] Rakshasas for three
rounds compulsorily, leading the dance in Phuliach at Sungra every year.

Now, away with ghosts.

40 Manus=of men, of humanity; gānam=smell; dundule=prevailing sharply; āng=me, my;

e-grersang=one morsel; gurze=a small three edged sword for dancing.
41 Grosu=a man belonging to Grosnam (Sungra); petingo=in the belly; panang=a ball (of
butter and fat generally); chhos=fat.
 Das 33

CHAPTER IV: Bāyuls,42 the hidden habitations.

In Kanawr, there were a number of Bāyuls, the hidden habitations, once,
and there are still some, while the others have become known to the outside
world. Nesang, opposite Kānam on [the] other side of the Sutlej, and Enla
near Urni [west of Chini], are the two villages which once were hidden from
the outside world. These two villages were Bāyuls. The people of Bāyuls have
no connection with any country near and far off, but they enjoy a blissful
life. They have everything and anything at their disposal. It is not certain
to say whether the people of Bāyuls have any connection with spirits, the
super human beings. The moment they become known they forget their
past life and it is long before they can adapt themselves to the means of
our living, [here] with us [in the] outside world. One thing Bayul people
never take is salt that is not enjoyed by Bāyul men and women so long they
are in [a] Bāyul, [a] concealed habitation. The shepherds of Murang side
[Moran, east of the Kinner Kailash Range] played mischief with Nesang
and so [did] those of Urni with Enla Bāyuls. They came across, at both the
Bayul places, [some] regularly fashioned water springs, the ‘Bāyus’.43 The
shepherds grew curious and told the stories of nicely fashioned bayus to
their home people, who advised them to throw salt in the water springs.
The experiment was made. No sooner [than] the salt in [the] water was used
by the Bāyul people, then the screen of their concealment broke away and
they with their hamlets became visible and known to the world outside. But
they forgot their previous life. There are still some places suspected to be
Bāyuls. Bitingla opposite Sangla Kanda on the right side of the Rokli River,
Kashang, above the present cultivation, and in Lishnam Gad [opposite Urni
on the left bank of the Sutlej]. These are the three places known to the
writer of these notes. At Bitingla and in Kashang, drums and trumpets are
beaten and other musical instruments played, and the sound is heard at
just [the moment when] night falls or [at the] dawn of day or at mid day
time. Two stories that are known to the author of this narration are herein
reproduced for the diversion of the reader.

42 Bayul=a hidden or concealed habitation of humanity, but not of deotas, devis or kalis etc.,
[rather] of good spirits.
43 Bāyu=public water place=flowing of water through a channel or then falling on the
ground from a height of 3’ so that when required water pots are placed at the mouth of
the channel and water fallen in [KD p.37: bāyū ‘a pool, an oblong water pool’].
34 EBHR-39

Story no. 1:
Many years ago, when a shepherd used to take his flock of sheep and goats
for grazing in Bitingla,44 there he used to see a nice water spring where he
daily got seven very thin shelled walnuts and some other fruits (‘palus’)
for him to eat, but those edibles were never known as to by whom and
how they were daily kept there for the shepherd. [The] curiosity of the
shepherd grew keener and keener every day, till at last he took home the
seven walnuts to show his home folks and to make [them] partake of them.
When the walnuts were delivered to [his] home people, who cracked them
to eat them, inside something else but [a] kernel was found. What of that?
Unfortunate! In each of the walnut[s] was found a snakeling and not the
usual kernel. The shepherd’s home people, who had the opportunity of
having a walnut, ran outside the house to throw away the contents of the
seven walnuts in all and then back to the fireplace they came and went
on cursing the shepherd. They thought that the small snakelings were
[purposely] enclosed, one within each of the seven soft-shelled walnuts,
[in order] to befool them by their shepherd member. But the shepherd was
very honest in this particular dealing with his home folks. Next morning
he again drove his flock to ‘Bitingla’. Leaving his flock to follow him up, he
ran to the bāyu, the water and spring site, to find if the daily present for
him in seven walnuts and ‘palus’ was there that day, too. Nothing was there
that day. Even the water spring from which sweet sparkling water was
daily enjoyed by the shepherd was hidden, concealed by [the] inhabitants
of Bitingla. They became angry with the shepherd who was trying to make
known the secret of Bitingla. Since then nobody knows of the walnuts and
the water spring.

Story no. 2:
Once upon a time there was a shepherd in Lishnam Valley lopping [a] Breli
(Quercus Hex) tree for fodder of his flock of sheep and goats. The tree was
a big one and the shepherd happened to have a fall off the tree. There was
nobody near about. At the fall he shrieked and fell into [a] swoon. His flock
flocked together just before nightfall and went to its dogri. The family
members of the shepherd thought him to be coming later with a load of

44 Bitingla=(Biting=a wall, and La=cliff, cliffs)=a cliff-walled place just opposite Sangla Kanda
on the right side of the Rokli River.
 Das 35

lopped leaf fodder for the kids fed at the dogri. But the time went on and
it grew dark and no shepherd came. A search was made with lit up torches
but he could not be found. The search had to be put off to [the] morrow’s
daylight.
The poor shepherd had many serious wounds and was senseless for
hours together. The Lishnam Bāyul people took compassion upon him
and carried him into their hidden abode, washed his wounds and healed
them with various herbs. There were many people there but he could
not recognize any of them. They talked in the [sic] language that was not
known to him, but they were very obliging people. The shepherd regained
his health and was happy with the Bāyul people. Anything he thought for
having—that was offered [to] him immediately. To him it appeared that
there was nothing that cannot be had in [the] Bāyul of Lishnam, and that
the Bayul people were so expert to read the inmost desire and thoughts
of a man that even the faintest emotions and sensations could not avoid
their knowledge. On complete recovery, the shepherd, though [he] was
eased with every comfort and having no mind to come out of the Bāyul,
went [on] a [certain] day out for a walk. Unfortunately and unknowingly,
he happened to cross the limits of the Bayul when an idea of returning back
to his hosts struck him and backward he turned his steps and walked on.
This time he was not walking within the Bāyul, where everything seemed
in bloom and in bountiful. He was walking in the forest and in the waste
but could not reach where he wanted to go in[to]. He missed the hidden
habitation and had to go home. Since that hour, Lishnam Bayul was never
seen again. Shepherds are said to have heard [a] local band beating and the
cocks crowing every now and then at midday time or just at dawn and at
[the time of it] getting dark.

Only so much as has been narrated is known to the writer of these notes
about Bāyuls, the hidden habitations.

Chapter V: Life and Death.

In high-lying countries like Bashahr and its [sub-region of] Kanawr in
particular, even [the] earning of a meagre living is not easy. The people
have to toil hard from morning to evening and that all [in] field work. In
[the] execution of daily work, many a man and a woman had their lives cut
short by a fall over a bridge, a slip, by failure in crossing streams or rivers,
36 EBHR-39

by falling down a mountainside, by falling off a tree climbed for animal

fodder lopping or for having [to bring] down the fruits or nuts as the case
may be, and being washed away by floods in summer rains and by snow-
slips, the avalanches, in winter.
So accidental deaths are many. But an accidental death of a member of
any family is harmful to the family as well as to the deceased. The deceased
man or woman’s soul not knowing as to how it lost its carnal body, hovers
about the place of [the] accident and haunts his home folks. The soul is
heard shrieking and weeping about the site of death and sometimes near
about its home. It would be seen then that the soul [would have] liked living
more, but could not do so due to the mishap [that happened] to its life,
and that there is something real in [the] life of humanity besides the carnal
body. [The] soul is there and [it is] real.
When the soul of a person who suffered accidental death is heard
during night-time weeping or shrieking about the place of [an] accident,
Lāmās (followers of Buddhism) are brought there to guide the soul away
to heaven from that place. To do this, the lamas read their prescribed
precepts from their books, erect a heap of Mane-Phane stones and a flag
to wave over [it]. The soul is [thus] guided to heaven and does not roam
about there. In case the departed soul cherishes ill-feelings towards its
family members, the effect of that ill-feeling is very bad upon the life of
[its] family members and of their prosperity: this or that family member
shall be keeping ill, cattle would not milk, would not increase in number,
and the field crops fail, fruit trees would not [bear] fruit, but would dry
[instead]. This state of things following the death of a person is attributed
to the ill feeling of the deceased and is called ‘shi-dai’.45 To ward off ‘shi-
dai’ also the Lamas are resorted to. They go to the house where the evil
spirit of a dead person causes harm and out of their books the prescribed
readings are read out and meanwhile a clay, small sized statue or idol to
represent the evil spirit of the dead is got ready and kept there, where
the reading of Buddhist books is going on. A day is enough for this. After
night fall any oil of nuts or seeds is boiled in an iron vessel (karai) and
with reading of ‘Mantaras’, the clay small idol is thrown into the boiling
oil in the vessel so that the evil spirit of the dead is burnt and destroyed

45 Shi-dai=(shi=dead, dai=‘dain’, an ill, evil)=evil spirit of a dead person causing harm to alive
relatives.
 Das 37

and no more harm can it do now. The destroyed mass is thrown to a river
or buried in the ground. Throwing of barley along the passage of the
destroyed idols is also done to make sure of the evil spirit’s destruction
doubly sure.
The soul of the dead body more often enters in another man’s living
body to express its desire, [just] as the spirit of the deotas and devis do
in their Chailas [chelas], the Malis or gurs. This thing is not uncommon.
When a person dies he leaves his will behind, which is the case all over the
world. His will has to be executed. Whenever a dead person had been a very
strong minded one in life and after his passing away his will is not found
being executed, his soul enters the living body of his dearer relatives and
expresses his sorrow and grief on that account. The following stories will
bring the subject matter quite at home to the reader:

Story no. 1:
Some 45 years ago, a girl of Bari village [a few kilometres west of Nichar on
the left bank of the Sutlej] was married to a brotherhood at Chagaon [some
20 kilomteres distance up the Sutlej Valley, on the right bank just before
Urni]. The girl happened to love only one of the 4 brothers and did not like
to talk even with the remaining 3 brothers. Unfortunately, the girl lost her
husband just after a couple or two of her marriage [years?]. She would not
like to have any of the three remaining brothers of the dead person. The
girl’s father came to Chagaon with two other men, common relatives to him
and to his son-in-laws. He wanted his girl to love and live for the 3 brothers
or any one of them, but she said that she was [a spouse only] for the dead
and none else, and that she wanted to pass away her life at her father’s
[home] in the sacred memory of her lost husband. Her father, seeing his
daughter determined in her own way, agreed to have his daughter back
to his home and they were about to go when the soul of the dead man, the
girl’s husband, entered into the body of one of the two men that came to
Chagaon with the father of the girl. He fell down all of a sudden and trembled
forcibly, just [as] a man does when having high temperature in Malaria
fever. He was caught hold by 3 men there in the house and was cooled down
by making him drink water and [they] enquired of him the cause of that. He
replied that he was the soul of the dead husband of the girl and he did not
like her going to her father’s. He said he would like her [to] stay at his home
and live with his brothers as their wife. She, the girl, having great love for
38 EBHR-39

the dead husband, had to agree to the wishes of her husband’s soul. She is
still alive and is living with one of the deceased husband’s brother[s] as her
next husband. The soul afterwards never returned to [possess] any relative.

Story no. 2:
In 1934, an old man died in Bai Village in Bhabe Valley. He remained ill
for many months and he knew that the time for him to leave this world
of human beings had come. He was a rich man, but [he] did not go beyond
Wangtu [the western limit of Kinnaur] during his whole lifetime. He did
not know where Sarahan and Rampur [the state capitals of Bashahr]
were. He had a large flock of sheep and goats to look after. Though he had
shepherds in a [great] number for that, but he would like to have a complete
supervision over his shepherds and home servants [and therefore never
left Kinnaur]. Now that the death would come was certain in his case and
he wished that his ashes be carried to ‘Hari Dawar’, the Ganges. After his
death, his two sons that were there held a council and decided that as one
of them was keeping bad health and the other was required to look after
home affairs, while the third absentee could not be expected back from
the Rajah’s ‘durbar’ [court], it was decided in the private council of the two
sons that the ashes of the deceased father should not be picked up for being
sent or carried to the holy Ganges. The soul of their father entered the body
of their relative woman, [who was] sitting in another room with women,
and after the usual quivering with high temperature of another spirit in
the same body, [she] said: ‘my last wish for you, my sons and home folks,
was to see my ashes carried to and drowned into the holy Ganges, but just
after my leaving my body forever you have forgotten me and the ashes are
not to be sent to the holy Ganges. This is the only pain and concern for me,
which makes me remind you of my last words’. The two sons agreed to have
the ashes picked up and carried to the Ganges and the soul of their father
left the relative woman alone, in whom it [had] manifested itself for [the]
revision of his last word even after his death. The ashes were carried to the
Ganges and no more trouble arose from the soul of their deceased father.
The soul of a deceased person entering into another person’s living
body to express its last word is called ‘Grohas’.46 So the ‘shi-dai’ and ‘grohās’
46 ‘Grohas’ or ‘Gorhach’=soul of a deceased person entering into a living person’s body and
speaking out its desired words through the tongue of that living person’s body [see also,
KD p.70: growá ‘a goblin’].
 Das 39

are the same one thing appearing in two different colours. ‘Shi-dai’ has
ill-feeling for his family members and harms in many ways as described
before, while ‘grohas’ enters the living body of another man and speaks
out whatever it desired last to be done by its living members. It has no ill
feeling if his words, spoken through the medium of another living person,
are properly carried out. On the contrary, the ‘Grohas’ turns into shi-dai if
it is not obeyed. When a person dies, his body is carried on a bier to [the]
cremation ground. Generally, a white sheet of cloth is held up by two men,
one on each end, so that the broad side hangs down waving in the air. This
stretched sheet of cloth is moved just ahead of the bier of the dead body. It
is believed that this white stretched sheet of cloth guides the soul out of the
house and away up to the cremation ground to make it know that the body
has been burnt and nothing of it remains at home so that the soul may not
return home to trouble its living relations. Barley is thrown, broadcast in
the track through which the bier is carried to the burning ground. It is said
that the soul of the deceased is guided by this way also to the cremation
ground and that it does not return afterwards to home.
A death that takes place in epidemics and [in which case] the dead
body is buried in [the] ground in place of being burnt, is thought to be
very profane. The soul does not find its place in heaven and has to remain
midway so long as the relatives of the dead do not go to Kurukh-Shetar
[Kurukshetra], a pilgrimage of Hindus and offer ‘Pind-dan’.47 Now in
Kanawr, at the death of a man or a woman, a number of Lamas are called
for and their holy books about life and death are read to guide the soul to
heaven through the darkness. The deotas and devis and any good spirits
have no control beyond [the] life of a man. When a person dies the good
spirits can do him no good at all. Now, the growing belief here about [this]
is that Buddhism purifies a person while alive and guides [his soul] to
heaven when dead.
The Lāmās’ most common prayer is ‘Om mani-padme-hum’. This [can
be] translated in many colours. When it is cited in a prayer to Him, it means
that the almighty god lives within a lotus flower. When it is read for the
dead man’s soul, it tells the soul to leave the paths of demigods, the deotas,
of spirits (midway [between] demi-gods and men), of men, of beings other
47 Pind dan=giving material offerings in the name of deceased of pilgrimages. The ‘tirthas’
the sacred plances, a metal body is made and put through the process of cremation so that
the dead is provided with a body for the next life after rebirth.
40 EBHR-39

than humanity, of the animate and inanimate world, and to choose the
upper most white path that leads to heaven direct.
A word may again be said of that white sheet of cloth kept before the
bier. It also makes a white track way for the soul to guide it to heaven.
Buddhism, [which is] good as in its own unadulterated form, has
condescended [sic] to the living of its followers. Buddhism here means a
means for earning bread for Lāmās.

Finish
Mr Das, FR,
ROC dated 3-6/9/38

References

Unpublished source
Das, S. 1938. The Himalayan Folk-lore Stories.

Books and Articles

Berti, D. 2001. La parole des dieux. Rituels de possession en Himalaya indien. Paris:
CNRS Éditions.
Joshi, T.R. 1989 [reprint]. A Dictionary of the Pahari Dialects (1911) and a
Grammar and Dictionary of Kanwari (1909). Shimla: Himachal Academy of
Arts, Culture and Languages.
Moran, A. 2007. ‘From mountain trade to jungle politics: the transformation
of kingship in Bashahr, 1815-1914’. Indian Economic and Social History
Review 44[2]: 147-177.
Raha, K.R., & Mahato, S.N. 1985. The Kinnaurese of the Himalayas. Calcutta:
Anthropological Survey of India.
Sax, W.S. 2009. God of Justice: Ritual healing and social justice in the central
Himalayas. New York: Oxford University Press.
 41

Keeping the Hill Tribes at Bay: A critique from India’s

Northeast of James C. Scott’s paradigm of state evasion

Jelle J.P. Wouters

The Barbarians come out at night. Before darkness falls the last goat
must be brought in, the gates barred, a watch set in every lookout to
call the hours. All night, it is said, the barbarians prowl about bent
on murder and rapine. Children in their dreams see the shutters part
and fierce barbarian faces leer through. ‘The barbarians are here!’
the children scream, and cannot be comforted. Clothing disappears
from washing-lines, food from larders, however tightly locked. The
barbarians have dug a tunnel under the walls, people say; they come
and go as they please, take what they like; no one is safe any longer.
The farmers still till the fields, but they go out in bands, never singly.
They work without heart: the barbarians are only waiting for the crops
to be established, they say, before they flood the fields again (Coetzee
2000 [1980]: 134).

‘Barbarians’ and state projects have always been antithetical. Throughout

history, the demolition or capture of states by marauding ‘barbarian’
armies has always been a possible scenario (Bronson 1988). This threat
was always both real and imminent, to the extent that a state’s political
life-expectancy depended on its ability to ward off raiding nonstate tribes.
This is the basic thesis of this article, which, on a broader level, criticises
Scott’s grand narrative, The Art of Not Being Governed: An anarchist history of
upland Southeast Asia (2009), in which he argues that, over the long term,
the peopling of the hills is best understood as ‘the history of deliberate and
reactive statelessness’ (2009: x). In this view, upland peoples intentionally
withdrew from the oppressiveness of state-making projects in nearby
valleys. They fled upwards and concealed themselves in the intricacies of
the hills, steering clear of state appropriation.
Here, my historical references are to Northeast India, which forms the
western borderland of Zomia in Scott’s usage of the concept. ‘Zomia’, as
originally imagined by Van Schendel (2002), refers to a vast, contiguous
highland region, located at the fringes of both political spaces and
academically-defined ‘areas’. It provides an alternative way of thinking

European Bulletin of Himalayan Research 39: 41-65 (2012)

42 EBHR-39

about regionalisation, situating, as it does, upland Asia at its centre of

attention.1 In what follows, I do not claim to present a fully coherent
reconstruction of history. Rather, my argumentation should be read in the
spirit of Leach’s statement that ‘It is not the anthropologist’s task to write
history, but if history is to be elaborated with the aid of inspired guesses
then the special knowledge of the anthropologist becomes relevant so as to
point up the probabilities’ (Leach 1960: 49).
I will begin with an historical account. When British colonial forces
extended their influence into the Brahmaputra Valley, an officer reported
a host of state-like structures, which had been put in place over the valley’s
fertile soil by hill polities:

We found the Assamese Valley surrounded north, east, and south by

numerous savage and warlike tribes whom the decaying authority of
the Assam dynasty had failed of late years to control, and whom the
disturbed condition of the province had incited to encroachment.
Many of them advanced claims to rights more or less definite over
lands lying in the plains; others claimed tributary payments from the
villages below their hills, or the services of paiks said to have been
assigned them by the Assam authorities (cited in Mackenzie 1884: 7).2

This suggests that early state projects—with their potential agricultural

surplus, concentrated manpower, and the overall amenity of life believed
to prevail there—made a strong impression on those living in the less
1 In Van Schendel’s definition, Zomia stretches from the central hills of Vietnam in the
east to west Nepal and Kashmir in the west, including parts of China, Laos, Cambodia,
Thailand, Myanmar, India, Bhutan and Bangladesh. Scott confines its western border
to the Naga and Mizo Hills in India’s Northeast and Bangladesh’s Chittagong Hill Tracts
(Scott 2009: 16). Scott argues that Zomia ‘qualifies as a region in the strong sense of the
term’ (ibid.), yet he fails to explain why he proposes to shrink its surface vis-à-vis Van
Schendel’s initial proposal. In any case, Scott’s inclusion of ‘Southeast Asia’ in his title is
politically mistaken, as not only the Naga and Mizo Hills but also Manipur, to which he
also refers, and the Chittagong Hill Tracts, clearly all belong to the political realm of South
Asia. On the whole, however, his analysis largely stops short at the Indo-Myanmar border
and thus reasserts the South Asia/Southeast Asia academic divide, which the intellectual
case of Zomia is supposed to transcend. By extending the discussion on state-hill tribes
relationships westward, this article recognises the potential usefulness of Zomia as an
ethnographic field of study.
2 Paik refers to a type of corveé labour system under the Ahom Kingdom in which a large
number of males were expected to render services to the king.
 Wouters 43

productive uplands. For them, state resources became an object of aspiration,

if not, at times, an essential supplement to cover their basic needs. Taking
a cue from the historical case of Ahom-hill tribes’ relationships, outlined
below, I will argue (and herein lies my main critique of Scott’s narrative)
that the plains provided too essential a resource for those living in the
relatively ‘barren’ hills to ignore.

Scott’s grand narrative: ‘evading the state’

James Scott has influenced the course of political anthropology over the
past four decades, and catchy phrases such as ‘weapons of the weak’,
‘hidden transcripts’, ‘moral economy’ and ‘seeing like a state’ continue to
appeal to many. His latest work, The Art of Not Being Governed (2009), is no
different in the impact it has made. In a vast, complex and multi-layered
treatise, of which this brief summary is necessarily an abridged and over-
simplified one, Scott challenges much received wisdom about primitivism,
arguing that nonstate hill peoples (so-called ‘primitives’) should not be seen
as archaic vestiges, left behind by the evolutionary sequences of history.
On the contrary, they have deliberately sought refuge in the stateless hills,
where they have been the architects of their own marginality, for reasons
based on their desire to keep the state at arm‘s length.
Scott quotes Ernest Gellner’s classic Saints of the Atlas (1969) to claim
that, from a historical point of view, tribalism is a state effect, and that
political autonomy is not a given, but a deliberate choice. Nonstate
people, therefore, are perfectly aware of what they have rejected, namely
the oppression of centralised political rule. He also finds an intellectual
companion in Clastres’ Society Against the State (1977), which is an anarchistic
interpretation of native peoples’ social organisation in post-conquest South
America. Elevating it to the status of an epigraph, Scott adopts Clastres’
stance that: ‘it is said that the history of peoples who have a history is the
history of class struggle. It might be said with at least as much truthfulness,
that the history of peoples without history is a history of their struggle
against the state’. And indeed, Scott’s narrative is one of withdrawal,
avoidance, ‘self-barbarization’, social and political fragmentation and
economic minimalism; all deliberately practised by hill dwellers to avoid
state appropriation.
In Zomia, ‘becoming barbarian’ resonated with not becoming a subject of
the state. It meant fleeing the adverse effects of state projects in the valleys.
44 EBHR-39

For those wishing to evade the state, the complexities of the undulating
hills and elevated mountains, or the ‘friction of terrain’ as Scott calls it,
provided the opportunity. Hill populations are, therefore, ‘best understood
as runaway, fugitive, maroon communities who have, over the course of
two millennia, been fleeing the oppressions of state-making projects in the
valleys’ (Scott 2009: ix). After settling in the hills, the narrative goes, the
newly arrived escapees intentionally rendered themselves illegible from a
state’s point of view. In fact, virtually everything about their livelihoods
can be read as strategic positionings to keep the state at bay. ‘Their physical
dispersion in rugged terrain, their mobility, their cropping practices, their
kinship structure, their pliable ethnic identities, and their devotion to
prophetic, millenarian leaders effectively serve to avoid incorporation into
states and to prevent states from springing up among them’ (ibid.: x).
While populations in the hills were marked by centrifugal movements,
a centripetal process characterised life in the valley state. It was based on
the inclusion and absorption of people, and devoted to restraining them
from sprawling into illegible zones. Power, Scott argues, transposing
Geertz’s treatise on the Theatre State (1980) in Bali to Zomia at large, boiled
down to manpower. Hence, it was the appropriation of people, rather
than a quest for territory, that was the key to state making. After all, a
concentrated and legible population was needed to produce a systematic
surplus, as much as it was a prerequisite for military defence. An ambitious
state, therefore, functioned as a ‘centripetal population machine’ (2009:
64), which constantly sought to replenish and expand its manpower base.
As migrants did not usually draw in voluntarily, the valley state had no
choice but to resort to scouring its periphery and capturing, absorbing and
enslaving nonstate peoples.
At the core of Scott’s analysis is the binary distinction between the
valley and the hills. This division largely corresponds to the delineation
between state and nonstate spaces, which constitutes the real fault line. It
must be added, however, as Scott himself qualifies, that ‘nonstate space’ is
not a synonym for hills; it points more generally to locations where a state
has a particular difficulty, often because of geographical impediments,
in concentrating manpower and production (2009: 13). Despite their
fundamental disparities, Scott asserts that valley and hill spaces are also
deeply connected, that their history is a symbiotic one, and that they
‘have to be read against each other to make any sense’ (2009.: 27). Scott’s
 Wouters 45

anarchistic reading of history, as he himself acknowledges (2009: xii),

makes little or no sense for the period following the Second World War,
after which the territorially-conceived nation-state became the nearly
exclusive form of sovereignty, virtually erasing the last nonstate spaces
from the political map.
In Scott’s theory, the adverse effects of early state-making projects
predominate: taxes, slavery, corvée labour, epidemics, and warfare. The
reverse option, that the pre-modern valley state also had much to offer,
albeit unintentionally, to those residing in the nonstate, remains, by and
large, under-estimated. However, these benefits were many and various;
harvests, fish, agricultural implements, manpower, clothes, cattle, and
advanced weapons. The quest for control over these resources and over
arable land in the plains is, I argue, pivotal to understanding pre-modern
political fluctuations, perhaps more so than a Scottian focus on a massive,
unidirectional, and sustained fight from the lowlands to the hills. Nor did
hill peoples have an instinctive propensity for statelessness. An opposite
flow, involving people deliberately moving from the hills into the ‘state-
ridden’ plains, was equally pertinent. In fact, most of the pre-modern states
that existed in the Brahmaputra Valley were established by erstwhile hill
dwellers, who had descended and crushed, or taken over, existing state
structures. Notably, a sizeable number of the offspring of these former
valley kingdoms, like the Chutiya, Kachari, Dimasa, Jaintia and Ahom, are
now again found inhabiting tracts in the hills. Hence, if viewed through
a wide historical lens, people may have been both plains people and hill
dwellers at different points in their history. Local origin and migration
stories, as I will illustrate, testify to such a dialectic, in a way that a common
legacy of flight, which one would perhaps expect on the basis of Scott’s
theory, is by and large absent in India‘s Northeast. The narrative presented
here, although far from being deterministic, has the further advantage of
complicating the artificial hill-valley binary which has been so embedded
in scholarship on the region, and which Scott’s argument ultimately
reinforces.

The case of Ahom-hill tribe relations

Once a mighty kingdom, stretching its dominance over all corners of the
Brahmaputra Valley, the Ahom Kingdom eventually decayed in, as Gait puts
it, ‘the “sleepy hollow” of the Brahmaputra valley … [where] it was only
46 EBHR-39

the intervention of the British that prevented them from being blotted out
by fresh hordes of invaders, first the Burmese, and then the Singphos and
Khāmtis, and also, possibly, the Daflas, Abors and Bhutias’ (Gait 1926: 8).
When the first Ahom, a Tibeto-Burman speaking community, crossed the
Patkai range into Assam in 1228, coming as they did from the northern and
eastern hill tracts of Upper Burma and Western Yunnan, they encountered
acute competition and rivalry among tribes residing there. Amidst this
turmoil, Sukupha, an Ahom noble, organised his forces and reportedly
overpowered the Tangsas, Noctes and Wanchos, who made their homes in
what is now Arunachal Pradesh (Luthra 1971: 1144). Slowly at first, and not
without setbacks, the Ahom extended their sway over the Brahmaputra
plains. By 1539, for instance, Ahom territory had expanded to twice the size
it had been around 1407 (Guha 1983: 19), and around the close of the 17th
century the Ahom occupied almost the entire valley (Luthra 1971: 1144), a
position they would retain until the beginning of the 19th century. However,
the following discussion is less about Ahom governance in the plains,
which has been described in notable detail elsewhere (e.g. Gait 1926; Guha
1983, Sarma 1986), than it is about the relationships between the Ahom
government and the surrounding hill tribes.
The Ahom cultivated different relations with different hill tribes.
Hence, framing Ahom-hill tribes’ relations in terms of a single, progressive
narrative would involve grave over-simplifications. Nor were hill tribes
themselves placid in this process; the Ahom incorporated some in the ranks
of their army, but there were also instances in which a hill tribe sought
the support of the Ahom army to intervene in an inter-tribal conflict
(Luthra 1971: 11). Raids and retaliations occurred with notable frequency
too: most of the historical sources testify to this. Yet there is more to
early valley-hill relations than hostilities. Some hill Naga communities
lived chiefly by manufacturing salt, which they retailed to plainsmen. The
Ahom government raised revenues from the salt that was brought down,
and the Nagas in turn depended on the markets in the plains for certain
foodstuffs and goods (Robinson 1959 [1841]: 383). Mofatt-Mills reported an
occasion on which about a thousand Angami Nagas descended to the plains
to trade with merchants in salt and cornelian beads. He noted how the
‘utmost goodwill was manifested towards the authorities and the people
of the plains’ (Mofatt-Mills 1969 [1854]: 126). On the whole, the Naga Hills,
Robinson writes in 1841, ‘[have] always been accessible to the people of the
 Wouters 47

plains; whilst the Nagas on their part, have always been permitted access to
the markets on the frontier’ (1959 [1841]: 383).
However, trade relations, where they existed, were not infrequently
overshadowed by acts of warfare, as hill polities swooped down and looted
villages lying within Ahom jurisdiction. Most probably, they did not plunder
the plains because of their ‘most rapacious nature’ (Devi 1968: 270), or their
‘savage’ and ‘warlike’ state of being, as many colonial accounts would later
claim. More plausibly, they raided the plains out of sheer necessity, given
that ‘technical backwardness and poverty of resources kept the tribes
dependent on adjoining areas for the supply of essential commodities’
(Sikdar 1982: 17). Often in a state of being ‘too poor to be able to trade’ (Peal
cited in Devi 1968: 20), because the uplands were less productive than the
more fertile plains, plundering may have been their last resort. Devi (1968)
has reconstructed a pattern, based on a study of historical cases, which, in
an abridged version, is as follows: after a hill polity launched a successful
raid on the plains, the Ahom King retaliated by directing his military forces
into the hills. Violent battles ensued, killing or capturing a large number
of hill people. More often, however, the Ahom army would find the hostile
village completely deserted, as its inhabitants, not keen on confronting the
superior Ahom forces, had already taken refuge in the jungle or moved to
higher altitudes. The Ahom army was usually able to recapture some of the
stolen goods, and took revenge by setting the abandoned village ablaze.
Yet hill peoples regrouped quickly and their thatched houses were quickly
rebuilt; it was only a matter of time before they gained sufficient strength
to pillage the plains again.
The booty from a successful raid on the plains invariably consisted of
grain, goods, weapons, agricultural tools, and persons, who were enslaved
in agriculture and animal husbandry in the hills, or used as payment or
tribute to neighbouring tribes. The abduction of plains people needs to
be stressed here, because the absorption of manpower is usually thought
of as a state activity, not a tribal one. Gray, an enterprising tea-planter,
narrated how during a visit to the hills an Assamese woman told him how
she was captured by the Singphos, who raided her village and took all
inhabitants into slavery. She had been sold to a different community and
separated from her relations. In the course of time, a Singpho had married
her and she had two sons by him. Even though fifty years had passed, she
had not forgotten her mother tongue, nor her memories of the plains
48 EBHR-39

(1959 [1893]: 416). The colonial officer Peal was astonished when, during
an exploratory expedition in Singhpo territory, he stumbled upon a village
whose inhabitants were clearly not Singhpos. He found out that ‘these
people are the descendants of Assamese carried off by the Singphus some
80 or 100 years ago, and reduced to slavery’ (1959 [1881]: 99). Slave raids
on the plains were apparently widespread. The Hill Dolpha, too, ‘annually
kidnapped large numbers of men and women, whom they consigned to
perpetual slavery’ (Robinson 1959 [1851]: 175).
At times, hill groups did not just raid the plains, but notionally exerted
sovereignty over them. The Jaintias, for example, extended their sway from
the hills into the plains in the 16th century. The Jaintia king at the time, as
recorded in inscriptions on coins and copperplates found in the plains, was
referred to as ‘Parbhat Ray’, which may be translated as ‘Lord from the Hills’
(Gait 1926: 262-3). The hill Abors also wielded absolute power over the Miris
of the plains, who they claimed as their dependents and runaway slaves.
The Abors asserted an inalienable right to the gold and fish extracted by the
Miris from the Dihong river. The Ahom government implicitly recognised
Abor suzerainty over the Miris by relieving the latter of all revenue charges
(Mackenzie 1884: 34-5).
Hill polities, in acute need of resources, were ever ready for an
opportunity to raid the more productive plains. Hence, the more the Ahom
valley state expanded towards the hilly peripheries, the greater the territory
it had to defend, and the more vulnerable to raiding tribes it became. The
concentration of manpower, and the systematic production of surplus,
were no doubt important for the Ahom state in consolidating its core. What
needs to be stressed, however, is that its continued existence equally relied
on the Ahoms’ ability to fend off marauding hill tribes. When, in the long
run, military interventions against hill groups proved inconclusive, the
Ahom government resolved to change tactics and ‘coercion’ was replaced
by a policy of ‘seduction’.3 Seduction came in the form of the so-called
posa-system, a government scheme that offered conditional long-term
coexistence to hill tribes as an alternative to Ahom suzerainty. Probably
anticipating that it was a craving for resources that instigated predatory
raids, the Ahom government opted to make the produce of several villages
along the foot of the hills liable to the demands from surrounding hill

3 Here I am borrowing the terminology coined by Ferguson and Whitehead (2000 [1992]).
 Wouters 49

tribes. During Pratap Singh’s reign (1603-1641), for instance, ‘the Akas, the
Dufflas, the Miris, and the Abors’ were granted the right of levying posha
which, apart from annual collection of goods in specified areas included
labour-service of the Assamese pykes for which the ryots were given
corresponding remission from the state’s revenue demand’ (Mackenzie
cited in Mishra 1983: 1838).4 In return for these privileges, the hill tribes
had to refrain from making inroads into Ahom territory (Devi 1968: 270).5
When mere containment was not the sole rationale, it was the creation, or
sustenance, of trade relationships that propelled the Ahom state’s political
adjustment. The Noctes, for instance, controlled the salt wells located in
the foothills. Although once routed by Ahom forces, they had over the
years regained strength and had fought back Ahom incursions with notable
success. The Ahom, eager to ensure regular supplies of salt, resorted to a
policy of seduction. In return for negotiated access to the salt wells, the
Ahom government recognised the political ascendancy of the Nocte chief,
bestowed an honorary post upon him, and offered the Noctes an annual
supply of foodstuffs from the plains (Misra and Thakur 2004: 183-4).

Secondary state formation in the hills

Secondary state formation, the establishment of smaller states in the
shadow of powerful valley states, is seldom debated in discussions on

4 Posa arrangements have also been documented elsewhere along the valley. The Tablungia
Nagas, for example, were granted fishing waters in the plains, along with the services of
fishermen, to supply them with dried fish (Devi 1968: 33-34). Similarly, revenue-free lands
and fishing waters along with retainers were granted to the Noctes, Wanchos, (Luthra
1971: 1144), Konyaks, Aos, and Lhota Naga tribes living on the borders of the Lakhimpur
and Sibsagar Districts (Devi 1968: 271).
5 The British colonial administration did not do away with the existing posa-arrangements,
but ‘bought out’ hill peoples’ suzerainty over the commercial plains by assigning them
with annual stipends, which were paid in cash. For example, the claims on the plains by
the Monpas of Towang were bought out by payment of an annual sum of 5,000 rupees
while the hill peoples of Shergoan and Rupa were granted an annual payment of 2,526
rupees (Luthra 1971: 1145). The payment in kind to the Daflas was commuted to 2,543
rupees and the Miris and Adis received 2,178 and 3,312 rupees respectively (Sikdar 1982:
22). This policy was condemned as an admittance of state weakness by many and Kar has
rightly noted that a sense of embarrassment runs through colonial accounts about this
payment of ‘blackmail’ (Kar 2009). The official view on the matter, however, is perhaps
well illustrated by the following statement from an agent to the Governor General: ‘The
money will indeed be well spent if we can purchase security to the inoffensive people of
the plains’ (cited in Kar 2009: 66).
50 EBHR-39

Zomia, and yet Fiskesjö (2010) has convincingly shown that manifestations
of state formation were evident among the pre-colonial Wa people on
the hilly Burma-China frontier. The presence of highly profitable mines,
which the Wa sought to control and exploit, was an import catalyst in
this process. Fiskesjö suggests that the presence of salt wells among the
Naga might have resulted in a similar process, a proposition with which I
would agree. The fixed location of Naga-owned salt wells, which the Naga
systematically exploited, incited processes of upland state-formation.
State-like structures were especially marked among the Angami Naga, who,
besides the manufacture of salt, also practiced terraced wet-rice cultivation
in the hills (Hutton 1921: 70-2) and were described by Butler as the most
‘powerful and warlike’, but also the ‘most enterprising, intelligent and
civilized’ of all Nagas (Butler 1969 [1875]: 293). Angami Nagas regularly
indulged in such ‘state-like’ activities as warfare, levying tribute from
neighbouring tribes, and slavery.6 In pre-colonial times the Angami village
of Khonoma established a monopolistic protection racket. In spite of
frequent dissensions within, it emerged as a strong power centre which
levied widespread tribute and was known and feared from afar (Hutton
1921: 11).
Secondary states usually emerged on the basis of a control of natural
resources or trade routes. Over time, some of them evolved into large-scale
predatory powers which were based on conquest and subjugation just as
much as primary states, although the latter were often more reliant on
agriculture than trade (Fiskejsö 2010: 261). The primary state (the Ahom in
our case), appears to have been careful not to invoke the wrath of strong
power centres in the hills. The Ahom’s implicit recognition of the hill Abors’
suzerainty over the Miris of the plains testifies to this. Instead, attempts
were made to purchase peace from them. As this involved the surrender of
de facto sovereignty over some produce and some stretches of arable land
in the plains, it can be seen as a sign of state weakness. Yet, this policy

6 Acts of war usually ended by the losing side agreeing to pay an annual tribute to the other,
‘the tribute being either merely a nominal one of a few beads or a substantial payment in
mithan or salt’ (Hutton 1921: 156). At times, the inhabitants of defeated villages were, if
not killed, taken into slavery. That slavery took place with notable frequency among the
Angami is suggested by the existence of standard measures of the value of slaves. Mofatt
Mills wrote: ‘the value of slaves and cattle is strangely estimated at the following rate, a
male slave is worth one cow and three conch shells, a female slave is worth three cows
and four or five conch shells’ (Mofatt Mills 1969 [1854]: 290).
 Wouters 51

of ‘seduction’ simultaneously enabled the Ahom to cultivate a status quo

of relative stability with adjacent tribes, some of which were sufficiently
powerful to endanger Ahom rule in the valley. In its final evaluation, the
extraordinary resilience of the Ahom Kingdom was perhaps not due to
its military power, concentration of manpower or systemic produce of a
surplus, but evolved, in the words of Luthra, around its ‘tact, diplomacy
and statesmanship, of a high order in formulating a modus vivendi with the
tribes’ (Luthra 1971: 1144).

Local origin and migration stories

The history of the relationships between the Ahom and the hill tribes
suggest that hill polities deliberately expanded, or aspired to expand, to the
more productive plains. Hence, when one adopts a wide historical lens, hill
polities, or sections of them, have been both plains people and hill dwellers
at recurrent points in their genealogy. Of course, groups did not move up
and down as coherent units: fissioning, fusing and the incorporation of
new entrants constantly altered their demographic and social composition.
Local oral histories in India‘s Northeast support such a reading, although it
should be stressed that such stories are circumstantial; they are interested
and historically positioned tales which permit a certain drift by selective
forgetting and remembering. The following brief excursion is indicative,
I suggest, not necessarily for its historical accuracy, which can hardly be
evaluated, but because it sheds light on how contemporary hill peoples in
Northeast India themselves explain their present location in the hills.
A story current among the Garos locates their place of origin in Tibet.
It recounts how they descended to the Brahmaputra Valley, stopping at
various places on the way, before finally moving up again to their present
location in the hills (Endle 1911: 3-4). The Mikirs narrate how they resolved
to move down and place themselves under the protection of the Ahom
government after they were habitually harassed by warring Khasi chiefs
(Lyall 1908: 5). Mills recounted how a hill group, the Molungr, was driven
into the plains by raiding Ao Naga forces. The Molungr became dispersed;
some returned to their village to live under Ao suzerainty, some crossed the
Brahmaputra Valley and settled in the hills to the north of it, while others
walked up into the hills again and settled at higher altitudes (Mills 1926:
10). Roy believed that the Adi of present-day Arunachal Pradesh most likely
came from the north across the Himalayan barrier: ‘they might have come
52 EBHR-39

in a sweeping mass down to the plains of Assam and have been driven back
afterwards into the high-lands’ (Roy 1960: 12). The legends of many Naga
tribes, including the Sema, Tangkhul, Angami, Mao, Somra, and Chakeshang,
point to Meikhel or its surrounding area as their place of origin, from which
they have dispersed in various directions over the course of history (Horam
1975: 30). Meikhel, located a little to the south-east of present-day Kohima,
the capital of Nagaland, is an area of undulating hills. The Kacha Naga, in
turn, refer to the Japvo Mountain as the place from which they originated.
A story among the Khasis tells that they came originally from Burma and
descended across the Patkai hills to Assam, and later moved up into the
hills again to their present location (Gurdon 1914: 21).
The reason for residing in the hills and not in the plains is also explained
in some origin stories. Among the Angami Naga, Hutton has recorded a story
which goes roughly as follows: the husband of Ukepenopfü, their ancestress,
was very wise but had a frightening appearance. In order not to scare off
his two sons he lived in a vessel, waiting for them to grow up to share his
knowledge and wisdom. One day some people told the boys that they had
a father, although they had always been told that they did not. Ukepenopfü
could no longer deny the fact but warned them, ‘I will show you your
father, but he who gets frightened cannot acquire his knowledge’. She took
them to the vessel and introduced their father. The elder boy, who became
the ancestor of the Nagas, was frightened and ran away. The younger was
not scared and the old man went with him to the plains and passed all his
knowledge on to him. This explains, the story concludes, ‘why the Nagas are
poorer in knowledge and cunning than the men of the plains’ (Hutton 1921:
261). Another Angami version tells how two brothers each took a different
path. One blazed his path on the chomhu trees, the other marked it on chemu
trees. While a blaze on a chomhu tree remains white for several days, that on
a chemu tree blackens quickly. As a result, most of the followers of the two
brothers tracked the path of the first boy, which eventually ended in the
plains, while the few who followed the Chomhu blaze stayed behind in the
hills (ibid). Mills narrates a tale in which the Lhota Nagas and plainsmen are
represented as one and the same people, who migrated from a place called
Lengka, which is located somewhere north or north-west of the Naga Hills.
For reasons unknown they split into two bodies, one of which became the
plainsmen of the Brahmaputra Valley, while the other became the Nagas of
the hills (Mills 1922: 3).
 Wouters 53

While movement is clearly embedded in all of these stories and none

of the hill groups claim to be autochthonous to their present location, a
shared narrative of flight, which would add flesh to the bones of Scott’s
theory, is by and large absent. Some groups do refer to a past life in the
plains, but this does not precede their descent to the plains from the hills.
This points to a ‘hills-plains-hills’ movement, rather than an origin in the
plains from which they then fled to the hills. In addition to this, a number
of hill communities refer to a place in the hills, or a mountain-top, as their
mythical place of origin. These narratives reject an initial migration story
altogether, and maintain that there has been an emergence in the hills.7
Stories like the one told by the Angami Naga suggest that, rather than the
outcome of active political deliberation, their location in the ‘barren’ hills
is the result of a sudden twist of fate, or a failure of understanding on the
part of their forefathers.

Intruding into the state: an antithesis to state evasion?

Scott’s theory of state evasion, not surprisingly, calls up vivid responses. Its
originality, evocative powers and bestowal of historical agency on peoples
who were earlier imagined to have none is widely acclaimed. However,
criticisms abound. Many of these are broadly sympathetic. Tapp concludes
that, on the whole, ‘much evidence is on Scott’s side’, though it may be
‘over-painted’ (Tapp 2010). Taking the cross-border Thangmi community
in parts of Nepal, India and China as her example, Shneiderman introduces
contemporary empirical evidence of the historical intentionality of upland
peoples vis-à-vis the state, suggesting that Scott’s analysis may have more
contemporary currency and political relevance than he himself allows
(Shneiderman 2010: 292). Others are more critical. Lieberman describes
the evidence for a sustained flight from the lowlands to the uplands as
‘thin’ (Lieberman 2010: 333). Rather than state-repelling egalitarianism,
hierarchical relations (e.g. patrilineal clan systems, matrilateral marriage
structures), often intermeshed with customs of gift-giving and ’feasts of
merits’, also shaped political organisation in the hills (Barth 2010: 175).
Scott’s model is also said to suffer from a ‘strong whiff of functionalism’,
while his conception is ‘anything but Popperian’ (Subrahmanyam 2010:

7 Such a narrative of historical emergence, rather than one of migratory waves, is observed
more widely among indigenous communities (see Kuper 2003).
54 EBHR-39

26). It is also over-generalised, liberally referencing, as it does, a theory,

Leach’s Political System of Highland Burma (1964 [1954]), which is itself thin in
evidence and widely disputed (Sadan 2010). The Ahom-hill tribes narrative
outlined above, coupled with the stories contemporary hill peoples tell
themselves about their own history, forces us to question the sequence of
events that Scott wants us to believe.
In his A History of Assam, published in 1926, Edward Gait presents us with
what would appear to be a direct inverse of Scott’s paradigm. Rather than
portraying hill tribes as deliberately evading the state, he presents them
as constantly on the alert for an opportunity to raid the plains, or, even
better, to oust existing rulers and grab control over the Brahmaputra’s
fertile soil. His formula goes something like this: Hill groups, the Ahom
being a prime example, descended to forcefully capture tracts of the plains.
Some of the plains people were accommodated, others were pushed into
the hills. The Ahom then established and consolidated their supremacy,
thanks to the material resources generated from the fertile soil of the
valley. Thus, initially they were able to fend off the now scattered forces of
the former valley rulers, who were not quite ready to give up their access
to the plains and tried to regain it by carrying out attacks. In the long run,
however, the damp and relaxing climate of the valley, coupled by the great
material prosperity that people enjoyed there, resulted in a tendency
towards deterioration. As Gait puts it: ‘Any race that had been long resident
there, though rising in the scale of civilization and gaining proficiency in
the arts of peace, would gradually become soft and luxurious and so, after
a time, would no longer be able to defend itself against the incursions of
the hardier tribes behind them’ (Gait 1926: 7). A tendency towards internal
disintegration over time, for there was no national spirit among the small
communities co-opted by the valley king, diluted the central administration.
When the valley kingdom showed initial signs of decay, surrounding hill
polities would intensify their offensive; they would harry the plains with
constant raids, encroach in all directions and eventually reduce the valley
to anarchy. Then, Gait continues, ‘would come the opportunity for some
enterprising hill chief to swoop down with his tribesmen, or a confederacy
of kindred tribes, and, after sweeping away the effete remains of a worn-
out nationality, to establish his followers in its place’ (ibid.: 7-8). In the
beginning, the material resources produced by its fertile soil would add to
its strength. However, ‘time would bring its revenge; and, in the end, the
 Wouters 55

new dynasty would sink just like the one which it had subverted’ (ibid.: 8).
Undoubtedly, Gait’s narrative is over-drawn; as such, it too is imaginative.
It importantly shows, nevertheless, that the pre-modern valley state not
only stirred a sense of fright, but also functioned as a magnet that pulled hill
groups down in their search for resources and arable lands.8 The observation
that hill groups expanded downwards into the more productive plains
strays away from Scott’s emphasis on a sustained fight from the lowlands
to the highlands. Such a sequence, however, is remarkably similar to
another argument by Ernest Gellner, which he takes from Ibn Khaldun, and
to which Scott does not refer. Contrasting city-dwellers with pastoralists
on the southern and eastern shores of the Mediterranean, Gellner argues
that the luxury which surrounded townspeople, not to mention their
delegation of politics and defence to their rulers, rendered them weak
and indolent. This was in contrast to pastoralists, who were inclined to be
courageous, and were virtually all armed. Further, pastoralists preferred to
situate themselves beyond the pale of the state and to rely on a non-labour
intensive life-style. Taken together, these factors predispose pastoralists
(and here Gellner’s argument takes a crucial turn) ‘towards a life-style
which incorporates raiding, and of course the defence against raiding by
others. This in turn provides the training which makes shepherd tribes
state-resistant, and yet at the same time turns them into potential state-
founders’ (Gellner 1983: 12; emphasis mine). Gait’s narrative, and the case
of the Ahom-hill tribes’ relationships, testify to such a reading and indeed
suggest that, on the whole, the line separating predatory raids from state-
making projects was a fragile one. In fact, the history of state-formation in
the valleys was, to an extent, a history of nonstate peoples expanding their
sway downwards, in the process co-opting or scattering former rulers.9 The

8 Scott’s narrative fails to explain why, if the hills were peopled by recurrent migratory
waves of state-evading peoples, the issue of overpopulation never really emerged. Would
it be possible that there was always space for new arrivals to squeeze in and celebrate
their statelessness by making a living out of swidden cultivation? This sequence of events
is all the more unlikely when one considers that slash-and-burn agriculture is perhaps not
labour-intensive, but is surely land-intensive. That the hills never became overcrowded,
and even today are comparatively less densely populated than the plains, suggests that,
either the number of state-evasive peoples was, (contra Scott), relatively modest, or (and
this aligns with the thread of my argument), that people also moved away from the hills,
into the more productive plains.
9 Gait links, albeit somewhat artificially, the relatively brief existence of many dynasties
in the Assam plains with the slow and intermittent character of the advance of Hinduism
56 EBHR-39

British, who arrived and later also departed via the sea, provided a major
exception to this sequence.
The contest was over the fertile soil along the Brahmaputra River
and the control of state-generated produce; as such, it was a contest for
the ownership of the valley. One should be wary of reasoning too much
in typologies, as some highland groups were numerous and sufficiently
powerful to raid the plains and impose state-like structures, while others,
hunters and gatherers at the opposite extreme, may not have tried to
venture into the plains with equal force. On the whole, however, the
process of hill groups moving down was significant. To illustrate further,
the search for arable lands has led sections of hill tribes, like the Garo, Miri
and Tiwa, to migrate to lower altitudes or plains, which has, over the years,
led to them developing identities different from those left behind in the
hills. Indeed, the highly fertile river islands and banks of the Brahmaputra
River continue to attract land-hungry migrants (Subba and Wouters,
forthcoming).

The valley-hill binary as a ‘colonial effect’?

Much of the scholarship on Northeast India is characterised by a valley-
hill binary, just as a highland-lowland dichotomy figures dominantly in the
literature on Southeast Asia. For Burling, who considers India’s Northeast
culturally part of Southeast Asia, a deep-rooted and widespread contrast
between hill dwellers and plains people paradoxically provides the most
important unifying theme of the region (Burling 1965: 4). Ultimately Scott
reifies this binary, suggesting that this relatively sharp division has been
a historical constant.10 There are, however, good reasons to assume that

in the region. He points out that Hindu priests found their way to Assam but generally
confined their attention to the king and his chief nobles, from whom alone they had
anything to gain. They would then try, often with notable success, to convert them. For
the king they would invent a noble descent, while the nobles were admitted to the rank
of Kshatriya. The Hindus would, as a reward, enjoy lucrative posts at court and lands
granted to them by their proselytes. If the valley dynasty lasted long enough, ideas of
Hinduism would gradually filter down and replace tribal religious practices, as happened
in the case of the long-lasting Ahom Kingdom. More often, however, the dynasty would
be overthrown before ideas of Hinduism could trickle down. Some of the survivors of the
aristocracy would become merged into a Hindu caste but on the whole Hinduism would
sink into triviality, except in cases where its priests could succeed in inducing the new
rulers to accept their ministrations (Gait 1926: 10)
10 Scott’s analysis subsequently shows a hint of statism, because it comes down to an almost
 Wouters 57

the valley-hill divide in India’s Northeast (and this argument might have a
wider application in Zomia) became socially more marked and decisive only
after the colonial annexation of the adjacent valley. Before colonial times,
this binary appears to be socially less relevant; flows of people, goods, ideas
and residence-patterns across it were more frequent, and, on the whole,
more of a continuum.
Leach was well aware of this valley-hill continuum, arguing that ‘valley’
and ‘hill people’ not only interpenetrate politically and culturally, but also
territorially (1960: 60). For Burma he argued that, while on a crude level of
generalisation the hill Kachin and the valley Shan are quite different from
one another in terms of social and political organisation, religious views
and agricultural practices, there exists a great deal of continuity between
them, given that they are ‘almost everywhere close neighbours and in the
ordinary affairs of life they are much mixed up together’ (1964 [1954]: 2).
This perpetual ethnic mingling even leads to some families considering
themselves simultaneously Kachin and Shan (ibid). Lehman also stressed
this mutuality for the Chin. The Chin, he argued, are a ‘subnuclear society’,
a term he proposes for societies who reside in the margins of state
formations and whose society and culture must be understood in terms of
their relationships with complex, nuclear valley societies. Such societies
are neither fully peasant nor purely tribal; they have characteristics of both
(1963.: 1-2).11
A similar kind of fluidity seemed to exist in Northeast India, yet all of

primordial urge, or the innate idiosyncrasies of ethnic psychology, for statelessness

among hill peoples. Valley peoples, in turn, are represented as predisposed to a state-life
by virtue of their decision, despite their political agency, not to escape state enclosure
(although one must acknowledge, as Scott himself points out, that in many cases they
stayed because the state prevented them from moving away. )
11 Far removed from civilisation, self-governed, self-contained and self-sufficient, much
akin to Wolf’s ‘people without history’ (Wolf 1982), the highlanders of India’s Northeast
have been regularly represented as dwelling in isolated out-of-the-way places, since ‘time
immemorial’. Eaton, for example, argues that the Naga have always been economically
self-sufficient and ‘never developed sustained trade relations with the plains people …
institutionalized intervillage warfare and the cultural values on which it rested, which
included headhunting, had the effect of narrowing very considerably the Nagas’ vision
of the world’ (1997: 249). This isolationist perspective also enjoys political currency, as
rebel groups revert to this narrative in order to enhance the legitimacy of their demand
to be excluded from the Indian polity. However persistent this depiction might be, there
is hardly any evidence that corresponds to such a view for pre-colonial times, as the case
of the Ahom also indicates.
58 EBHR-39

this suffered a blow with the colonial annexation of Assam. For mercantile
reasons, the British concentrated on administering the plains, which were
commercially viable in ways the ‘barren’ hills were not. In the words of
Lord Dalhousie, speaking as Governor-General of British India,

I dissent entirely from the policy which is recommended of what is

called obtaining a control, that is to say, of taking possession of these
hills, and of establishing our sovereignty over their savage inhabitants.
Our possession could bring no profit to us, and would be as costly as it
would be unproductive’ (cited in Elwin 1969: 162).

In fact, one major source of contention was the British policy of pushing
the hill tribes up into the hills, alienating them from land previously under
their control and granting such land, formally declared ‘wasteland,’ to tea
planters and immigrant peasants from Bengal. The hills, on the other hand,
were declared off-limits for land transfers to non-tribal outsiders’ (Karlsson
2011: 270).
This sense of isolation took further shape with the imposition of an inner
line, whose official purpose was to provide a territorial frame to British
capital (Kar 2009: 51).12 More deeply, Kar continues, it was to ‘demarcate
“the hills” from “the plains”, the nomadic from the sedentary, the jungle
from the arable – in short, “the tribal areas” from “Assam proper”’ (ibid.:
52). It subjected the region beyond to a permit regime and, although total
seclusion was not enforceable because hill and valley people needed to meet
for trade purposes, more stringent regulations reduced the frequency of
these interactions. In this process, the unenclosed territory came to be seen
as ‘outside of the historical pace of development and progress… where the
time of the law did not apply: where slavery, headhunting, and nomadism
could be allowed to exist’ (Kar 2009: 52). In the dominant representational
order, and propelled by ideas of unilineal social evolution, hill dwellers
came to be seen as the opposite of ‘British civilisation’, as well as inferior to
the alternative civilisation presented by the high castes of the ‘mainland’.
This eventually led to the ‘invention of tribes’, a process through which
uplanders became socially construed as collectively backward and sharing

12 In 1919, the region unenclosed by the inner line was renamed as the ‘backward tracts’ and
the idea of ‘backwardness’ thus became inscribed in its official designation.
 Wouters 59

characteristics that were fundamentally different from those inhabiting

the plains.13
From this point of view, the hills took on their identity as remote places
peopled by insulated tribes only after the colonial annexation of the Assam
plains, which isolated and essentialised hill dwellers in unprecedented
ways. In any case, ‘remoteness’ is not an objective status. It has a position
in topographical space, though as Ardener has convincingly shown, it
‘is defined within a topological space whose features are expressed in a
cultural vocabulary’ (Ardener 2007: 214). Hence, as historical constants,
the categories ‘hill people’ and ‘valley people’ are problematic; they do not
just refer to a ‘natural’ division of space but are also a reflection of socially
constructed images and perceptions, which can hardly be called static over
time. As a decisive, socially meaningful and deep-rooted demarcation,
the valley-hill binary, which lies at the heart of Scott’s argument, might
therefore better be seen as a colonial and academic construct, rather than
a perpetual ethnographic reality.

Some concessions to Scott’s theory

Scott, it needs to be stressed, is not unaware of all of the above. He remarks,
for example, that ‘Many valley people are, as it were, “ex-hill people”, and
many hill people are “ex-valley people”’ (2009: 27), yet this insight, adequate
as it is, is subsequently submerged by his emphasis on a massive, largely
unilateral and sustained flight from the plains to the uplands. Scott often
starts an argument with bold and eloquently asserted claims, then uses
subsequent paragraphs to introduce complexities. He accepts, for instance,
that the world of pre-modern states was not always only threatening but at
times also attractive to nonstate peoples. Its potential surplus could form
a target for raiders from the hills, incidentally culminating in racket-cum-
blackmail relationships, with hill groups extracting tribute from sedentary
communities. For instance, the Kachin controlled the Bhamo area in the
plains and appointed Burmese and Shan headman there. However, he then
13 To grasp this process at work, Van Schendel has usefully coined the term ‘tribalist
discourse’, which points to the remarkable resilience of images of tribes based on the
‘presumption that all tribes share characteristics that are fundamentally different from,
even opposite to, those of civilized people. Principal among these are ‘childish’ qualities
that betray a lack of socialization: immoderately emotional behaviour (revelry, sensuality,
extravagance, cruelty, fear of the supernatural) and naivety (credulity, incapacity to plan
for the future)’ (Van Schendel 1992: 103).
60 EBHR-39

moulds this sequence into his general argument by arguing that when
marauding tribes did raid valley settlements they generally did so to the
extent that they ‘killed the goose that laid the golden egg’ (2009: 151). This
was because different hill polities eyed the same valley resources, with
none of them sufficiently powerful to permanently control them. Scott
also acknowledges that hill tribes like the Karenni were notorious slave-
raiders, but he then argues that slave raids on the plains were ‘yet another
process by which valley people became hill people in Zomia’ (2009: 152).
However, this reasoning negates the common thread of his own narrative,
namely that the peopling of the hills is the result of applied political
agency. Now, Scott cannot have it both ways because being captured and
dragged into the hills clearly does not amount to much of a choice. Keeping
these added complexities of Scott’s theory, to which I have alluded only
briefly here, in mind, my assessment of it is not entirely hostile or wholly
antithetical. However, I do assert that the primary emphasis should not be
on withdrawal, flight and evasion.

Conclusion
Most if not all interactions between hill dwellers and plains people, Leach
argued, ‘related to the fact that as a general rule the valley peoples are
producers of rice surplus to their own requirements, while equally, as
a general rule, the hill peoples suffer from a rice deficiency which must
somehow be made good from outside’ (1964 [1954]: 22). A similar dialectic
was applied by Lehman. The Hill Chin in Burma, he argued, were ‘acutely
aware of their own disadvantageous situation’ (1963: 216). For those Chin
living at higher altitudes, where resources were more scarce, capturing
resources from the plains was particularly vital, to the extent that their
entire social and political organisation became an adaptation to this end
(ibid.: 27). What Leach and Lehman already knew is that state projects in the
valleys, their military might and very real oppressiveness notwithstanding,
had a lot to offer, however unintentionally, to those living in the relatively
unproductive hills.
Scott’s account of deliberate state evasion is in line with a widespread
theoretical disposition in the anthropological literature on state and
resistance in which, following Spencer’s critical assessment (2007: 45-6),
the state, or its pre-modern manifestation, is reconfigured into an absolute
externality. It is essentialised as a source of apprehension, coercion and
 Wouters 61

fear, one that imposed itself without leaving any spaces for negotiation.
Thus, Scott paints the pre-modern valley state as a constellation of power
from which nonstate people had nothing to gain other than oppression and
misery. This analysis corresponds with Subrahmanyam’s characterisation
of Scott’s work as, above anything else, that of a ’pessimistic romantic’
(2010: 26), but it departs from the analysis presented here which, on an
abstract level, rather aligns with Ortner’s view that ‘in a relationship of
power, the dominant often has something to offer, and sometimes a great
deal’ (1985: 175).
The case of Northeast India shows that the fertile soil of the Brahmaputra
Valley, and the abundance it produced, attracted hill groups down to the
plains. For nonstate peoples, it provided an opportunity, so that accessing
these resources and possessing fertile lands in the valley became objects
of aspiration for them. This desire translated into brisk flows of trade and
persons in some times and places; in others, however, it erupted into fierce
conflicts over land-holdings in the plains. Whereas Scott insists that the
history of hill peoples is the ‘history of deliberate and reactive statelessness’
(2009: x), this article argues that the history of those dwelling in the hills
can equally be read as the history of their deliberate attempts to access
state resources. A consequence of this is that the survival of a valley state
depended on its ability to keep marauding hill tribes at bay.

Acknowledgments
I am grateful to David N. Gellner, Tanka B. Subba and Arkotong Longkumer
for their insightful comments and suggestions at various stages of the
writing of this article. I also thank the Huygens Scholarship Programme,
whose generosity has sustained me over the past two years. I have not had
the privilege of meeting James C. Scott; and although I challenge certain
central aspects of his grand narrative, there is much to admire about his
book. Ultimately, his work has made us all think more critically about these
important issues, and for that I am highly obliged to him.
62 EBHR-39

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66 EBHR-39

Shaping Secularism in Nepal

Chiara Letizia

Introduction
On May 18 2006, Nepal’s House of Representatives declared Nepal a secular
state and suspended the political powers of the king, thus putting an end to
the two-centuries-old Hindu kingdom. Nepal’s secular status was reiterated
in the Interim Constitution of 2007, without specifying which model of
secularism should be established, and finally the Constituent Assembly
declared Nepal a secular federal, democratic, republic on 28 May 2008.
How is secularism understood and how can it be implemented in
a country with a large Hindu majority, where Hinduism and the state
have, until very recently, preserved a symbiotic relationship through
the institution of Hindu kingship (Sharma 2002; Toffin 2006)? This article
presents some preliminary findings from research conducted in the
districts of Banke, Dhanusha, and Morang, and in the Kathmandu Valley,
between 2009 and 2011.1
Since the second half of the 18th century, Nepali rulers have styled
themselves and their culturally and ethnically diverse subjects as Hindu,
making Hinduism an essential component of national identity. Even
today, Hindu influence remains a reality in the legal system and everyday
institutional practices, and there has been little attempt to reform the
numerous legal provisions that are inconsistent with (what the West
thinks of as) secularism or to minimise the government’s interactions with
religion (CCD 2009:1). The state is still involved in the management of trusts
associated with Hindu gods and temples; government funds are spent on
Hindu religious festivals; cow slaughter and conversion are still outlawed; 2

1 My fieldwork, conducted from September 2009 to April 2010 and November 2010 to
January 2011, was made possible by the generous support of the Newton International
Fellowship. I would like to thank Anne de Sales, David Gellner and an anonymous EBHR
reviewer for their helpful comments on an earlier version of this paper. All my gratitude
goes to Philippe Gagnon, my husband, for his assistance in connection with legal matters
during fieldwork and his patient revision of this text.
2 Despite its secular framework, the 2007 interim constitution still bans conversion through
proselytisation and affirms a right for people to profess and practise their religion only
‘as handed down to them from ancient times having due regards to traditional practices’.

European Bulletin of Himalayan Research 39: 66-104 (2012)

 67

Plate 1. On the day of Ram Nawami

(24 March 2010), President Yadav and
former king Gyanendra Shah both
visited the Janaki temple within the
space of only two hours. Each of them
entered the temple for the puja shaded
by the same honorific parasol (source:
Republica, 26 March 2010).

many laws are based on Hindu norms and values; Hindu temples are found in
government buildings, schools, military camps and courts; public holidays
are mostly Hindu festivals; and the President of the Republic has in many
instances replaced the former Hindu king at public religious functions. In
short, secularism seems to face many challenges.
Questions about the future of secularism in Nepal assume and reify
secularism as a part of a modernity package that is challenging the deeply

Thus, the right does not extend to the convert. Previous constitutions contained the same
provisions, all the way back to the Rana and Panchayat periods, during which they were
used to exile Buddhist monks and put Christians in jail. While people are still being indicted
for the crime of cow slaughter (now justified on the basis that the cow is the national
animal), the number of prosecutions against proselytisation (dharma parivartan garaune)
has dwindled since 1990 (especially after criminal sanctions against the converted were
removed), and none were found to have taken place since 2002. Resistance to the removal
of these bans is strong, and they remained in the concept papers of the Constituent
Assembly and the new draft Criminal Code presented to Parliament in 2011.
68 EBHR-39

religious and traditional Nepali society. However, a recent debate in the social
sciences has historicised the very notions of secularism and secularisation
and questioned their intrinsic association with modernisation (Cannell
2010). A review of the main arguments in this debate will be useful before
returning to the Nepali case.

Secularism in the social sciences’ recent debate

The main characteristics of secularisation—a decline of religious beliefs
and practices correlating with increasing modernisation; the privatisation
of religion; and the differentiation of secular spheres (state, economy,
science), understood as their emancipation from religious norms and
institutions (Casanova 1994)—are all interrelated in European history.
Therefore, there is a general assumption that they are part of the global
modernisation process. However, the debate has recently shifted to the
religious and historical context in which secularism evolved, and has led
to ‘an unpacking of secularity as a religious-free neutral and universal
development of European modernity’ (Göle 2010: 43). So it has been
acknowledged that secularisation makes sense only within the context of
a particular historical transformation of Western European Christianity:
the generalisation of secularisation as a universal process correlated with
modernisation and transferred to other world religions and other cultural
areas is highly problematic (Casanova 2009). As early as the 1980s, the
anthropologist T.N. Madan (1984) questioned the thesis that the historical
process of secularisation, which separated the two domains of ‘the religious’
and ‘the secular’ in Western society, with the former being confined to
individuals’ privacy, was a precondition of modernity everywhere.
However, to acknowledge that secularism is a product of Western
history specific to Latin Christendom does not imply that it is not suitable
for non-Western civilisations. Rather, what needs to be considered is
how the Christian Western European dynamic of secularisation has been
globalised and how religious traditions respond and are reinterpreted,
producing multiple formations of the secular in different historical and
political contexts. These multiple secularisms should not be approached
as replicas or ‘deficient copies’ of the Western original, but as distinctive
formations. José Casanova suggested recently that secularism, a ‘western
essentialism’, should first be deconstructed by emphasising the various
patterns of secularisation within the West: protestant/catholic, European/
 Letizia 69

American, etc. This should open up the way to a less Eurocentric and
more comparative analysis of patterns of secularisation in other secular
modernities (Casanova 2010). In the same way, as Rajeev Bhargava writes, we
should attend to the histories of secularism and examine the transnational
and historical development of the secular idea:

Secularism too has a history made at one time largely by Europeans,

then a little later by North Americans, and much later by non-western
countries. Non-western societies inherited from their western
counterparts specific versions of secularism but they did not always
preserve them in the form in which they were received. They often
added something of enduring value to them and, therefore, developed
the idea further (Bhargava 2010: 65).

The task is not to catalogue the variety of secularisms in the world, but to
develop new concepts and identify practices at work outside the secular/
religious opposition (Cady and Shakman Hurd 2010: 8).
Scholars are calling for a ‘de-secularisation’ of our secularist and
modernist categories (Casanova 2009) to describe contemporary religious
developments. Indeed, the categories that have been used until now,
such as the ‘de-secularisation of the world’, the ‘return of religion’ or the
‘deprivatisation of religion’, all point to a simple reversal of a postulated
previous process of secularisation, and remain therefore within the same
paradigm. The notion of the post-secular expresses the need to coin new
concepts and to find ways of accommodating religious claims in liberal
institutions (Habermas 2008, Casanova 2009, Molendijk et al. 2010, Rosati
2011). The post-secular debate shows that modernity does not necessarily
mean the disappearance of religions from the public sphere, and invites
us to abandon the model of secularity as a public space free from religious
arguments, religious symbols and religious groups (Casanova 2011).3
Talal Asad (2003) has argued that the religious and the secular are
neither immutable essences nor opposed ideologies and that their mutual
construction as interdependent concepts gain salience with the emergence
of the modern state. While secular rationality was defining law, economic
3 Casanova proposed that pluralist societies ‘need to create neutral civic and political
secular spaces in which all religious and non religious people can not only coexist
peacefully but also partake in the same equal rights and freedoms’ (2011).
70 EBHR-39

relations, and statecraft in the modern world, it was simultaneously

transforming the conceptions, practices and institutions of religious life
(Mahmood 2009: 836). Through state and civic institutions, secularism ‘has
historically entailed the regulation and reformation of religious beliefs,
doctrine and practices to yield a particular normative conception of religion
(that is largely protestant Christian in its contours)’ (Mahmood 2009:
858). The normative impetus internal to secularism reorganises religious
subjectivities in accordance with a liberal political rule that is retrospectively
called ‘a religiously neutral political ethic’ (Mahmood 2006: 328). This is why
secular consciousness cannot meet the challenges of increasingly plural
societies where different forms of religious subjectivity need to be recognised
and legally acknowledged. Mahmood’s reflections are relevant to the case
of Nepal, as we shall see that the notion of dharma exceeds the notion of
‘religious’ constructed and regulated in opposition to the ‘secular’.

Approaches to the Nepali case

Despite social scientists’ deconstructions, ‘secularism’, translated by the
expression dharma nirapeksata (‘autonomous from/ indifferent, impartial to
dharma’), was introduced as a contribution to the modernisation of ‘New
Nepal’. The concept is now embedded in public speech, at least in urban
centres.4 If the ‘package’ has been delivered, it has also produced local
responses that need to be examined with a view to empirically testing the
western secular/religious opposition.
Fieldwork concerned with the concept of secularism itself was conducted
in Nepalgunj, Janakpur and Biratnagar and to a lesser extent in Dang.5 The
aim was to collect the views of various social agents: politicians who either
launched or opposed secularist campaigns; the legal community and the
police who interpret, wield or impede what they perceive as the coercive
power of secularism; the religious communities that are most concerned
about secularism; social activists who may link secularism and their action

4 The expression dharma nirapeksata was unfamiliar to many people: sometimes, while
chatting about my research in the streets, I was asked if it was a new religious sect, or a
new party.
5 Nepalgunj, Janakpur and Biratnagar were selected as important urban centres, each
exhibiting a different population mix and reflecting the complexity of Tarai dynamics.
In Nepalgunj, militant pro-Hindu and anti-Muslim organisations follow an antisecular
agenda, while the large Muslim community differentiates itself from the larger Madhesi
movement.
 Letizia 71

on the ground; and lastly intellectuals who help to shape the meaning of
secularism in the public sphere. I also attended District and Supreme Court
cases concerning the reform of religious traditions, and followed the public
debates they generated, in order to observe how they contribute to shaping
the fluid notion of secularism.
It is not yet clear to which type of secularism the state is committed,
and the concept is obviously still in the making. A recurring sentence
in the interviews was sambidhan lekheko chaina, ‘the constitution is not
written’, to indicate the insecure place occupied by secularism in the still
undrafted constitution. However, secularism was taking shape beyond
the Constitutional Assembly, through incidents between the Maoist
government and religious devotees, through court cases, and also through
antisecular campaigns and demonstrations. These various events provide
opportunities for a public debate to take place on the matter of secularism
and relations between the state and religion. Indeed, the ethnographic
enquiry into these practices and events is able to grasp the processes
through which secularism is taking shape in all its complexity.
In this paper, I will focus on the meaning of secularism shaped by the
campaign of 1990; on the understandings of secularism that emerge from
interviews conducted in the Tarai, focusing on anti-secular discourses;
and finally on two court cases concerning Pashupatinath temple and the
goddess Kumari, which are respectively the first case to judicially invoke
secularism, and a landmark case for secularism. The aim here is to offer
a perspective from which to begin to analyse the formation of Nepali
secularism, and to provide some data on local understandings of secularism
and the forces which are presently shaping it.

The shaping of secularism in the 1990s

The declaration of Nepal as a secular state has been a cherished goal of
the religious minorities and ethnic groups since 1990, when the People’s
Movement overthrew the Panchayat regime, and provided the context
for the rise of ethnic-based political identities. Nepal’s diverse populations
(collectively defined with the neologism janajati) appeared on the public
stage, demanding that the new constitution guarantee ethnic, religious
and linguistic minority rights. Nepali citizens began to openly criticise
Hinduism’s political role in maintaining social and economic inequalities
in favour of high-caste Hindus. In this context, Theravada Buddhist monks
72 EBHR-39

and laymen began a movement which demanded that the forthcoming

constitution should abolish the Hindu state and declare the country secular.
This was perceived as a way to achieve a multicultural, inclusive, democratic
society (Leve 2007: 84). For the activists, secularism would not banish religion
from public life but would recognise religious diversity and bring an end to
Hindu high caste domination. Secularism was redefined as ‘the institutional
instantiation of freedom of religion and religious equality’ (Leve 2007: 94). 6
Religious activism and the movement for secularism were thus tightly
linked. The same Newar intellectuals, both laypeople and monks, who
introduced a reform of Newar Buddhism through Theravada-inspired
modernist and rationalist ideals, also campaigned for this kind of
secularism. They were soon joined by janajati activists in search of their
ethnic identity (Letizia forthcoming, Krauskopff 2009). They even united
in a common project of awareness camps to spread Buddhism among the
janajatis and increase the number of Buddhists in the National Census of
2001 (LeVine and Gellner 2005: 234; Letizia 2006).7 In short, the activists
who were working to promote secularism were Buddhists, who also had
a modernising project of reform of their own traditional religion and a
political programme to spread Buddhism throughout the country.8
Although the 1990 constitution officially recognised ethnic minorities,
it continued to declare the state to be Hindu. The campaign had thus
failed to achieve its objective, but had contributed to the shaping of
Nepali secularism none the less. The state and religion were not separated;
instead, the democratic state had the duty to recognise and be the patron
of all religions equally.

Towards a multi-religious Nepal?

The strength of this vision of secularism as ‘equal respect and opportunities
for all religions’ was sustained in the period of transition towards the

6 For example, the Theravada monk Aswagosh wrote: ‘Secularism means that the state
must be unbiased towards all religions. It does not mean that religion must be stopped’
(Aswagosh 1994 quoted in Leve 2007:94).
7 The same type of activism can be observed today for the 2011 Census. It seems to remain
captive to the logic of pro-Hindu state activists, who argue that Nepal should be a Hindu
state because 80% of Nepalis are Hindus.
8 Their activism led some activists and intellectuals belonging to Magar and Tharu
communities to adhere to Buddhism and rewrite their groups’ history, affirming a
Buddhist past (Letizia 2006 and forthcoming).
 Letizia 73

republican regime and its first governments. The first step considered
‘secular’ by media and the public was the declaration by the Nepal
government in late 2007 of a number of Buddhist, Muslim, Christian,
Madhesi, Tharu and Kirant festivals as national holidays in a calendar
hitherto permeated by Hindu festivals.9 Although this was considered as
a minor gesture by activists who expected the government to take bolder
moves towards implementing secularism, it was nevertheless welcomed by
the religious minorities, who felt that they had been heard, and newspapers
contributed to this positive appraisal. As Deepak Thapa notes, ‘Even that
little has certainly helped religious minorities feel greater ownership of the
state, and that can only be considered a progressive step’ (Thapa 2010).
However, the reaction of the majority of the population has not always
been equally positive. A Hindu Newar lawyer based in Nepalgunj commented
that secularism brought only more holidays for obscure festivals:

When I arrive at the Court, sometimes I find it closed because of a

holiday, but nobody knows which kind of festival it is. What is this, a
multi-religious or a secular country? When I was young, there was no
need for these national holidays: we were adjusting. In Kirtipur the
majority of students were Newar, so at the time of Sithi Nakha the school
was almost empty; and when another community was having a mela,
the students belonging to it were not coming to school, saying: yo hamro
sithi nakha ho (‘this is our Sithi Nakha’). Everything was accommodated
locally, but now everybody wants to be recognised nationally.

Even the Maoists, the strongest advocates of secularism,10 did not take
radical steps to implement it in the period during which they led a
government coalition under Prime Minister Pushpa Kamal Dahal.11 Despite

9 The National Council of Churches reports the announcement of the national holidays of
Christmas, Lhosar, Chhath, Eid Bakr, Maghi (Tharu) and Ubhauli Udhyauli (Kirant) on 28
December 2007: http://nccnepal.org/news/news_details.php?newsID=14bfa6bb14875e45
bba028a21ed38046|5e41
10 Secularism has been part of the Maoist agenda since the 40-point demand was submitted
to Prime Minister Sher Bahadur Deuba on 4 February 1996 by Baburam Bhattarai on
behalf of the United People’s Front Nepal, before the launch of the ‘People’s War’.
11 However, there were some significant events, labelled by detractors as the beginning of
a Cultural Revolution, such as the ‘incident’ during Indra Jatra in 2008, when Finance
Minister Baburam Bhattarai announced a cut in government funding for religious
74 EBHR-39

their own atheist views and ideological opposition to religion, which they
see as a means of exploitation of the poor,12 in this domain they adopted
a gradual path to change and adhered mostly to the mainstream vision of
secularism. For example, a Maoist leader in Dhanusa District considered the
respect for all religions and the inclusion of other religious minorities in
Nepal as ‘an initial step toward real secularism’:

We understand that people don’t know our ideology of historic

materialism and that if we impose it, breaking temples, the people will
escape; so we try to educate them: on one hand we honour their religious
faith and on the other we discuss with them. (…) Here in Nepal, rulers
control people through religion. The state should be kept away from
any religion. It is difficult to do this in a short time and is a difficult task
because people are attached to religion: if we start showing secularism
directly to them, we will become very unpopular. But we can bring the
topic to a big debate. For now the state should respect people’s faith. As
a first step, it is better to start to give equal treatment to all religious
followers. Nepal has been under Hindu religious influence, but there are
so many other dharmas: Islam, Jaina, Christians and ‘natural religion’
(prakritik dharma). It is our duty to bring awareness to these people,
to tell them that this country is theirs too. With the development of
modernity, I think that there will be a gradual disappearance of strong
religious beliefs. (Interview, February 2010)

From 2008 onwards, public spaces such as Khula Manch or Tundikhel in

festivals, and the infamous events surrounding priest appointments at Pashupatinath

temple, which are discussed below.
12 More than religion itself, the Maoists condemned its manipulation by ‘reactionaries’
who they said oppress people under the mask of Hinduism. They sought to abolish all
forms of exploitation in the name of religion. During the ‘People’s War’ (1996-2006), the
Maoists adopted inconsistent attitudes towards religion. They declared that religion was
‘the opium of the people’, occasionally prohibited ‘superstitious cults’ and sometimes
deliberately violated religious taboos. But they also summoned shamans, worshipped
deities, visited pilgrimage places, etc. Anthropologists have showed how Maoists
communicated and built their movement around symbols reinterpreting Hindu notions of
place and sacrifice (Ramirez 1997; de Sales 2003, Lecomte 2004, 2006). In 2006, the Maoist
leader Prachanda declared: ‘We respect all the religious beliefs of the masses, even if our
party teaches its officials and cadres a more scientific and secular point of view’ (http://
espresso.repubblica.it/dettaglio/Prachanda:%20Our%20Revolution%20Won/1431107).
 Letizia 75

Kathmandu were at times taken over by Muslims, Christians, Tamangs,

Gurungs, and Madhesis for national meetings and ceremonies: as a result
of secularism, the capital city is becoming visibly multi-religious. In many
interviews, the notion of space for religious minorities emerged as an
important theme associated with secularism. In the words of a Dalit Maoist
cadre in Janakpur in 2010:

In Janakpur there is a majority of Hindus, but there are minority

groups like Buddhists and Christians: they are kept in a small corner
and oppressed. Here there is Janaki Mandir but not a Christian church,
even if people want it. For a true secularism, we need also a church and
a Buddhist temple. (…) In Lumbini, one can feel to belong to Buddhism
and feel authorised to adopt Buddhism, while here it’s a big stage for
Hindus only. Here is the Janaki city, the land of Hinduism; we don’t get
the environment to feel that there are other religions. People should
be given the possibility to practice secularism, that is first of all to give
them a place for worship. There should be an environment for secularism.

The theme of space—for all the communities to prosper peacefully, without

any of them suffering as a result of the growth and strength of the others—is
also evoked in the metaphor shared by a Nepali Congress leader in Janakpur:

A dharmasapeksa13 state is like a small pot overcrowded with many plants;

a dharmanirapeksa state is a big piece of land where you transplant all
those small plants from the little pots, to give them all more space to
grow and prosper.

In the Tarai the presence and visibility of religious communities is not only
measured in space (religious sites, processions, etc) and time (festivals in
the calendar) but it is also a matter of sound, as loudspeakers playing Kirtan
Bhajan and the Muslim call to prayers compete in the soundscape of many
cities.

13 The term dharma sapeksa (sa+apeksa) = ‘dependent on/ related to dharma’, ‘dharma-
oriented’, is used to qualify the Hindu state.
76 EBHR-39

A brittle and contested secularism

The ethnic and religious minorities who pushed through secularism,
supported by the Maoist insurgents, have been largely unrepresented on
the political scene, which remains dominated by high-caste Hindus. Even
among the politicians who supported the inclusion of secularism in the
Interim Constitution, there was no strong commitment towards it and
many did not really want it, nor were they clear about its implications.14 For
them, secularism was above all else a move against the king, in the hope
of removing the religious basis of his power, rather than a more specific
project of society. 15 Thus, it was not uncommon to hear ‘pro-secular’
politicians state unofficially that they disagreed with secularism or were
not sure that it was appropriate for Nepal. A leader of the Madhes Janadikari
Forum (MJF) told me during an interview in Biratnagar that the MJF was a
secular party, but off the record he admitted:

We are not really convinced about secularism; my feeling is that

secularism has been declared because there was no choice: the political
discourse was taken over by the Maoists, and became so popular, that
if someone opposed secularism, he automatically came across like a
royalist.

Many politicians and some members of civil society who had supported
secularism felt that it had been hastily declared, ‘in a dictatorial way’. They
seemed to have forgotten the 1990 popular movement and the members of
the Nepal Federation of Indigenous Nationalities asking for secularism in a
mass demonstration in front of parliament in 2006.
By the beginning of 2010, it was evident that the May 28 deadline for
completing the Constitution would be missed: as the larger peace process
and constitution drafting process stalled, anti-secular voices progressively
rose. ‘Right-wing’ forces became active in many ways: in religious rituals
and campaigns in favour of the restoration of a Hindu state; in the discourses

14 Subash Kattel (2010) remarks that while big political parties expressed their commitment
to secularism in their manifestos for the CA elections, no party explained or defined the
word.
15 My interviews confirm Sudhindra Sharma’s opinion that politicians accepted secularism
as a part of the Maoist agenda and as a way of weakening the Hindu monarchy, but did not
give much thought to secularism per se (interview, October 2009).
 Letizia 77

of Indian Shankaracharyas and

BJP leaders; in the attendance
of the former king at religious
festivals to gather support; in
the campaign of the Rastriya
Prajatantra Party for a
referendum on secularism and
monarchy, etc. (see Appendix).
These actions, actively
supported by some members
of the government, were
simply dismissed as royalist
and reactionary, and left
unaddressed by politicians
and intellectuals, with a few
exceptions (Acharya 2010;
Thapa 2010). As Deepak Thapa Plate 2. One of the many campaigns for a
argues, these voices for a Hindu Hindu state launched in the Spring of 2010
Nepal were silencing any effort
to start reflecting on how to build a secular Nepal that was inclusive and
respectful of religious minorities. However, I would add that a debate on
building a secular state cannot simply ignore or dismiss these Hindu fears,
but has to take them into account in order to show clearly what secularism
is not. Labelling these voices as ’reactionary’ will not remove their power,
because they are built around widespread arguments, fears and slogans,
which the Hindu Right can develop into extreme political positions.

Fieldwork in the Tarai: Understandings of Secularism

Secularism in the Tarai: a fluid and multivocal notion

My research in the Tarai focused on local perceptions of and reactions
to secularism. The Tarai is a place where, hypothetically, the impact of
secularism might be more keenly felt, because of the simultaneous presence
of deeply religious Hindu communities, a significant number of Muslims
(15%), an increasing number of Christians, and groups linked to the Bihar
and Uttar Pradesh-based Hindu Right. Generally, dharma nirapeksata
appeared to be a sensitive, uncomfortable concept, sometimes generating
78 EBHR-39

strong feelings. Thus, one of the enriching (if sometimes demanding)

features of fieldwork there was that one-to-one interviews often turned
into collective debates, attracting passers-by. Secularism also appeared
as a fluid and multivocal notion, differently understood according to the
religious, political, social and geographical situation of the individuals,
with a potential for conflict.
Few of the intellectuals whom I met outside Kathmandu legal circles
understood secularism as a wall of separation between Church and state.
Echoing the 1990s vision, people belonging to religious minorities, janajatis
and civil society understood secularism as the abolition of Hindu primacy,
the opportunity for all religious groups to receive equal recognition and a
step towards inclusiveness. Maoists welcomed secularism as a step towards
the elimination of a deep-rooted feudalism based on Hinduism; for the Hindu
fundamentalists, it was a despicable and uncalled-for measure attacking the
identity of the country and leading to communal violence; Muslims saw it
as a good opportunity to get the shari’a enacted as their community’s own
personal law and to receive more state support for their community’s
schools (madrasahs); Christians, (mostly evangelical Churches) understood
secularism as implicit permission to proselytise, despite the letter of the law.
Many of the people interviewed (opponents and supporters alike)
associated secularism with a sense of freedom (feared or welcomed), and
saw it as a step towards the religious freedom of groups and individuals.
Many explained secularism as the freedom to select and change one’s
religion (although the current constitutional right of religion is restricted
to following one’s ancestral religion). The conflict between this sentiment
of freedom and the letter of the law was often expressed, even by police and
public prosecutors, who felt uneasy about the enforcement of old laws in a
changing environment.

The Muslim Perspective

When Muslims started pressing for the recognition of their separate
identity, disentangling themselves from the Madhesis’ voices, religion
entered the scene of Tarai politics. The Muslim vote was one of the reasons
for the Madhesi parties, often dominated by Yadav or Maithili high castes,
to include secularism in their manifesto. A MJF politician in Biratnagar
stressed that he had to back secularism, realising how fundamental the
support of the large Muslim community was to his party. However, I was
 Letizia 79

told by a Tarai Madesh Loktantric party leader in Janakpur:

Secularism in Madhes means the relation between Hindus and Muslims.

Leaders of Madhesi parties do not trust Muslim voters as they do not
vote on the basis of party loyalty, but instead follow their religious
leaders. So, many [political] leaders will not go for secularism, because
the political behaviour of Muslims can’t be counted on and these leaders
prefer to have the stable support of strong and dominant Hindus.

In both cases, the Muslim community’s vote is understood as a factor that

must be taken into account when deciding whether to be for or against
secularism.
Among Muslim leaders and activists, the understanding of secularism as
the equality of all religions serves the minority rights agenda of providing
special treatment to marginalised religious groups. Thus, the citizens
of a secular state must have the freedom to practise their own religion
and follow their own way of life, and different personal laws (in this case
shari’a law) should be applied to different communities. Muslim leaders in
Biratnagar are sure that secularism, if it is well implemented, is a promise to
different religious communities that they will be free to expand and affirm
their rights. Never the less, they emphasised that after the declaration of
secularism their situation had worsened. Fear and insecurity had grown
in the community, as ‘Hindus started attacking Muslims as if Muslims had
asked for secularism’, which they had not done. In their view, secularism
has brought to Nepal the kind of communal hatred which can be witnessed
just over the Indian border. It prompted a strong reaction from Hindu
fundamentalist groups, which feared that secularism would make Muslims
stronger and Hindus weaker.

The Hindu Activists’ Perspective

During my research I met many people whose views were opposed to
secularism.16 Since there had been no systematic information campaign

16 The choice of fieldwork locations and the people met influenced the research outcomes
deeply. A different view of secularism would surely have emerged had the fieldwork
taken place in Thabang in Rolpa, or among Buddhist Newar activists in Lalitpur. The
anti-secular voices encountered here speak neither for Nepal as a whole nor for all Tarai
districts.
80 EBHR-39

after the declaration of the secular state, the task of explaining secularism
to the masses was carried out by the Hindu Right activists. 17 Paradoxically,
those who tried the hardest to define secularism and who gave it the most
space and importance in their discourses and actions were its opponents and
not its advocates. This allowed them to capitalise on fears that secularism
would empower other communities and weaken Hindus.
However, anti-secular Hindu voices should not all be lumped together.
In my interviews with Hindu activists, a third line emerged, somewhere
between pro-secular state republicans and pro-Hindu state royalists.
The promotion of a Hindu state was clearly disentangled from its former
association with the monarchy.18 Apart from royalist associations and parties
like the World Hindu Federation and the Rastriya Prajatantra Party Nepal,
there are other organisations and parties promoting a Hindu republic, such
as the Nepal Janata party19 and the Hindu Swayamsevak Sangh (HSS).20
The views reproduced below were expressed not only by royalist
and republican Hindu groups, but also by Hindu progressive and
democratic intellectuals involved in social activism and the reform of
their communities (e.g. human rights lawyers fighting the tradition of
menstrual seclusion and social workers leading programmes for women’s
empowerment). The assumption that activists who challenge religiously-
sanctioned discriminatory practices must also be supporters of secularism
proved to be wrong. For example, a progressive Hindu lawyer in Biratnagar
who fights against dowry practices was strongly anti-secular. Her fight
was not motivated by secularist convictions but rather by a wish to reform
Hinduism and remove the bad aspect of this tradition that she attributed to
a degeneration of original Hindu practices, due to lack of education.

17 By ‘Hindu Right’ I mean the Nepali associations and political parties connected with the
Indian RSS, the Shiva Sena, the BJP and the VHP, which share an anti-secular discourse.
Among them, I interviewed Nepali members of the Vishwa Hindu Mahasangh , of the
Shiva Sena Nepal, of the Janata Party (a branch of the Indian BJP founded in 2006,) and of
the Hindu Swayamsevak Sangh (founded in 1990 and affiliated with the RSS).
18 The journalist Amish Raj Mulmi (2010) asks: ‘Can Hindutva be a political ideology without
the monarchy, traditionally seen to be the ‘Protector of the Hindus’? Or is it compatible
with the current strain of left-wing fervour, which remains committed to a secular,
republican state?’ (See also Mulmi 2011).
19 The Nepal Janata Party also proposes its own form of federalism.
20 The HSS is an umbrella organisation for many associations. In the Tarai, its hostels
(Janajati Kalyan Ashram) are widespread. Food, shelter and education are provided there to
poor young janajatis in order to educate them in their ‘real culture’, i.e. the Hindu religion.
 Letizia 81

This research confirmed that legal prohibitions against conversion

and cow slaughter are the focal points around which the opposition
to secularism is based. ‘Secularism’, for my Hindu interviewees, meant
allowing proselytisation and cow slaughter, the former understood as the
unfair conversion of illiterate people who would be lured by economic
advantages (fuelled by a ‘Christian conspiracy’) and the latter as non-
Hindus asserting their right to eat cows. The most recurrent argument was
that secularism, because it gives religious minorities these rights, leads to
disrespect and communal violence.21

In theory secularism is a good thing, but in practice it is an insult to

religion, as it is the freedom for any religious community to not respect
others’ religious sensibilities and this can bring only violence and
disrespect. People will be free to eat cows in front of Hindus and offend
them.
Secularism will give free way to cow slaughter, hurting the feelings
of Hindus: people will kill cows as the Maoists do in their banquets;
Muslims, in the name of secularism, think that they have the right
to slaughter cows: in Nepalgunj you can see cow meat in the market,
before it would have been unimaginable!
Secularism allows conversion, attracting poor and illiterate people
through money to another religion: in this way the non-proselytising
Hindu religion will disappear.
I fear that behind secularism there is an evil design. I am afraid that
outer forces will be luring poor families and make them inclined to
become Christians.

This is often connected with the argument that secularism (and the
conversions to other religions that will be its result) will cause Nepal to lose
its identity and culture:

Christians are converting our indigenous people. In this way, they are
taking away by force our Nepaliness (nepalitva), our dignity as Nepali;
and they are so rich and active! Mr Lama will become Christian, Mr

21 Christian or Muslim leaders, when questioned about secularism, would indeed summarise
it as the freedom to proselytise and to select the religion of one’s choice.
82 EBHR-39

Mandal will be Muslim, our identity will be lost and will become an
historical memory.
In the world there are so many Muslim and Christian countries:
why can’t Nepal, where the majority is Hindu, be a Hindu country? 22
There are many countries for Islam and Christianity, but only one for
Hindus, our holy land of Gods and Goddesses. Secularism is the loss of
the last Hindu holy land. 23

Another frequent criticism is that secularism was decided upon without

consulting the population, by only a few politicians. Moreover, the critics
say, it is a foreign concept imposed by countries which do not implement
true secularism within their own borders:

It is a politically imposed decision that is not supported by the

population, which is in majority Hindu and should have the right to
decide by referendum.
No country in the world has a real secularism, as it is a contradiction
in itself. In the US they have secularism in the constitution, but it is not
a real one: why do you want us to be secular if the American president
makes his oath with his hand on the Bible, and the Queen of England is
the chief of the Anglican Church? So why do Western countries want to
impose in Nepal what they did not achieve for themselves?

Interviewees tend to equate secularism with religious tolerance. They

observe that secularism is not necessary because religious harmony has
always prevailed in Nepal and that Hinduism itself is a secular religion, all
encompassing, tolerant and respectful of all religions, neither dogmatic
nor proselytising. Proselytising religions are therefore considered as a
disrespectful disruption of toleration and harmony:

When the state was Hindu, 16 lakhs Muslims and many other minorities
lived peacefully in Nepal. The only result of secularism has been the

22 The percentages quoted in the interviews vary from 85% to 92%, ignoring the data of the
Nepal Census of 2001, according to which 80.6 % of Nepalese are Hindu).
23 I was also told that global Hinduism, referring here to Hindu communities in Canada
and the United States, envisions Nepal as the ‘Hindu Vatican’ (Daman Nath Dhungana,
personal communication).
 Letizia 83

loss of this religious harmony and the opening to violence. Hindus are
scared of Muslims and are reorganising to defend themselves.
In Hinduism there is no dogma, no Pope; you are free to believe
or not, to practise or not, and you can follow different rules and sects;
nobody can excommunicate you; Hinduism is freedom and toleration.
Secularism means to be free to practise and respect the freedom of
others. And we Hindus live and let others to live.

Part of the anti-secular rhetoric is built on the argument that the term
‘secularism’ (dharma nirapeksata) is unthinkable for Hindus, since it literally
means ‘keeping away from dharma’.

What is the dharma of the sun? To give light. What is the dharma of
humans? Humanity, to do good to others. Dharma nirapeksa means to
keep away from dharma; just hearing this word, I feel sick. I am not
ready to digest it. If we humans don’t follow humanity, our dharma, we
become like beasts.

This understanding of the expression dharma nirapeksha, and the conviction

that Hinduism is a tolerant ‘secular religion’, need to be analysed further.

The unpalatable meanings of dharma nirapeskha

The expression dharma nirapeksha is problematic for many Hindus, as it can
be understood either to diminish Hinduism so that it becomes merely one
of many religions, or as an invitation to live without dharma. The common
understanding of dharma nirapeksa, as the separation of the state from a
particular religion and as the equal treatment of all religions, has both
required and crystallised an important conceptual shift in the meaning of
dharma: the word can now apply to any religion practised in the country.
However, for many Hindus, dharma still refers only to Hinduism (and all
religions included in the ‘Omkar family’). In the 1935 and 1963 Muluki Ain,
only Hinduism was defined as dharma; non-Hindu religions like Islam and
Christianity were called mat ‘beliefs’, which must not ‘ruin dharma’ through
proselytisation (Gaborieau 1994: 63).
According to Angur Baba Joshi (2006: 78-82), dharma ‘sustains the
individual, the family, the society, the nation and the world’, and touches
every aspect of human conduct from birth to death and beyond death.
84 EBHR-39

The author distinguishes Religion, defined as ‘customs based on faith and

systems of worship’ with communities distributed into different religious
pigeonholes, from Dharma, which spiritually unifies the whole world. The
latter is referred to as the ‘eternal and original dharma’ (sanatana dharma)
which precedes all other religions in a temporal and hierarchical sense.
Dharma is the ever-present order of the universe which, strictly speaking,
cannot be called ‘Hindu dharma’, for it is everyone’s order, Hindu and non-
Hindu alike (Burghart 1996: 283).
One of the ‘undesirable’ effects of dharma nirapeksa is the reduction of
this multi-level notion of sanatan dharma to the narrow western sense of
‘religion’ as one of the many religious paths (considered equal by a neutral
state) that an individual can select and follow.24 This ‘diminishment’ is also
mirrored by the revolutionary change proposed by the Fundamental Rights
Committee of Nepal’s Constitutional Assembly in 2009, which added the
‘right to not believe’ to the classical definition of ‘right of religion’.25 This
may explain the strong image used by a Hindu lawyer from Janakpur to
illustrate dharma nirapeksata: ‘Secularism is like sons strangling their own
father’. Sanatan dharma, as the father of all religions, is being supplanted by
its offspring (Christianity and Islam) because of the freedom and legitimacy
that secularism has given them.
As observed above, one of the interviewees stressed that he could not
‘digest’ the expression dharma nirapeksa, which he saw as an invitation to
people to live without dharma, the very thing that makes them human.
The meaning of secular as ‘not being related to religion’ here shifts from
a characterisation of a non-religious state and comes to designate a non-
religious individual. In order to address the indigestible nature of this
expression, it may be useful to come back to Angur Baba Joshi’s definition

24 This Hindu diminishment of post-secular Nepal sharply contrasts with the Hindu
encompassment noticed by Sondra Hausner (2007) during the five years of Gyanendra’s
rule (2001-2006).
25 The Right of Religion in the Interim Constitution of Nepal 2007 reads as follows: ‘Every
person shall have the right to profess, practise and preserve his/her own religion as
handed down to him/her from ancient times (parapurba dekhi caliaeko) having due regards
to the social and cultural traditional practices (pracalit samajik evam samskritik paramparako
mayarda rakhi)’. In the Preliminary Draft of the CA Committee for Fundamental Rights and
Directive Principles of 2066 the sentence was changed in this way: ‘Every person shall
have the freedom to profess, practice and preserve his or her own religion in accordance
with his or her faith (aphno astha anusar), or to refrain from any religion (kunei dharmabata
alag rahane)’.
 Letizia 85

of dharma. There is a basic dharma common to all human beings (manava

dharma) and a special dharma, according to the social position of the
individual (mother’s dharma, daughter’s dharma, Guru dharma, disciple’s
dharma):

The attributes of Dharma (…): patience, forgiveness, self control, non-

stealing, purity, wisdom, knowledge, truthfulness, not getting angry
etc. (…) are inborn positive basic human qualities which are eternal
and universal and which uplift and qualify human beings to be the
crown of creation. (...) Manifestation of humanity is proportional to the
demonstration of these attributes in daily life. Otherwise, one is reduced
to no more than a beast in human form (Joshi 2006: 79; emphasis added).

In the same way as there is a King’s dharma, there is also a subject’s

dharma. The late king Birendra once said: ‘In Nepal, the monarch and his
subjects have been governed by Dharma, a system drawn from the Hindu
religion. The King cannot change this value system’ (Shaha 1975: 7 quoted
in Hachhethu 2003: 57). The religious identities of the state and of the
individual are connected. Hinduism is not a private matter; it needs the
state’s laws if it is to be sustained. So it is understood that a dharma nirapeksa
state will not be governed by the religious ideals that support the order
of things and that people will live without the spiritual development that
defines their true human nature (and their place in society).
Not surprisingly, the debate on secularism has focused on the expression
itself (Kattel 2010). Activists in both India and Nepal have rejected the
notion of dharma nirapeksa and campaigned for alternatives, including
sarva dharma sapeksa ‘in relation to all the dharmas’ (Rayamajhi 2010), sarva
dharma sambhava ‘equal regard to all religions’ (Shrestha 2006) and pantha
nirapeksa ‘denominationally neutral’ (Srinivas 2009).26
Rayamajhi (2010) affirms that the meaning of dharma nirapeksha is ‘state
without religion’, something that cannot exist anywhere in the world, as no
political power can eradicate values, beliefs and traditions. He admits that
the word ‘Hindu’ has come to be associated with caste discrimination, which

26 Pantha can be translated as ‘sect’, i.e. a way of life chosen by a religious group to which one
chooses to belong, such a group being termed sampradaya. Pantha nirapeksa means that
the state is not biased toward any sectarian viewpoint, but that all the differences will be
included in an encompassing vision of dharma.
86 EBHR-39

results from a misunderstanding of Dharma. Therefore, as an alternative to

both a Hindu state and a dharma nirapeksa state, the author suggests ‘the new
republican state of Nepal respectful to all dharmas’ (sarva dharma sapeksa
lok ganatantra rajya naya Nepal). The alternative to dharma nirapekshata is ‘a
state built on the moral basis of the sanatan arya vedic dharma, which teaches
friendship, love, equality, justice, tolerance’ (sahishnuta).
This is what the BJP wants for India and hopes to apply in Nepal as the
only remaining land of Hinduism. The BJP’s position is ‘that Hinduism be
given a special status and be recognized as a cultural identity equivalent
to Indian-ness, so that one could be a Muslim Hindu, a Christian Hindu or
a Buddhist Hindu’ (Gellner 2001: 338). This was the logic of the words of
Kamal Thapa, the chairman of Rastriya Prajatantra Party Nepal :

When we talk of a Hindu state, we are not only talking about a Hindu
nation: our emphasis is on the Hindu identity of the state. We are not in
favour of the state protecting one particular religion. What we would
like to have is a Hindu state with total religious freedom (...) Hinduism
has become a part of Nepali culture. Thus, by retaining a Hindu state,
we are trying to promote a unique national identity (Thapa 2010).

While tolerance is a positive value in society, able to reach social spaces

and practices that cannot be legalised, the Hindu Right’s usage of notions of
tolerance and equality between all religions, in an attempt to appropriate
secularism and incorporate it within its political rhetoric, is a different thing
altogether (Cossman and Kapur 1997). If secularism simply means respect
for all faiths, then there is no need for it, because Hindu religion already
wholeheartedly welcomes all religions. Actually, it is the only religion that
expresses true tolerance: proselytising religions do not, because they claim
to be superior. Therefore, the right to propagate one’s religion—an integral
part of religious liberty—is deemed by the Hindu Right to be a violation
of tolerance and religious freedom (Cossman and Kapur 1997: 147). In this
logic, only a country based on Hinduism can be truly secular, and the notion
of toleration ends up meaning the supremacy of Hinduism.
Nepal’s steps toward religious pluralism are often read by the Hindu
majority through a language of religious tolerance. However, the notion
of sarva dharma sambhava ‘equal regard to all religions’ and the notion of
dharma nirapekshata requested by Nepali civil society from 1990 onwards
 Letizia 87

need to be unpacked and disassociated from one another. The former is

based on religious tolerance while the latter is based on social inclusiveness
and participation; the former’s equality is formulated on a spiritual level
and does not necessarily get rid of hierarchy, while the latter’s equality is
based on the notion of equal citizenship. As Richard Burghart writes:

Harmonious religious relations are not a matter of mutual respect

by private practitioners of different religions of equal value; rather
religious harmony derives from the acceptance of one’s place in a
system of unequal value. In other words, the basis for religious tolerance
does not lie outside the system of religious ideas itself (1996: 291-292).

The language of religious tolerance (mostly used by the Hindu majority)

operates within the Hindu religious system while the language of religious
pluralism (mostly used by janajatis and religious minorities in their call for
dharmanirapeksata) exits this system and operates at the level of minority
rights, invoking respect between religions of equal value.27

The shaping of secularism by the judiciary: two court cases

In the absence of any constitutional or governmental guidance as to
the meaning of secularism, the concept has so far been shaped through
public debates and incidents. Some of these gave rise to petitions before
the Supreme Court, giving the judges the opportunity to rule on various
aspects of the relation between state and religion, and thus to play a crucial
role in defining the fluid notion of secularism. A growing judicial activism
in Nepal has challenged many laws and practices as being unconstitutional
and inconsistent with human rights through the system of Public Interest
Litigation (PIL).28 These petitions also dealt with questions involving
religious traditions, as in the two cases briefly analysed here, referred to as
the ‘Pashupatinath case’ and the ‘Kumari case’.29

27 For instance, the following exchange took place in the Biratnagar jail between a Hindu
serving a sentence for a crime connected to anti-secular activism (A) and a Muslim co-
prisoner (B). A: ‘Secularism is about equality of religions and religious harmony, but we
already had this: there was no need for secularism to get that’. B: ‘Yes, in the past there
was harmony, but it was under your control, while now there is freedom’.
28 See article 107 of the Interim Constitution of Nepal 2063.
29 These cases are mentioned only briefly here, but detailed articles by the present author
are in preparation (Letizia (forthcoming) a, Letizia (forthcoming) b).
88 EBHR-39

The ‘Pashupatinath Case’ is a collection of six PILs concerning events

that took place between the end of 2008 and September 2009, around
Nepal’s foremost Hindu temple.30 Here only one of these events will be
recalled, together with the petition on which the Supreme Court focused
for its detailed judgement. At the end of December 2008, the Pashupati
Area Development Trust (PADT) governing board, headed by Nepal’s then
Prime Minister, the Maoist leader Pushpa Kamal Dahal, appointed new
Nepali priests in Pashupatinath temple, breaking with the old tradition of
appointing Bhatta priests from South India. This occurred in the context of a
double campaign by the UCPN (Maoist) which was asserting the sovereignty
of the Nepali nation against the old tradition and demanding transparency
and accountability with respect to the rich donations received by the
priests and their assistants in the course of their ritual performances.31 The
appointments provoked massive protests, both at home and in India, where
they were supported by the BJP. Three PILs were almost immediately filed
asking the Supreme Court to invalidate this action, and the court promptly
issued an interim order to revert to the status quo. Faced with this, the Prime
Minister revoked his decision and the Indian Bhatta priests were allowed to
resume their regular duties at the temple.
One of the PILs, filed by lawyers Lokdhoj Thapa and Binod Phunyal,
argued the principle of secularism.32 The petition did not limit itself to the
particular appointment of the Nepali priests; more importantly, it attacked
the whole structure of Pashupatinath, pleading that the law which created
the PADT violated the principle of ‘separation of Church and state’ and was
unconstitutional. The Trust itself, not just the appointment of the priests,
was the problem and a new organisation instead of the present state-
controlled PADT should be established so that the temple could operate free
from state intervention, in compliance with the concept of secularism. This
petition, to the best of my knowledge, gave rise to the first Supreme Court

30 On Pashupatinath temple and the complex dynamics of belonging around it, see Michaels
(2008, 2011).
31 A settlement of these issues was recently announced, whereby donations will now be
handled by the Ministry of Culture and priests will be paid by the state (Ankit Adhikari,
It’s official: Priests to get salary, www.ekantipur.com/the-kathmandu-post/2012/01/23/
nation/its-official-priests-to-get-salary/230746.html)
32 Lok Dhoj Thapa and Binod Phunyal vs. Prime Minister and Patron of Pashupati Area
Development Trust, Office of the Prime Minister and Council of Ministers et al. Writ
Petition no. 0366 filed on 16 Poush, 2065 B.S (31st December, 2008).
 Letizia 89

Plate 3. The events at Pashupatinath and the relationship between politics and religion
were commented upon in many articles and cartoons
(Source: Nagarik, 8 September 2009.)

decision explicitly dealing with the newly declared secularism. In defending

the right of religion, the petition introduced the idea of ‘freedom from state
interference’, which was inconceivable under a Hindu state. The petition
articulated secularism as a principle whereby the state may not intervene in
the activities of religious institutions or in the exercise of the citizen’s right
to religion, the focus here being that it is the religious institution which needs
protection. The petitioners also pointed out the absurdity of appointing
(Maoist) non-believers as the patron, the president and the secretary of the
Trust, and charging them with the maintenance of Hindu institutions. This
line of argument owed much to the confrontational actions of the Maoist
government, which marked the end of the symbiotic relationship between
the state and Hinduism. This government challenged the system and awoke
protest against what was perceived as a ‘cultural revolution’, thus prompting
a reflection on the need to separate state and religion.
It is somewhat paradoxical that the first petitioners to judicially invoke
secularism after its declaration did so in order to protect a time-honoured
Hindu tradition from the new secular state led by Maoists, using the notion of
90 EBHR-39

secularism against the very same party which had so strenuously militated
in favour of a secular republic. These incidents and the debate that followed
led to a shift in the meaning of secularism, to incorporate the principle
of non-interference of the state in religious matters.33 In the judgement
rendered on 11th January 2010, the court agreed with this principle,
though it did not take this opportunity to make a more robust analysis of
secularism. It also agreed that the management of Pashupatinath should be
reformed and made accountable for the large amount of donations made
by devotees. The court held that an overall reform of the Pashupati area
was necessary and that a detailed master plan dealing with the worship,
the priests and the guthi of Pashupatinath, should be immediately made
in ‘accordance with the values of a secular state’. The court recommended
turning to India as a proper model for Nepal to study, as a secular state
with a large number of Hindus. As things now stand, the Court has ordered
the formation of an expert committee to study this complex situation and
make recommendations.
Far from being only a Kathmandu-based incident, this case inspired
similar discourses in other temples. For example, at the Janaki temple in
Janakpur meetings were held of traditional stakeholders to confront the fact
that they could no longer rely on a government led by a king, the protector
of religion, but had to deal with a government led by Maoist ‘atheists’. Thus,
the language of secularism was used to secure the autonomy of the religious
domain, which should be given rights to administer itself, and be subjected
to as little state control as possible. 34
The second case studied, regarding the tradition of the ‘living goddess’
Kumari, originated from the concerns of human rights activists. In 2005,
Pun Devi Maharjan, a Newar human rights lawyer, brought the tradition

33 Nilambar Acharya, chairman of the Constitutional Committee said: ‘We want to free
religion from the state: why should religion be burdened by the wrongdoings of the state?
Rulers do good and bad. If religion is not separated, all the bad doings of rulers will be
directed towards religion. The state is an instrument of coercion, with the military, the
courts, prisons, laws; but religion is an institution of love, it is so different, why should
religion be linked to these institution? This is why we are making Nepal secular. We want
to free religion from the state, otherwise what the state does, Hindus will be blamed for’
(Interview, 21st April 2010).
34 The idea of ‘independence from the state’ pleased the Mahanta of Janaki Mandir, despite
his prior anti-secular convictions. It could be called ‘a second line of defence of the
tradition’, an eventual space for compromise.
 Letizia 91

Plate 4. Nepal’s President, Ram Baran Yadav, receives a blessing from the Kumari of
Lalitpur (source: Basanta Maharjan 2010).

of Kumari under the scrutiny of the court in the name of child rights.35
The case did not concern only the famous (national) Basantapur Kumari,
who traditionally blessed the king and now blesses the President during
her annual chariot festival, but concerned all the children worshipped as
Kumaris in the Kathmandu valley.36 The PIL was filed while the state was still
a Hindu kingdom, and the verdict was rendered in 2008, when the state had
become a secular republic. No explicit reference to secularism was made in
this case, and yet it allowed the judges to reflect on the relation between
religion and the state, and their judgement can be seen as a landmark case
for secularism. The very fact that the goddess was scrutinised in a court
as a human being capable of being deprived of human rights mirrors the
political and symbolic transformation of that period.
The petitioner surveyed the conditions of the Kumaris and the
restrictions imposed upon them by their ritual life (which are stricter
for the national Kumari), and argued that the Kumari tradition violated
numerous legal provisions, including the Constitution of Nepal, the

35 This case has been first studied by Axel Michaels (2009).

36 On the cult of Kumari, see, among others, Allen (1996), Shakya and Berry (2005).
92 EBHR-39

Children Act, and the Convention on the Rights of the Child 1989, to which
Nepal is a signatory. The petitioner did not seek to abolish this cult, but to
reform it so that it would conform to human rights standards. She argued
that unless the human rights of these children were fully guaranteed, the
tradition could eventually die out. During the case, representatives of the
Newar community invoked the right of religion, affirming that the Kumari
tradition was its exclusive domain and should not suffer any ‘outside’
intervention. They were refusing the reduction of the living goddess,
whose status is above mundane rules, to that of an ordinary child. They
also denied any wrongdoing.
The 2008 judgment37 strikes a delicate balance between the claims
of Newars to their traditional religious rights, the position of the Hindu
majority (to whom almost all judges belong and for whom the Kumari is
a revered tradition), the importance of the Kumari as a national deity,
and the claim that the state has a national and international legal duty to
uphold human rights. The court established human rights as the primary
set of values of the state and pronounced the primacy of social reforms
based on human rights over traditional religious practices:

If any custom or tradition has caused any infringement to the

fundamental rights […] this Court is competent to enforce the enjoyment
of rights thus infringed. This court may also issue an order prohibiting
such custom or tradition by law. In case of conflict […] religion must
yield to provide space for social reforms. Religious practices cannot
be an impediment to social reforms. […] The State may prohibit such
practices and dogmas if they tend to create impediments to any human
rights (Bhattarai 2010: 130).

The existence of state values that are independent from and prevailing
over those of the religious tradition are an essential requirement of the
notion of secularism. Without referring to the principle of secularism, the
court thus established one of its cornerstones and helped to secularise the
newly declared secular state, by distinguishing the domain of the religious

37 Pun Devi Maharjan vs. Govt. of Nepal, office of Prime Minister and Council of Ministers
and Others. NKP 2065 B.S. (2008) vol. 50 n. 6: 751-776. The verdict has been republished
by the National Judicial Academy in both Nepali and English in a collection of landmark
decisions of the Supreme Court on gender justice (Bhattarai 2010).
 Letizia 93

(practised by communities) and the domain of human rights (protected by

the state).
However, the court determined that the Kumari tradition itself did not
infringe the human rights of the Kumaris, using the argument that the rules
applied to them are not based on written tradition but on ‘oral traditions
and beliefs’ and thus are not inherent to this tradition: any Newar could
modify these rules. The court recognised the Kumari tradition as an integral
part of Newar culture and explicitly considered Newars as ‘agents of change
in their traditional custom and practices in tune with the times’. Indeed,
the court provided a forum for this to happen: after the main hearing in
October 2006, the court ordered the constitution of a committee of experts,
all Newar (including the petitioner herself), to study this issue and to
submit a report within three months.38 This gave members of the Newar
community an opportunity to look at their own tradition with ‘secular
eyes’ or at least to compare it with secular human rights values. Such a
committee offers an example of the constructive role played by the court
in shaping new understandings of the religious tradition, as a powerful
forum for raising awareness and negotiating reform.39 The court refuted
allegations of child labour and took great pains to distinguish ‘child labour’
from ‘Kumari work’ (that is, sitting on her throne to receive worship) and
to identify the latter as an essential part of a particular Hindu and Buddhist
devotional practice.
However, in the end, the court acknowledged that past Kumaris,
due to confusion and backwardness, may have been deprived of their
fundamental rights and held that the state must help and support them,
as it is ‘the duty of the state to work for the promotion and improvement
of its religious and cultural customs’. In the judges’ view, the state should
appreciate the Kumaris’ contributions to the cultural and religious life of
the nation, and should make arrangements for their social security. The
judges finally ordered the creation of a new committee to conduct a study
on how the Kumaris’ rights can be promoted, and also issued an order to the
38 The report of the committee was presented to the Supreme Court in 2007, but both
the petitioner and the representative of the stakeholders felt that it did not take into
account their vision. They therefore filed their own dissenting reports, later published in
Vajracharya (2009).
39 The composition and terms of reference of the committee outlined by the Court in the
Pashupati case also indicates that it will serve not only as a think-tank, but also as a
discussion forum for stakeholders from all sides.
94 EBHR-39

government to implement the report of the committee once it is submitted.

With these fine distinctions, the judgment avoided labelling the Kumari
tradition as a discriminatory practice, while leaving space for change and
reform. The judgment assumed a distinction between religion and the state:
the court and the other branches of the state have secular ends, and yet
they engage with religion to enact social reform and to ensure compliance
with constitutionally-recognised human rights.40 However, this primacy
of human rights does not involve any intention to diminish the presence
of religion in the public sphere. Instead, the state has a duty to promote
and support this religious custom, which is considered valuable for the
social, cultural and religious life of the nation. Actually, no one involved in
the court hearings paused to consider whether secularism precluded the
continued financing of the Kumari tradition by the state.41
The Pashupatinath case and the Kumari case both illustrate a rather
unusual form of secularism. This ascribes an active role to the state in both
supporting and reforming religious traditions, in clear contrast with the
neutral stance and no-relation policy that is generally seen as a mark of
secularism in the West. These cases are contributing to the evolution of
the notion of secularism in a Nepali context. However, the limits of this
emerging notion have only just begun to be outlined and tested and they
will certainly be tested further if real inclusivity is implemented. Both cases
deal with the Hindu-Buddhist religious traditions of the majority of the
population, and are associated with national pride. They also have been
debated among the high-caste Hindus who dominate the legal and political
fields. The Pashupati case already shows the necessity of at least amending
the state-religion institutional links. The Kumari case did not extend to any
consideration of whether the President receiving a tika from the Kumari
might amount to a failure to exercise his secular office. However, what
would happen if a Muslim president was to celebrate the festival of Eid
in his capacity as Head of State? Court cases involving the relationships

40 This engagement with religion is also a prominent feature of the Pashupatinath case, to
the extent that while the judgment acknowledges that the state should not interfere, it
also orders a thorough review of the temple’s institutions and practices.
41 That secularism could not possibly mean the removal of state funding was clearly
manifested in the outrage of the Newar community during Indra Jatra in 2008, when
the Maoist Finance Minister announced a reduction of government funding for religious
festivals in his budget speech. His decision was quickly revoked after intense popular
protests.
 Letizia 95

between religious minorities and the state will certainly modify and shape
the notion further; and a truly inclusive policy which allowed a significant
number of persons other than high-caste Hindus to occupy positions of
authority at the Court and in the government would naturally lead to (and
be a reflection of) a more effective separation between Hinduism and the
state. This is something that is difficult to imagine in the current situation.

Conclusion
The data discussed in this paper point to a distinctive form of secularism in
the making. This recognises religious communities and their festivals and
gives them a space in the public sphere (e.g. the inclusion of minorities’
festivals in the national calendar, or the Muslim request for their own
personal laws). So far, secularism has not prevented the state from financing
Hindu religious institutions, but has instead been seen as an opportunity
for religious minorities to claim equal support. The state is given the active
duty to enhance and reform religious traditions, as both the Kumari and
the Pashupatinath cases showed.42 So far, the notion of separation between
state and religion has been legally invoked only to protect a Hindu religious
institution from (non-Hindu) state control. The analysis of the processes
shaping secularism in Nepal suggests that a model of secularity as a public
space free from religious arguments, religious symbols and religious groups
is untenable in practice. What conceptual framework could be used to
describe this form of secularism? And how might this model assuage the
fears expressed by Hindus? The normative reflections of Rajeev Bhargava
on an (idealised) Indian form of secularism and his notion of ‘principled
distance’ (2010: 63-105) may be of some help here.
Bhargava argues that Indian secularism has to differ from the classical
liberal model, which dictates strict separation between religious and
political institutions and recognises individuals and beliefs but not groups
and practices (Bhargava 2010: 25-26). The circumstances of India (and
the same could be said for Nepal)—an enormous diversity of religious
communities; social practices emphasised over individual beliefs; many
discriminatory religious practices in need of reform—dictate that religious
freedom must also include the right of religious communities to carry out
42 The Court assumed it had full jurisdiction to guide and oversee the disentanglement
between state and religion, and to define the contours of the future relationship between
them in the light of Indian experience.
96 EBHR-39

their own practices, and that equality of citizenship applies also to the
religious groups to which citizens belong. In the absence of a unified religious
organisation, reform within Hinduism can hardly be initiated without the
help of the state. Bhargava introduces the notion of ‘principled distance’,
which entails a flexible approach to the matter of state intervention in the
religious domain or its abstention from it. The state has secular ends and is
institutionally separate from religion, but it can engage with religious issues
at the level of law and social policy; whether the state intervenes or not
depends on what strengthens religious liberty and equality of citizenship
(Bhargava 1998: 536; 2010: 87-96). This form of secularism accepts religion
as a resource that ‘manifests itself as individual belief and feeling as well as
social practice in the public domain’ (Bhargava 2010: 88).
Bhargava’s reflections throw light on possible ways in which secularism
might be shaped in Nepal through a contextual moral and legal reasoning
freed from the rigid application of a Western concept, thus reducing the
potential for fundamentalist reactions and mistrust between communities.
The Kumari case is an example of how religious traditions in Nepal can be
analysed, questioned, reinterpreted and yet also upheld by the judiciary as
a response to the challenges of state secularisation. The Pashupatinath case
also seems to be going in a similar direction, and to address the issue of the
boundaries between state and religion. This could lead to a ‘religionisation’
of the courts, which are being called upon to decide what religion is and
what it is not. However, I suggest that this distinctive form of secularism
could find more acceptance in Nepal ‘by embodying the idea of respectful
transformation of religions’. This would be in the line of ‘a venerable
tradition of religious reformers, who tried to change their religions
precisely because they meant so much to them’ (Bhargava 2010: 91). As
shown in the Kumari case, the notion that religious traditions must accept
the challenge of modern times is widely accepted and allows for substantial
reforms to take place without hurting the ‘religious feelings of the people’
that are recurrently invoked by fundamentalists.
While I have suggested in this article that secularism in Nepal should
not be appraised with reference to a normative western model, I have also
attempted to demonstrate that the redefinition of secularism as a local
version of ‘religious harmony’ cannot satisfy the claims for equality and
inclusion for which dharma nirapekshata has been a rallying call since the
1990s. I have proposed that dharma nirapeksata should be distinguished from
 Letizia 97

the notion of religious tolerance, through which the Hindu Right tries to
encompass minorities, presenting Hindu dharma as neutral, so that attempts
by religious minorities to assert their rules, their needs or their religious
subjectivity appear to be deviant and threatening. As Brenda Cossman and
Ratna Kapur have remarked, ‘the formal equality of the Hindu Right means
that the dominant community becomes the norm against which all other
communities are to be judged’ (Cossman and Kapur 1997: 147). The state
seems to be acting neutrally only when it reinforces the practices of the
Hindu majority. So, if Hindus do not need special rights (to the extent that
legal rights are based on Hindu cultural norms and practices) why should
minorities ask for them?
It could be argued that secularism in Western countries (which is a
product of a particular religious history, producing a particular concept
of religion) also presents itself as a neutral space and considers diverging
religious subjectivities as exceptional. Both Hindu tolerance and Western
secularism imply the norm of a majority offering a neutral space for
religious minorities, provided that they do not deviate from the norm
(like, for instance, Muslims in France or Christians in Nepal). A way out of
these normative models can be found only through the identification of
pragmatic solutions in a process of continuous, respectful and self-reflexive
compromise and experimentation.
The elite of Nepali social activists, lawyers and politicians, Western-
educated or working with Western advising bodies,43 and brokers of Western
notions of secularism, will have to negotiate the coexistence of different
understandings of and oppositions to secularism in Nepal, and in the Tarai
in particular. Nepal is a post-secular laboratory, where the state’s policy
must walk a tightrope, upholding ‘absolute’ secular values such as equal
citizenship, and yet balancing the Hindu majority tradition, Hindu fears,
and the claims of minorities for social, political and religious recognition.
The emerging form of Nepali secularism may not merely contribute to a
rethinking of the Western categories of the secular; its continuing evolution
may also be most instructive for European countries whose multiculturalist
model is in crisis as they come under pressure to accommodate religious
diversity.

43 Among them, an important role is played by the Centre for Constitutional Dialogue, an
initiative of the UNDP project ‘Support to Participatory Constitution Building in Nepal’.
98 EBHR-39

Appendix

The dark months of Nepalese secularism, February-March 2010

12 February
At the inauguration of Siva Mandir in Janakpur, Nischalanand Saraswati
Shankaracharya gives a speech in favour of monarchy and the Hindu
Kingdom. He affirms that it is necessary to have the rule of the King to have
a Hindu state and to save Nepal’s ‘Hinduness’‘(hindutva), as Hindu religion
is disappearing from the world.
On the same occasion, the Mahant of Janaki Mandir says that the 601
members of the Constituent Assembly cannot impose secularism in a
country where there is a majority of Hindus.
To the disbelief of Maoist cadres, the Maoist leader Prachanda worships
a buffalo in a religious camp in Chatara, Sunsari district, to appease the

Plate 5. A cartoon mocking political leaders, including from the UML and UCPN
(Maoist), who along with thousands of other people attended Swami Ramdev’s yoga
camp in Kathmandu in March 2010
(source: The Kathmandu Post, 1 April 2010).
 Letizia 99

bad influence of Saturn (no party, Maoist included, wants to alienate Hindu
voters).

22 February
The Rastriya Prajatantra Party-Nepal calls a strike in the Kathmandu Valley
demanding a referendum on secularism, federalism and republic.
Deputy Prime Minister Sujata Koirala attends a religious ceremony, where
she declares that the demand for a Hindu state cannot be ignored and must
be incorporated in the Constitution. She says that Hindus form 85% of the
population and that ignoring the feelings of the majority in the Constitution
will trigger a catastrophe in the country. She states: ‘A Constitution framed
without encompassing the grievances and agenda of Hindus would be futile
and meaningless’.
The Free Student Union in Valmiki Campus issues a press statement
demanding that Nepal be declared a Hindu state and that ‘ancient religions,
norms and values of the Nepali Society be preserved’. They add: ‘We will
not be able to accept a secular State’ (...) Hindu religion is the backbone of
the country and it is the identity of the country and it should be protected
at any cost’. They demand that a decision on this issue be taken by a
referendum.

1 to 9 March
Kalidas Baba conducts a 9 days fire-sacrifice (Rudracandi Akanda Mahayagya)
for the restoration of a Hindu state, attended by the ex-king. Many
politicians attend to express their support, including NC leaders Krishna
Prasad Bhattarai, Khum Bahadur Khadka, and Vice-President Paramanand
Jha, all of whom make pro-Hindu, pro-monarchy speeches. According to
Kalidas Baba, even Maoist leaders attend during the night.

13 March
Back from Haridwar, Vice-President Paramanda Jha openly supports
the restoration of a Hindu state and holds meetings with pro-Hindu
organisations in Kathmandu.

22 March
Former president of Indian Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) Rajnath Singh,
attending GP Koirala’s funeral in Kathmandu, declares that he would be
100 EBHR-39

very happy if a Hindu state was restored in Nepal and that his party will
always support this agenda.
An underground group called Bhisma Ekata Parishad enforces a violent
strike in Kailali and Dadeldhura districts, in support of a Hindu state and
the cow as national animal. Nepal Shiva Sena chairman Manoj Shrestha
issues a statement expressing solidarity with the strike.

24 March
President Yadav and former King Gyanendra visit Janaki Mandir in Janakpur
in order to celebrate Ram Nawami. With only two hours difference, they
enter the temple for the puja, both covered by the honorific parasol and
accompanied by the temple’s Mahanta. Gyanendra gives a TV interview,
where he says: ‘I do not think that monarchy has ended, this is an
hypothetical question (…) If we turn the pages of history monarchy has
faced ups and downs, exits and entries are common.. Let the people decide
what they want’.

28 March
Former Prime Minister and founding leader of NC Krishna Prasad Bhattarai
declares that the ‘excellent’ 1990 constitution must be revived (as the
promulgation of a new statute for May 28 is not possible) and that federalism,
republic and secularism were ‘hurriedly imported concepts’. The fact that
political parties in the Constituent Assembly are divided on these concepts,
he says, shows that they work against Nepal’s genuine identity and needs.

29 March
Kamal Thapa, chairman of the Rastriya Prajatantra Party Nepal (in the
vanguard of the pro-monarchy and pro-Hindu state movement) gives a
interview in Republica national daily, titled ‘Girija Babu was completely in
favour of monarchy’, where he explains that a Hindu state is compatible
with total religious freedom.
 Letizia 101

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 105

LECTURE
106 EBHR-39

The Ninth Annual Lecture of the Britain-Nepal Academic Council

SOAS, London, 31 October 2011

Time, Identity and Historical Change in the Hills of Nepal

Anne de Sales

Introduction
Change has been an omnipresent theme in Nepali cultural production since
the 1950s and throughout the Panchayat era. The title of the first play
written by the young Bhupi Sherchan in 1953/4 was Paribartan, ‘The Change’.
This was an early attempt, Michael Hutt tells us, ‘to produce creative Nepali
literature in a revolutionary mode ‘ (Hutt 2010: 26). In the same vein, the
progressive songs produced by the cultural front of the then banned political
parties repeatedly pushed a single argument: the necessity of change. The
lyrics give elaborate descriptions of the prevailing injustice, exploitation
and hardships suffered by people, and follow up this assessment with the
promise of a bright future after change. However, as Ingemar Grandin puts
it, ‘change is also where progressive rhetoric comes to a full stop ‘ (Grandin
1996: 7). The future is alluded to in general or metaphorical terms, as if
the quest for change were less about transformation strictly speaking than
about its possibilities. What the vague but overwhelming notion of change
expresses is the hope for change.
Well, change did happen, didn’t it? To be sure, the transformation of
a Hindu kingdom into a possibly Federal Democratic Republic is radical
enough. In the span of eighteen years, between the popular upheaval
of 1990 culminating in King Birendra’s gift of a constitution to his
subjects, and the proclamation of the Republic of Nepal by a Maoist-led
Constituent Assembly in May 2008, the country went through ten years of
a revolutionary insurrection and a total political transformation. It does
not follow, however, that the social fabric of the society or the economic
conditions of the country have been transformed in the same radical and
obvious manner.
As a matter of fact, if we are to believe a recent study by Piers Blaikie,
John Cameron and David Seddon, not much has changed over the last
couple of decades. The three authors re-visited the rural households that
 Lecture 107

they had surveyed for their famous book Nepal in Crisis, published in 1980.
Their conclusion is that ‘The most important empirical conclusion about
social change in rural western Nepal over the past 20 years is the degree of
continuity’ (Blaikie et al. 2002: 1267). And again, ‘The data suggest that social,
natural and produced capital have all remained more or less constant over
20 years.’ Contrary to the pessimistic predictions of Nepal in Crisis, there has
not been a slide into deepening poverty for the majority of the population,
but on the other hand there has been hardly any significant development
either. However, they also observe that, contrasting with this condition of
stasis, ‘human capital has shown a profound upheaval and a high degree of
mobility and adaptability’ (ibid.). Blaikie et al. are not the only observers to
have stressed that resilience is a constant and enduring quality of Nepal’s
populations.
As we say in French: ‘plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose’ or
‘the more things change, the more they stay the same’. The supposed
wisdom of this adage rests on a logical confusion between two different
orders of things, the two different levels of observation and experience:
the multiplication of changes at one level may hide a structural continuity
at another, or, the other way round, a feeling of continuity may persist in
spite of structural transformations. And if change pops up so frequently
in ordinary conversation, it is because it is part of our daily experience as
the passage of time: it is common to all of us, but its identification depends
on the point of view of the speaker. In other words, when people speak
of change, they speak of themselves. What needs to be understood is the
relationships between subjectivity and social change.
So how new is Naya Nepal? How are we, as social scientists, to assess
the changes Nepal is going through? How should we include in our analysis
the different scales of space and time involved in the changes as they are
perceived? In this lecture I will begin by discussing the methodological
difficulties there are in identifying ongoing changes. If objective,
quantitative changes do exist, the inherently subjective dimension of the
notion of change, and its eminently ideological character in a revolutionary
period, merely multiply the points of view. However, what all these
different points of view share is the perception of time. This became clear
to me during my visits to the same area in western Nepal, and even to the
same village, over the course of thirty years. Thus in the second half of
this lecture, I will concentrate on the Magar community that I know best
108 EBHR-39

with a view to exploring how the people and I have experienced change. I
will describe the different time scales at work in their oral literature and
daily practices, and show how these various understandings of time are
part of the community’s identity and provide the motivation for its actions.
Finally I will analyse a particular event that took place in a village that was
declared the capital of Maoism, and has been given a central part in the
revolutionary epic of Prachanda. This event took place during a calendrical
festival in the course of my last visit, in June 2010. To borrow a phrase from
Sally Moore, I shall call it a ‘diagnostic event ‘, insofar as it shows change in
the making or history at work.

I. Social change: a methodological conundrum

‘plus ça change…’: rupture and continuity

It would be presumptuous of me to try to review in a few words—or even
many words for that matter­—the theoretical and methodological problems
attached to the study of change that have always been at the heart of
history and sociology. I will confine myself to a few remarks concerning
the development of my subject, anthropology, in relation to its two sister
subjects, sociology and history. It is interesting that the theme of social
change was very much in vogue in the social sciences in the 1960s before
once more subsiding into obscurity. A recent study reveals that the number
of articles published in international journals since the 1940s mentioning
‘social change’ in their titles reached a peak in the 1970s, before falling by
half and then dwindling even further in the following two decades.1 This
drop in the number of publications reflects an evolution of social sciences
about which it may be useful to speculate briefly.
After the second world war, sociologists tried to understand the
transition of their (mostly western) societies towards modernity and,
following the great sociologists of the 19th century, several theories
of social change were developed. These theories aimed at isolating one
main cause or motor of all social changes: the material conditions of
production, development of technology, mutation of values, class struggle
etc; all changes would result from inner contradictions or, on the contrary,
1 108 scientific papers in sociology identified in J-Stor claimed to study social change in
their title in the 1970s, against only 72 and 57 in the next two decades, even though the
total number of identified articles increased (Tremoulinas 2006: 4).
 Lecture 109

from external forces. Sociologists were even ambitious enough to make

scientific predictions concerning the evolution of their society. The
empirical complexity of social change and the evolution of sociology itself
caused them gradually to abandon this ambition in the 1980s. Thereafter,
the sociologists tried rather to build their case studies as paradigms for
the study of change and ceased to look for general or scientific theories of
social change.
In the domain of anthropology after the war, in spite of the fact that
many countries were aspiring to their independence and were engaged
in the process of nation building, most ethnographers (though not all)
would conclude their monographs with some dutiful remarks on their
host societies that were changing ‘under the influence of modernity’. It
was clear that for most anthropologists social change somehow fell into a
residual category and was a mere addendum to their essentially synchronic
studies: as if change was something that began only once they had departed
from the field. All this is well known and has been rightly and sufficiently
criticised. The subsequent conversion of anthropologists to history and
the fact that they started to take into account the temporal dimension
of the societies they studied rendered the category ‘social change’
obsolete. Change no longer stood apart from the study of the society but
was inherently integrated into it: hence the gradual drop in publications
claiming to study social change. But can history account for social change
as it is happening?
The historians of the French revolution have taught us to distinguish
between the event itself and the causes of that event: the event, says
François Furet, is political and ideological while its causes are to be found
in the economic, the social and the administrative structures of the society
and operate on a different time scale (Furet 1978). The causes go much
further back in time and develop gradually, almost unnoticed, while the
event itself obeys different dynamics, such as a combination of partly
random circumstances that precipitated the course of things. The event
has a date and may look like a rupture in both the historical development
of the country and the experience of the social agents, while the causes
will be best understood as continuities. This is why thinking in terms of
the dichotomies between rupture and continuity, or before and after, leads
to frustrating dead ends if we want to explain or grasp the nature of social
change. Change is necessarily both rupture and continuity.
110 EBHR-39

This is not so much of a problem when dealing with the French

revolution, which happened in a relatively distant past. It is up to the
historians to organise the ‘facts’ at their disposal in a chronological order
and gradually introduce the interwoven causes of the event so that the
reader will be able to make sense of what happened. The different scales of
time and space can be introduced one after the other in a discursive manner.
I am not suggesting that the corpus of the historian is closed—the archives,
no doubt, will keep generations of researchers busy—nor that she or he is
dealing with a dead past. But if the past of the French revolution lives on,
as it certainly does in French identity, for instance, then the historian will
leave the anthropologist to study how it lives on. So, to answer the above
question—whether History can account for changes as they occur—it is clear
that change, understood as being both continuity and change, is almost
contradictory to a chronological enchaînement of facts—that is the way that
the standard view of History is defined. History is necessary to understand
the diachronic transformation in the structure of a society and how the past
has given rise to the present forms that the ethnographer observes, but it is
not sufficient to understand change as it is happening.
Let me develop this point a little further. The 1990 Jan Andolan, the
inception of the People’s War six years later and the insurgents’ successful
overthrow of the monarchy in 2008 challenged the analysts who had
to explain these historic events. Apart from retracing the relevant
circumstances and the series of happenings that led to these major events,
social scientists turned to historians and theoreticians of nationalism
to identify the trends underlying the historical evolution of the country
from a pre-modern society into a modern nation. In the light of works
like those of Benedict Anderson, who has often been invoked by South
Asianists, the Nepali revolution appears as a possible and coherent—
although obviously not inevitable—development of the Panchayat years.
I will mention only four of these trends: 1) the considerable efforts on the
part of King Mahendra’s government to promote literacy made it possible
for a far larger portion of the population to claim their participation in the
political process at a level beyond their local affairs; 2) the printed press
generated a rational-critical discourse and the development of public
meaning; 3) the decline of the belief that society was naturally organised
around and under a monarch, ‘who ruled under some form of cosmological
divine dispensation’, went hand in hand with the transition from a ritual
 Lecture 111

representation of power to a participatory mode whereby people could

assert themselves; 4) the growing diasporas of Nepali workers all over the
world intensified the imagination of the home nation through an ever more
effective technology of communication and, we might add, although this
would deserve further attention, also supported a patriotic feeling that
would eventually develop into the aspiration for a republic. Let me conclude
with Anderson’s observation that ‘even the most radical revolutionaries
are always, to a certain extent, the heirs of the deposed regime’ (Anderson
1996: 163).

Change as an ideological value and as a subjective feeling

If the Maoist victory only precipitated the fall of a weakened regime, then
the notion of radical change that is so pervasive in public discourse is
partly ideological. This does not mean that it is a lie, and that it tends to
dissimulate an unchanging state of affairs—a bitter criticism levelled by
people who find themselves facing the same difficult economic conditions
as before. The recurrent reference to change—even if it takes the form of a
complaint about the lack of it—consists rather in the idea that it is human
action that caused it—or failed to cause it. Either way the order of things is
questioned. Change does not just happen; it has to do with human agency
and therefore with reflexivity. This is a first conclusion.
Change is also something that people feel. They feel that something is
happening, that times are changing, and that things are going too fast or, on
the contrary, not fast enough. Jean Chesneaux, a Marxist French historian
specialising in contemporary China, suggested that ‘this perception was
only confused, quasi-imaginary at the time of the old millenarisms. But the
meaning and the awareness of historical mutations become increasingly
clear as history advances’ (Chesneaux 1976: 134). For Chesneaux and also
Benedict Anderson, who developed similar views a little later (Anderson
1983), this perception is informed by similar transformations that had taken
place in the past or even, we may add now that communications are so
fast, at the same time, in other parts of the world. The Nepali revolutionary
movement that built on the model of the Chinese revolution while claiming
solidarity with the Peruvian Shining Path provides a good illustration of
this cumulative process. It partly accounts for the relative speed with which
the Nepali Maoists achieved the overturn of the last Hindu monarchy in
the world. The Russian writer Tchernichevski expressed the historical
112 EBHR-39

accelaration of the most retarded countries in a very vivid manner when

he compared History to a grandmother, who likes her youngest children
best. Chesneaux observes that ‘in the struggle for socialism, the conscious
perception of a changing era becomes an active and collective factor of
evolution’ (ibid.).
Seen in this light, change is best defined as a value in the sense that
Dumont gives to this term—unlike an abstract idea, a value is embedded in
human action. In contemporary Nepal, this value is at the centre of a series
of other values that reflect the mirror image of the old order of things: it is
the people that are sovereign, not the king; the old society of privileges is
now founded on equality; the subjects of the kingdom are being converted
into citizens.
Let us recapitulate: if the study of how societies change remains a
central concern of social sciences in general, ‘social change’ as a reified
category has proved to be unproductive and has been gradually abandoned
by sociology and anthropology. A critical review of some of the reasons
why this might have been the case led us to clarify the concept of change as
it is used in public discourse in Nepal today. Change then is best defined as
a value at the center of the revolutionary ideology, and it involves human
agency. It is also a general subjective feeling that depends on the speaker’s
perception of time or, more precisely, his or her being in time. In other
words it is reflexive, and to this extent concerns individuals’ identities.

The Kham-Magar, a society at the periphery propelled to the center of the nation
In order to go beyond these generalities we now need to explore a specific
case. The Kham-Magar community seems particularly well suited to our
purposes in the sense that thirty years ago it was practically invisible on
the political map of the country—hardly anybody had ever heard of this
population. When the residents of the southern bazaars such as Ghorahi
or Tulsipur, in the west of the country, saw the Kham-Magar shepherds
coming down with their flocks of goats and sheep from the Mahabharat
range in winter, they would simply call them ‘those who live in the high
corner of the country’. But, as you know, it was this corner of Nepal that
Prachanda made the heart of his guerrilla war, the Chingkang hills of his
own epic, or its Yan’an, depending on whether the propaganda chose the
point of departure of the Long March led by Mao in 1934 or its destination.
In a few years villagers were propelled onto the front stage of national
 Lecture 113

politics and the media. They had to expand their perception of reality to
different scales of time and space.
Like most localities in rural Nepal, especially in remote areas such as the
high valleys of the districts of Rukum and Rolpa where their villages, their
fourteen VDCs, are situated, the Kham-Magar used to be largely indifferent
to national politics beyond the local advantages that they could secure
from local politicians who were well connected with the government.
In various articles and along with other authors such as Kiyoko Ogura
(Ogura 2007, 2008), I traced the impact of the People’s War on the Kham-
Magar country, the early mobilisation for the Communists in the village of
Thabang, and how gradually after the 1990 Jan Andolan, the revolutionaries
won over the other localities with various degrees of success. In line with
the reflections on change that I have just developed, I will now turn away
from the historical chain of events that led to the current situation and try
to understand what being historical means for the the Kham-Magar, and
what this implies for their perception of themselves.
Local mythology is not irrelevant to the understanding of political and
historical change. I will explore first what the oral, mostly ritual literature
of this ethnic group, who speak a Tibeto-Burman language, tells us about
the creation of the world and of human beings. In the same way as the first
book of the Old Testament, Genesis, shapes the vision that the Judaeo-
Christian world has of men and women and their capacity for action, the
shamanic chants of the Kham-Magar shape their vision of the human
condition. And in the same way that we (unless we are creationists) do not
believe in this mythic narrative, the Kham-Magar do not literallly believe
in theirs, but it never the less offers certain clues about what it is for them
to be human in this world.

II. Time and identity among the Kham-Magar

The paradox of the human condition

The creation of the world and human beings takes place on a massive time
scale, which is not however without direction, since it is characterised
rather by a general decline. The god Mahadev shaped five human forms
from five different metals, the first one from gold, the most precious metal,
and the fifth from iron, but none of these metallic races ever showed any
sign of life. Parbati tried on her own, using soil and animal faeces. The
114 EBHR-39

creature made from these decaying materials came to life and breathed.
The narrative continues with the four ages of the Hindu world. These are
characterised by a more specific moral decline. The men who were one
hundred cubits tall grew shorter through the ages untill they reached their
current size in the dark age in which we live. Their initial beatitude had
given way to the injustice of the powerful, to corruption and oppression.
Indra, king of the sky, sent his daughter Somarani in marriage to
his sister’s son, her prescribed partner, into the human world that was
shrouded in permanent darkness and in which people had to work hard
to survive. The unfortunate girl was given a dowry, a box that she was not
allowed to open on the way. Consumed by curiosity, Somarani disobeyed
and let out nine suns and nine moons that burned everything on earth.
Treating evil with evil, she committed eight more sacrilegious faults that
each caused one star to disappear until only one sun and one moon were
left in the firmament. Thereafter, the alternation of day and night made life
possible on Earth.
As mentioned above, the cosmogonic myth develops in a time that is not
without direction since it is vitiated by a decline in morality. But there is no
prospect of salvation. Human beings are not given any finality other than
their reproduction on earth. It also seems that perfection or wholeness are
not for humans: the most precious creature does not move, and eternal
light is not viable. In the same vein, we are going to learn that men should
not want too much. Here is how the first village community was taught this
fundamental ethical principle:
The offspring of a man multiplied and grew richer and richer. But what
they gained in wealth, they lost in virtue. Not only would they boast of
their opulence but they would also live in total autarchy: neither goods nor
daughters had ever crossed the river and the hills marking their village
territory. It is clear that our villagers were incestuous. The god Bhagwan
taught them clan exogamy the hard way: when, disguised as a beggar, he
was refused hospitality by the greedy villagers, he caused an earthquake
that buried the whole village. He spared only an old infertile couple to
whom he granted a son. As the boy grew older, he started to flirt with
unknown girls whom he met at the crossroads. His girlfriends turned out
to be witches who were quick to make him sick. This is the paradox of the
human condition: the marriage that men must undertake in order to father
offspring is also a commitment to misfortune and death.
 Lecture 115

A rhythmic temporality
We see that the mortal condition of the human beings is closely associated
with the rule of exogamy. It fixes the limits within which men can try to
have some control over their lives. It is in this perspective that we have
to understand the Magar requirement for a man to marry the daughter of
his mother's brother. There is no need to dwell on the implications of this
formal type of marriage system here, except to note that this requirement
entails the need for at least three participant groups, since you cannot
give a woman to the group that has given you one. In the event that there
are only three exchange groups, as is actually often the case among the
Kham-Magar, we see that in the third generation a woman comes to
marry and procreate into the lineage of her maternal grandmother. In
theory, and sometimes in practice, part of the dowry in movable property
(jewelry and copper jars) that passes from mother to daughter comes back
to its starting point. Thus, the requirement to marry the daughter of the
mother's brother gives a generational rhythm to the marriage system
that goes in cycles. These cycles are not achieved at the same time but are
linked to one another after a minimum of three generations—hence the
notion of rhythm.
In the same way as the Magar try to keep control over the circulation
of their women through the imposition of a certain rhythm on the rule
of exogamy, they also try to control time and organise their activities
through subtle arrangements combining economic, ritual and cosmological
constraints. Farming and transhumance are punctuated by both the
seasons and the ritual calendar. Men do not feel that they are the ultimate
owners of the land they plough. They acknowledge their dependency
on the piece of nature from which they extract their subsistence, and to
which in return they pay their rent, so to speak, in the form of sacrifices.
The major village festivals take place when everyone is at home in the
autumn, prior to the annual move to the South, and after the shepherds
have returned in the spring.
Thanks to these various rhythms that are in tune with one another,
the year runs with the implacable regularity of a clock, but a clock whose
parts are not mechanical parts but social conventions. Trying to find out
in advance when exactly a village festival will take place is a frustrating
experience that all ethnographers of pre-modern societies have to face; yet
everyone concerned will be ready at the right time. A village festival does
116 EBHR-39

not have a date, but happens as the result of social adjustments to the stars.
This is also why ritual calendars vary from village to village as if each had
its own interpretation of the cosmos. I hope to have shown that temporality
is a central concern of the mythic establishment of humanity in the world,
even if we are far from the universal time specified by the minute and the
hour of modern city folks.
As Bourdieu remarked about the Kabyle farmers, in the same way as it
is important not to want too much or to be too greedy, it is also advisable
not to hurry. Here is how Alfred Gell develops Bourdieu’s argument: ‘…if
an event is not already an inevitable element in the working out of the
preordained flow of socially expectable happenings, then there is no point
in making special provisions to bring it about; indeed to do so borders on
sacrilege, disrespect towards the established order of things ‘ (Gell 1998:
16). This remark is also relevant to the Magar villagers who like to mock
those who, while in the village, behave as if they were in a city, hurrying
things along or looking at their watches and not simply at the sun to know
what time it is. The day of a farmer is, no doubt, as full as a Kathmanduite’s
day, but farmers do not act as if they were busy. But this is changing, hence
the mockery.
The mythical narratives depict a world in which human beings act on
the reproduction of their community and on the time that flows through
the imposition of rhythms. Human existence has no moral purpose, but
the myths develop an ethic of moderation without which human life is
impossible on earth. The myths also depict a community that is reluctant
to exchange with the outside world.

A structural antagonism
The mythical ideal of endogamy is actually achieved in the big villages that
count up to 300 or more houses. Unlike in the myth, the rule of exogamy
is respected but women circulate between local lineages within the same
village, and until recently this was the case for up to 90% of marital unions.
This is of course an important feature, because the group’s control of
marriage patterns ensures the transmission of its fundamental values and
contributes to the preservation of its cultural particularities. The identity
of the villagers, or more accurately their collective self—the situation does
not require at this point any discursive or reflexive definition of their
identity—is built on their belief in their autonomy, their sense of forming
 Lecture 117

an independent totality and even a world in itself, centred on the village.

At this point I would like to report that during my first visit to the Kham-
Magar villages in the district of Rukum, thirty years ago, one question that
some people asked the school teacher who accompanied me at the time was
whether my seed was compatible with theirs. Many among the villagers
had not been in contact with white people yet and wondered whether I
was quite human like them. This ontological doubt, if I may so call it, is
illustrative of a particular way in which a collective self can be formed in
contrast to ‘others’: if we are human beings then you are not, since you are
not from our community— something quite different, as we are going to
see, from the process of defining one’s differences in terms of a historical
identity.
I said ‘belief in their autonomy’, because this autonomy is of course
an illusion. The illusion is supported by the Kham-Magars’ subsistence
economy, their economic quasi-autarchy, their geographical isolation, their
lack, until recently, of political participation at the national level, and so
forth… but it remains an illusion nevertheless. One need only mention their
dependence for cash on the international hashish business for the past half
century, and on current remittances from migrant workers abroad or, in the
cultural domain, a ritual language that is heavily influenced by Nepali and
testifies to a long history of exchange with the dominant caste population.
However, and this is the whole point, this illusion is less tenable the further
these remote rural communities are involved in the wider world. As they
multiply their relationships with other people, they compare themselves
with them, compare their village customs with the urban lifestyle, in Nepal
and far beyond, and thereby become aware of new possibilities.
The ideal of the autonomous community led by an ethic of moderation
and organised within a rythmic temporality has not disappeared. It remains
an ideal for the old generation and a fallback position for most villagers in
case things should turn bad in their life or in the world—it is significant
that, as far as I know, no villager has sold his land: sheep, yes, but not land.
However, the younger generation aspires to look beyond their village
and, to use the local expression, stop holding onto their cows’ tails. The
act of comparison that used to draw positive strength from a subjective
antagonism against others and their values now leads instead to growing
frustration. This frustration is clearly one of the main motivations behind
the mobilisation of the youngsters in favour of the Maoist insurrection, a
118 EBHR-39

reaction that has been amply demonstrated. However, what is less clear
is how these young people see themselves in the current situation, where
several scenarios of the future are available to them. Before examining a
concrete situation that will help us to shed some light on this historical
change, I will say a few more words on the subjective antagonism of the
closed community and the emergence of the political claim of cultural
difference.

From subjective antagonism to political claim of difference

Indeed, the antagonist approach denies, or at least reduces, the relationship
with others to its simplest form, since these others are concieved as contrary
to oneself. By contrast, considering oneself as different from other people
requires one to establish more complex relationships with them. These
complex relationships may lead people, at both individual and collective
levels, to feel dominated by the image that more powerful people have of
them. They may even come to integrate this image into their own definition
of themselves and lose all self esteem. Even resistance to the image imposed
by the dominant group or class traps the dominated group or class into
a mirror game out of which it is difficult to escape, since the dominated
subject ceases to be the point of view from which he or she looks at him or
herself. These subtle and always changing mechanisms of alienation are
the focus of a good part of our sociological and anthropological studies.
Concerning Nepal, Tracy Pigg for example has shown convincingly how a
set of prejudices about the backward and credulous peasants permeates the
ideology of development and puts rural people in the paradoxical position
of being the targets of projects of which they should be the agents (Pigg
1992). Sanskritization processes and attempts by the ethnic groups to
reform their local customs can also be analysed from the perspective of
this game of mirrors, in which dominated groups find themselves trapped
into paradoxes, trying to assert their identities in terms of values to which
they are opposed.
In Nepal the political use of cultural identities and the emergence of
ethnicity came into the open after the 1990 andolan, a topic that the book
edited by David Gellner, Joanna Pfaff and John Whelpton started to explore
(Gellner et al 1997). What makes ethnicity a specific form of identity is its
relationship with the history of the nation and with nationalism. In an
essay on ‘Times and Identities’, John Davis vividly expressed this special
 Lecture 119

relationship: ‘Ethnic identity’, he wrote, ‘has to be encrusted with antiquity

and scarred with repressions…it has to be expressed in terms of linear,
culminatory history if it is to be a valid claim against the state’ (Davis 1991:
18). In other words, in order to become a full member of the nation on an
equal footing with the others, the minorities need to convert their original
collective self and specific historicity into a historical ethnic identity. This
does not go without saying.

III. Historical change

The festival in honour of the gods of the locality

As long as the Thabangis saw that the recognition of their jati and, above
all, of their village, was growing at the national and even international
level, they had no reason to decline what was being offered to them as a
symbolic reward for their commitment to the revolution. The urgency of
the war, during which the population was constantly mobilised by a Party
that protected inhabitants from State repression as much as it exposed them
to it, may have made it difficult for them to express or envisage any sort
of dissidence from the Maoist rulers. However, once the Party joined the
government, priorities changed for both the leaders in Kathmandu and the
villagers at the local level. A brief look at the celebration of the festival in
honour of the gods of the localities in 2010 will serve to illustrate this change.
Kham-Magars consider this festival as an exemplary element of their
cultural community, partly because it is a celebration of the gods of the
locality and partly because it involves several days of colourful dancing,
for which the whole population practises for up to one month in advance.
It takes place in June, just before the monsoon rains upon which the
September harvest depends. The ritual consists in the youngsters of each
exogamous lineage spending the night at the top of Jaljala mountain, the
abode of the god Braha, and bringing wildflowers and one pine tree back
down to the village the following morning. One of the trees is planted at the
centre of the dance ground where men and women will dance for several
days until, the villagers say, the rain comes. The dances, however, should
not start before the sacrifice of a ram is made to Bhume, the god of the soil,
to secure the success of the future crops. It is said that in past times, before
‘civilisation’, an old man, not just an animal, was sacrificed to the god of the
soil. The Maoists, in a further effort towards civilisation, banned the blood
120 EBHR-39

Plate 1. Young villagers, accompanied by Tailor-Musicians, returning from the hilltop

site of the Braha temple with a tree-trunk to set up in the dance-ground during the
Bhume festival. Photograph by Anne de Sales.

Plate 2. Santos Budha leading the Bhume dance (Thabang, June 2010). Photograph by
Anne de Sales.
 Lecture 121

sacrifice to Bhume in 1997, when the first People’s Village Government

was established in Thabang. Instead, they transformed the ritual into an
occasion for the reverence of elderly people: in 2010, Santos Budha gave
his blessing (tika) and some money to five old men before the assembled
villagers.
A great deal could be said about this important festival that concerns
the very foundation of the community on its ancestral site; the history of
its clans and their occupation of the land; the relationships of the Magars
with the two service castes, particularly the Damais (the Tailor-Musicians),
whose role is central to the dancing; finally the relationship to the local
gods, Braha, at the top of the mountain and Bhume at the bottom, since
the vertical axis between their two shrines is the principle underlying this
ritual of prosperity.
What should hold our attention here is that soon after the insurrection,
the Maoist ban on blood sacrifices became an object of open contention.
A few villagers started to complain that as a consequence of the reform
the crops were not as abundant as in the past. One year, the women
protested against the ban and bought two male goats with funds from their
association and had them sacrificed to Bhume. The Party cadres opted for
a more lenient attitude than during the insurrection and turned a blind
eye to this development. Yet they refused to reconsider their general
decision concerning the ban on blood sacrifices, on the grounds that it was
a ‘barbaric’ custom, antithetical to a progressive society. In 2010, there was
no attempt to bring a sacrificial animal, but many villagers complained
that ‘this festival without a sacrifice was like an animal without a head’;
in other words, incomplete and meaningless. The fact that this view was
expressed not only by women and elderly people but also by the president
of the Youth Club suggests that it cannot be dismissed as a conservative
wish to return to the status quo that had prevailed before the insurrection.
The 25 members of the Youth Club of which Mahesh is the president
belong to a generation that was born in the 1980s, after the Kartik
Operation. They were brought up in an environment characterised by
constant harassment from the government for being communist. Several
of them, such as Mahesh himself, took part in various actions as members
of the Balsangathan, or children association (Zharkevitch 2009), and those
who did not leave the village in order to pursue their studies in Dang were
engaged in the local militia or helped as sentries, messengers, and volunteers
122 EBHR-39

in military operations. The Youth Club provides what Mahesh likes to call
a ‘social service’. This means checking that the new rules are respected:
keeping alcohol consumption and gambling under control (rather than
banning them completely as was the case during the insurrection); dealing
with day-to-day quarrels among villagers; checking that Blacksmiths and
Tailor-Musicians are not subjected to prejudice, and that both teachers and
children attend school; and keeping the village in order, especially during
political and cultural programmes or elections, when large gatherings of
people must be channelled through the village. The Youth Club therefore
works in close collaboration with the Party that rules over the village.
However, during the 2010 festival, Mahesh openly expressed
reservations about the leaders of the Party such as Santos Budha, who he
said holds a ‘narrow view’ of how to achieve social change. He criticised
the lack of flexibility of their methods that consist, he said, in getting rid of
everything that belongs to the past. He himself, by contrast, sees this past
identified as tradition as an important way for Kham-Magars in general
and the villagers in particular to be ‘recognised’ for who they are, and
also as a precious commodity for tourism. Mahesh’s criticisms pull in two
different directions: on the one hand, he wants the leaders in Kathmandu
to remain closer to the spirit of revolution that animated them during the
insurrection and that can only justify the death of the martyrs; and on the
other hand he argues that they should be more open to other experiences
likely to facilitate a better integration of the villagers at the national and
international level while preserving their specificity as Kham-Magars. I am
tempted to quote here what Dipesh Chakrabarty wrote of the Subaltern
Studies project that ‘can only situate itself theoretically at the juncture
where we give up neither Marx nor “difference”’.2 This is exactly what
Mahesh is trying to do. The problem of course is how to do this.
The celebration of the Bhume festival in 2010 helps to correct the image
that the elections gave of the Thabangis, who for half a century had voted
in unison as a monolithic community in favour of the communists (de Sales,
forthcoming). It is clear that fifty years of communist education, including
fifteen years of Maoist propaganda, had not rendered the Thabangis
incapable of thinking for themselves. It is also clear that their metaphysical
recognition by the local god is as important for most of the villagers as

2 Chakrabarty (2000: 71), quoted in Pouchepadass (2004).

 Lecture 123

their political recognition within the Nepali nation. If this need was swept
under the carpet during the insurrection, it resurfaced soon after through
the villagers’ demand that their festival should not be devoid of meaning.
A sense of moral outrage underlies their claims. Santos Budha, himself a
shrewd politician, sensed this need at the celebration of Bhume Puja in 2010
when he concluded his speech with a quotation from an old communist
of the early days, who used to say: ‘Our Braha will protect us from those
who would do us harm’.3 However, if Santos’ use of Braha is primarily
instrumental and clearly aims to legitimise the New Rule, how are we to
understand Mahesh’s position?

From alienation to hope

The Nepalese revolutionaries demanded of their troops complete political
and personal commitment to the cause, the result of an inner transformation,
a kind of conversion that extracted the individual from a world that was
understood as pre-historical. In this sense the individuals had to dispose of
their differences. However, the difficulties in mobilising peasants and their
will to involve ethnic populations led the Maoists to fan the resentment of
these groups against the dominant classes and castes who had despised or
even actively suppressed their cultural differences.This is how, in 2002, the
Maoists established a Kham-Magar district that was supposed to be at the
heart of the resurrection of the old medieval Magarant. This project was
openly justified as a necessary historical transition in order to mobilise a
population that had been hard hit by the insurgency.
Once culture acquires a political purpose, it becomes a new object of
knowledge and challenges. It was a lived world and it becomes the culture
in which people can act in new ways. And this is what we could see during
Bhume puja. Santos and his party wanted to reform the local culture, a
culture that was centred on the sacrifices to the local gods to whom the
farmers pay tribute in return for human occupation of the site. As agents of
social change they wanted to retain what was worthy of a ‘civilised’ culture
and abandon what they saw as the bad or useless elements. How could
Mahesh, who also considers himself to be an agent of social change, be in
favour of a return to blood sacrifice, a practice that flies in the face of the
dominant ethical imagination?

3 In Nepali: ‘hamro naramro sochneharubata hamilai hamro Brahale bachauncha’.

124 EBHR-39

In the practice of killing the sacrificial animal lies the meaning of

the custom, its vitality in the true sense, since it preserves the exchange
between blood and prosperity on the basis of which the community has
survived ever since it established itself on the site. Is it possible that
Mahesh’s rejection of the reformed ritual represents a refusal to act without
being able to make sense of action?
This is his own capacity of action on the world that he stands for rather
than a return to the bosom of tradition. He refuses to be just a puppet for
tourists, even if he also has tourists in mind in his defence of the ancient
ritual. In this sense, he did integrate the image that outsiders may have of
him and his fellow villagers. However, rather than seeing him as the victim
of a mechanism of alienation, I suggest that Mahesh draws from his local
tradition the dynamic that allows him to project himself into the future,
as a historical actor in a community open onto the world. To speak of a
‘return’ to the tradition would be inaccurate, if only because the conditions
in which the sacrifice would be performed again, if it were to be restored,
have changed for ever. The Bhume sacrifice will never be what it used to be
before the ban, an uncontested practice. The ritual no longer goes without
saying, and distance from custom entails some distance from oneself. And
in this distance lies the capacity for action to transform the world.
What was at stake during the 2010 festival were representations of
the future more than of the past. What makes the difference between
demoralisation that leads individuals to flee the country on the one hand
and the collective search for a solution to the crisis on the other hand is,
to speak like Bourdieu, the possession of symbolic instruments. In other
words, to impose the standards of one’s own perception and to be perceived
as one perceives oneself allows the group to keep control of the crisis
and avoid reactionary resentment in response to the feeling of general
degradation that haunts the countryside. The desire to be consistent should
not be confused here with following tradition blindly, and the possession of
symbolic instruments may not necessarily mean the politicisation of ethnic
differences. As I have just said, it is misleading to think that tradition could
repeat itself, while the politicisation of cultural differences tends to freeze
these differences artificially.
The disputes that took place during the 2010 festival are the sign of
the cultural production of a contested collective identity between class
and ethnic group. This involves a transformation of self and, through
 Lecture 125

its projection into the future, the insertion of that self into history. The
advocates of blood sacrifice, like its opponents, have become historical
actors in the same way, and have become so knowingly. It is significant
that this form of historical consciousness found its expression during a
calendrical festival: the celebration of the ancestral site could not offer
a better opportunity for the actors to confront different time scales and
rhythms and adjust themselves accordingly. These constant adjustments
are what creates the impression that time is passing, whereas, in fact, it is
we who are changing.

References
Anderson, B. 1996. L’imaginaire national. Paris: Éditions La Découverte
(traduction française de Imagined Communities. London: Verso Editions,
1983).
Blaikie, P., Cameron, J., Seddon, D. 2002. ‘Understanding 20 years of change
in west-central Nepal: continuity and change in lives and ideas’. World
Development 30(7): 1255-1270.
Chakrabarty, D. 2000. Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial thoughts and
historical difference. Princeton: Princeton University Press, quoted in
Pouchepadass, J. 2004. ‘Que reste-t-il des Subaltern Studies? ‘ Critique
Internationale, 24.
Chesneaux, J. 1976. Du passé faisons table rase? Paris: Maspero.
Davis, J. 1991. Times and Identities: An inaugural lecture delivered before the
University of Oxford on 1 May 1991. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Furet, F. 1978. Penser la Révolution française. Paris: Gallimard.
Gell, A. 1998. ‘Time and social anthropology’. Senri Ethnological Studies, 45.
Gellner, D., Pfaff, J., Whelpton, J. (eds.) 1997. Nationalism and Ethnicity in a
Hindu Kingdom. Amsterdam: OPA.
Grandin, I. 1996. ‘To change the face of this country: Nepalese progressive
songs under Panchayat democracy’. Journal of South Asian Literature,
29(1): 175-189.
Hutt, M. 2010. The Life of Bhupi Sherchan: Poetry and politics in post-Rana Nepal.
New Delhi: Oxford University Press.
Ogura, K. 2007. ‘Maoists, people and the state as seen from Rolpa and Rukum’.
In Political and Social Transformations in North India and Nepal, edited by H.
Ishii, D.N. Gellner and K. Nawa, pp. 435-75. New Delhi: Manohar.
126 EBHR-39

Ogura, K. 2008. ‘Maoist people’s government 2001-2005’. In Local Democracy

in South Asia: Micro-processes of democratization in Nepal and its neighbours,
edited by D.N. Gellner and K. Hachhethu, pp. 175-231. New Delhi: Sage.
Pigg, S.L. 1992. ‘Inventing social categories through place: social
representations and development in Nepal’. Comparative Studies of
Society and History 34(3): 491-513.
Sales, A. de. (forthcoming). ‘Thabang: the crucible of revolution’. In History
and Anthropology of the Nepal People’s Wa, edited by M. Lecomte-Tilouine.
New Delhi: Sage.
Tremoulinas, A. 2006. Sociologie des changements sociaux. Paris: La Découverte.
Zharkevitch, I. 2009. ‘A new way of being young in Nepal. The idea of Maoist
youth and dreams of a new man’. Studies in Nepali History and Society
14(1): 67-105.
 127

REPORTS
128 EBHR-39

The Catalogue of the Hodgson Collection in the British

Library

John Whelpton and Michael Hutt

The long awaited online catalogue of the Hodgson Collection was launched
by Michael Palin at a function hosted by Oliver Urquhart, the Head of
African and Asian Studies, at the British Library in London on 25 July 2011.
It can be accessed via http://www.digitalhimalaya.com/hodgson. In what
follows, we will introduce the Collection, present a biography of Hodgson,
and explain how the Catalogue was created.

Ramesh Dhungel shows Michael Palin items from the Hodgson Collection at the British
Library in 2006. Photograph by Michael Hutt.

The Collection and the Catalogue

In the United Kingdom, the papers of Brian Houghton Hodgson are now
preserved at the British Library, the Royal Asiatic Society, the Zoological
Society of London and the Bodleian Library in Oxford. The Hodgson papers
preserved in the African and Asian Studies Reading Room of the British
 Reports 129

Library were deposited in the India Office Library in 1864 following earlier
deposits (between 1838 and 1845) of Buddhist Sanskrit manuscripts and
the complete Tibetan Kanjur and Tanjur. In 1921 the papers were bound
into 95 volumes (the numbering of the volumes runs to 108 because of the
presence in the collection of 13 scrolls). Decisions about how to order the
Collection were taken partly with regard to the physical dimensions of each
document, with items of similar size being bound together. Thus, while the
content of many volumes can be encapsulated in a single subject heading
for the volume as a whole, others contain documents relating to a variety
of different topics. In many cases items belonging together (e.g. an original
manuscript and its translation) have been bound in different places, simply
because they were written on different sizes of paper.
The Catalogue describes a total of 972 items in 108 volumes and rolls,
comprising a total of some 15,300 folios, plus scrolls, unnumbered notebooks
and loose letters. It is ordered by volume and item, with folio numbers
given for each item. Ramesh Dhungel, who prepared the first draft of the
catalogue, describes the Collection as ‘an uncategorised encyclopaedic
18th/19th century record of Nepal’ and enumerates the following subject
categories:

diplomatic correspondence, Nepal’s politics and administration, the

military system, the land system, agriculture, geography, natural
resources, routes and trails, revenue and taxation, trade and commerce,
state expenditure, ethnic studies, Buddhism (Newari and Tibetan),
Buddhist art and iconography, traditional Buddhist and Hindu
architecture, the Nepali legal and judicial system, border problems
and disputes, Himalayan and hill languages (including grammars,
dictionaries, vocabularies, epigraphy-script and alphabets), Sanskrit
Buddhist literary texts, genealogical accounts, chronicles, institutes or
special reforms by different rulers, general and historical accounts of
Nepal, prominent temples and deities, accounts of military campaigns
and territorial expansion (including details of wars with Tibet and
China), originals and copies of academic correspondence, copies of
Sanskrit and Newari inscriptions, palm-leaf manuscripts, and medieval
and modern royal orders’ (Dhungel 2007: 45).

Of this enormous body of material, only twelve volumes of materials in

130 EBHR-39

English had been fully catalogued (in 1927) before the initiation of the
current project. In 2001, Michael Hutt of the School of Oriental and African
Studies in London and David Gellner (then of Brunel University, now of
All Souls College Oxford) proposed that a researcher/cataloguer should be
employed to produce a descriptive catalogue of the Collection, and applied
to the Leverhulme Trust for funding. This was granted, and the Nepali
historian Ramesh Dhungel was employed for a period of three years from
2002. The work turned out to require more time than had originally been
estimated, but with the extremely generous support of Michael Palin and
the Friends of the British Library the project was able to retain Dr Dhungel’s
services for a further eighteen months and thus produce a complete first
draft of the catalogue. The Leverhulme funding enabled it to secure the
services of specialists in Lepcha (Sonam Rinchen Lepcha, Helen Plaisier),
Limbu (Bairagi Kainla), Newari, (Shukra Sagar Shrestha), Dehati, Maithili,
Avadhi and the Kaithi script (Chandra Prasad Tripathee) and Urdu and
Persian (Firdous Ali) in order to assist Dr Dhungel in his work.
The work of editing the catalogue has since been completed by John
Whelpton, an independent scholar based in Hong Kong, and Mark Turin, a
researcher based at the University of Cambridge, working mainly in their
spare time. The complicated technical work of converting the catalogue
into an interactive format fit for online posting has been undertaken by
Burkhard Quessel.
The original aim was that the catalogue should not only provide clear
information about the contents of each item in the Collection but also
include references to any published works which reproduced the text of an
item or discussed it in detail. It has not been possible to do this absolutely
comprehensively but it is hoped that the indications given will ease the
task of researchers. Web publication of the catalogue will make it feasible to
incorporate additional information of this sort as it becomes available and
the editors invite anyone working on the documents in future to submit
details they feel should be added. A good example of what can be quarried
from the materials is Ramesh Dhungel’s essay on the clash between the
Limbu scholar and religious leader Srijanga and the Tibetan lamas of Sikkim
(Dhungel 2006).
One particular area where further investigation is needed is the
relationship between the various vaṃśāvalī texts in the Collection and
similar ones published or extant in manuscript form, either in Nepal’s
 Reports 131

National Archives or in private collections in Kathmandu. The term

vaṃśāvalī literally means ‘genealogy’ but it is used more generally to denote
a class of documents that provide narrative history, as well as for simple
dynastic family trees. The labels Bhāṣāvaṃśāvalī or Gorkhāvaṃśāvalī may
refer to specific publications: respectively the two volumes issued by the
National Library (Paudel 1965 & Lamsal 1968-9) and the work of Yogi et al
published in Benares in 1952. The terms are also used to denote general
groups of texts (viz in the first case, any Nepali-language historical accounts
of the Kathmandu Valley and, in the second, accounts of Gorkha and its
conquest of the valley), as well as the two hypothesised primary texts from
which each group is thought to descend.
The picture is further complicated by the fact that as well as original
vernacular vaṃśāvalī texts the Hodgson Collection also includes English-
language translations or summary translations produced by Hodgson
and others. Some of these were published in Hasrat’s 1970 anthology, but
while Hasrat lists all the documents he consulted he does not give separate
references for each of his extracts and may in some cases have combined
material from different places in the Collection.
A starting point for researchers is the work of Baburam Acharya,
who suggested that the original versions of the Bhāṣāvaṃśāvalī and
Gorkhāvaṃśāvalī were written in the early 19th century by two brothers,
Buddhiman and Sharman Singh (Acharya 1967: 36-38). Ramesh Dhungel,
however, believes that a third brother, Jitman Singh, produced the version
of the Gorkhāvaṃśāvalī found in vol. 51 of the Collection. Researchers should
also be aware of the work of Leelanateshwar Baral, who made extensive use
of Hodgson’s materials and provides the most detailed discussion available
in English (Baral 1964, now available online at http://himalaya.socanth.
cam.ac.uk/collections/rarebooks/downloads/Baral_1964_thesis.pdf).

Brian Houghton Hodgson: a short biography1

Brian Houghton Hodgson was born on 1 Feb 1801 at Lower Beech, Prestbury,
Cheshire. His year of birth was almost certainly 1801, not 1800 as often
stated: the confusion probably arose because Hodgson and his family used
inclusive reckoning for age. He was the second of the seven children of

1 See also Whelpton (1999) and Whelpton (2004). For more detailed accounts of Hodgson’s
life and work, see Waterhouse (2004).
132 EBHR-39

Brian Hodgson (1766-1858), country gentleman, and his wife, Catherine

(c.1776-1851), daughter of William Houghton of Manchester and Newton
Park. The name ‘Brian’ had also been borne by his grandfather and great-
grandfather, landowners in the Midlands and Northwest England.
Following his father’s failure in a banking venture, Hodgson’s family had
to sell their home at Lower Beech but financial difficulties were partly offset
by family connections, including a great-aunt’s marriage to Beilby Porteus,
Bishop of London, and also by his mother’s gift for making friendships. The
family remained for some years in Cheshire before moving to Macclesfield,
where Hodgson started his education at the Grammar School under Dr.
David Davis, and then to Congleton. In 1814 he transferred to Dr. Daniel
Charles Delafossie’s seminary at Richmond, Surrey, while the family settled
at Clacton, Essex, on his father’s appointment as Warden of the Martello
Towers through the patronage of Thomas, 2nd Earl of Clarendon. In 1816,
James Pattison, Director and later Chairman of the East India Company,
who had been a neighbour at Congleton, nominated Hodgson for the Indian
Civil Service.
From February 1816 to December 1817 he attended the Company’s
training college at Haileybury. While waiting to take the entrance
examination, he stayed with T.R. Malthus, who was Professor of History and
Political Economy at the College and had been a Cambridge contemporary
of his mother’s friend, William Smyth. Malthus was a formative intellectual
influence, turning him from ‘a young aristocrat in social feelings and
sympathies’ into ‘an advanced liberal in politics’ (Hunter 1896: 23). Hodgson
passed out of Haileybury at the head of his year, with prizes for economics,
classics and Bengali.
Arriving in Calcutta in 1818, he led a full social life while continuing the
study of Sanskrit and Persian at Fort William College. He was particularly
successful with Persian, then still an official language within British India
as well as the medium of written communication with independent Indian
states, but a near-fatal attack of fever prevented him from completing the
three-year course and made it essential for him to obtain a hill appointment if
he was to remain in India. Probably through the influence of an aunt’s friend,
Lady Elizabeth D’Oyly, who was a second cousin of the Governor-General’s
wife, in late 1819 he was appointed Assistant Commissioner of Kumaon (viz.
present-day Kumaon and Garhwal: Kumaon had been annexed from the
kingdom of Nepal in 1815, during the war which ended Nepal’s expansion
 Reports 133

along the Himalaya and deprived it of a third of its conquered territory.2)

Hodgson worked on the revenue ‘settlement’ under the Comm­issioner,
George Traill, who was a strong believer in a paternalist administrative
style and in detailed study of the land and its people. In 1820, probably on
Traill’s recommendation, he was promoted to the Assistant Residentship
at Kathmandu, working under Edward Gardner, who had previously been
Traill’s own superior in Kumaon. Since the conclusion of the 1814-1816 war
between the Company and Nepal there had been peace without cordiality.
The country had been compelled to accept a British Resident, but he and his
staff were not permitted to travel outside the Kathmandu Valley and, unlike
the situation in many of the states within India proper, the Resident was not
a de facto supervisor of the local administration. Dissatisfied with enforced
idleness, Hodgson again used his connections to secure an appointment as
acting Deputy Secretary in the Persian Department of the Calcutta Foreign
Office. However, in 1823 his health again broke down and he was advised
to either return to England or take up a position in the hills once more.
Leaving the service of the Company was not an option for Hodgson, whose
salary was the main source of income for his parents and six siblings back
home. Thus at the beginning of 1824 he had to return to Kathmandu in
the subordinate position of post-master, becoming Assistant Resident again
when a vacancy occurred the following year.
Advised by a friend on the Governor General’s Council that sufficient
local knowledge would make even a young man a potential candidate for
the full Residentship, Hodgson threw himself with renewed energy into

2 By Hodgson’s time the British normally referred to the state formed by Gorkha’s
expansion as ‘Nepal’ and to its people as ‘Nepalese’ or ‘Nepali’ and this usage is followed
here. However, until late in the 20th century the state’s own inhabitants normally used
‘Nepal’ in the old sense, referring just to the Kathmandu Valley. As the king’s official
titles contained no geographical reference, other than the conventional phrase ‘crest-
jewel of the circle of mountain kings’, it is unclear what name the ruling elite themselves
gave to their state during Hodgson’s time. The phrase gorkha sarkār (Gorkha government)
is, however, found in an 1850 document (Dixit 1973/74: 23) and remained in regular use
until the 1920s, when it was changed to ‘Nepal government’ (Gellner 1986: 124), reflecting
British usage but presumably intended to stress the unity between the Rana rulers
and the indigenous population of the Nepal Valley. Certainly from the 1850s onwards,
and probably throughout the 19th century, the ruling elite styled themselves ‘Gorkhas’
or ‘Gorkhalis’, whether or not their own ancestors had actually come from the Shah
dynasty’s original kingdom of Gorkha, and this usage was followed by Nepalis resident in
India,
134 EBHR-39

the thorough investigation of all aspects of his surroundings which he

had begun during his first period in Nepal and on which his reputation
now chiefly rests. As well as studying local institutions and commerce, he
learned Khas or Parbatiya (as the Nepali language was then known), and also
Newari,3 the Tibeto-Burman tongue of the Kathmandu Valley’s indigenous
inhabitants. Despite family obligations, which kept him in debt until 1837,
he retained at his own expense a group of local research assistants and
trained himself and some of his staff as naturalists, specialising particularly
in ornithology. In later years he would publish some 127 zoological papers
and describe 39 new mammalian and 150 new bird species. He was also
an avid collector of Sanskrit manuscripts and Tibetan printed volumes
and was the first to reveal to the West the Sanskrit literature of northern,
or Mahayana, Buddhism, which had been preserved only in Nepal. He
distributed around four hundred manuscripts between libraries in India,
Bri­tain, France and Germany, and those sent to Paris enabled the Sanskritist
Eugène Burnouf to produce his seminal studies. Hodgson himself, with the
help of his Nepali friend and helper Amritananda, sought to interpret his
Bud­dhist materials, the results being published in learned journals between
1828 and 1837 and mostly reprinted in his 1874 Essays on the Languages,
Literature and Religion of Nepal. He was mistaken in accepting Amritananda’s
classification of Buddhist doctrine into four ‘schools’—a misinterpretation

3 Here we use the names for these languages that were current in Hodgson’s day, and which
he used in his correspondence and research papers. The names ‘Khas’ and ‘Parbatiya’,
while they remained in colloquial use for longer, appear to have been replaced for official
purposes in Jang Bahadur Rana’s time (1846-1877) by ‘Gorkhali’, which was in turn
supplanted by ‘Nepali’ in the 1920s (Clarke 1969: 251; Hutt 1988: 32-34). ‘Newar’ as a term
for the indigenous inhabitants of the Kathmandu Valley, who call themselves ‘newa(h)’
and their language newa(h)-bhae, is not found in the written record until the mid-17th
century (Gellner 1999: 5) but might derive from a hypothetical Prakrit form of the Sanskrit
nepāla, which was itself probably an aryanisation of a Tibeto-Burman term (Malla 1983).
The word was used in the form ‘Neuâr’ by the Jesuit missionary Desideri, who visited the
Valley in 1721, and ‘Newar’ was employed for both people and language by Kirkpatrick
and Hamilton, so Hodgson was certainly not the first non-Nepali to use it, as claimed by
Shakya (2006). He might, however, have popularised ‘Newari’ for the language, with the
‘i’ suffix, commonly used in adjective formation in both Nepali and Hindi. Many Newars
have for some time objected to the term ‘Newari’, which had become standard usage
among linguists, and more recently there has also been a campaign to replace ‘Newar’
with the current endonym ‘Newa’. Some janajati activists have also begun to demand that
‘Nepali’ be renamed ‘Khas Nepali’, on the grounds that all languages spoken in Nepal are
equally national languages.
 Reports 135

that may have been prompted by the design of the questionnaire Hodgson
himself presented to the pandit. As he later realised, he was also wrong to
argue that the Sanskrit Buddhist scriptures were older than the Pali texts
of southern (‘Hinayana’) Buddhism. Nevertheless, a leading authority could
still write in 1987 that ‘His perspicacity was truly amazing and much of
what he wrote remains valid in terms of the considerable amount of later
scholarly work to which his discoveries gave birth’ (Snellgrove 1987: 2-3).
Hodgson finally became Resident in his own right on 21 January 1833,
having already functioned as Acting Resident between Gardner’s retirement
in 1829 and Herbert Maddock’s appointment in 1831. He brought to the
job a strong conviction that Nepal’s continuing resentment of the loss of a
third of its territory after the 1814-1816 war, its isolationist policy and its
maintenance of a large standing army were a continuing threat to peace and
that this should be removed by encouraging the growth of commerce and
by employing the country’s ‘surplus military manpower’ in the East India
Company’s forces. He initially shared the belief of the previous Residents
that it was best to continue to work with Bhimsen Thapa, the powerful
minister who had dominated Nepalese politics since 1806 and, since the
war, had sought to present himself to his own countrymen as a bulwark
against the East India Company and to the Company as the man who could
persuade his countrymen to keep the peace. As the decade progressed,
however, Hodgson became convinced that Nepal’s outlook would become
more pacific if the direction of relations with the British was in the hands
of the young King Rajendra rather than Bhimsen, who depended on the
goodwill of the army. Hodgson began pressing for direct access to the king
and for concessions on trade, but was restrained by the Indian government.
While not yet intervening directly in the factional struggle, he
sympathised strongly with Bhimsen’s opponent Ranjang Pande and was
particularly influenced by Ranjang’s Brahman ally, Krishna Ram Mishra.
When Bhimsen himself sought to buttress his position by moving closer
to the British, Hodgson in effect aided the opposition by ensuring that no
substantive negotiations took place during a mission to Calcutta led by
Bhimsen’s nephew in 1835-1836. In 1837, Bhimsen was arrested on suspicion
of involvement in the death of the king’s infant son; the child had allegedly
drunk poison intended for his mother, the senior queen, who was a backer
of Ranjang. When the king asked for his advice, Hodgson recommended
that Bhimsen be kept in custody while investigations continued. Bhimsen’s
136 EBHR-39

fall did not bring increased cordiality with the East India Compa­ny,
because both the king and the Pande faction were ready to capitalise on
anti-British feeling both at home and among other independent Indian
states. In summer 1838, Hodgson transferred his sympathies to the Poudyal
brothers, Brahmans whose family had long been rivals with the Mishras for
appointment as guru (spiritual preceptor) to members of the royal family. He
had a cynically realistic attitude towards their motives, having characterised
them in 1833 as ‘men of the world who have been ours, aforetime, for a
consideration and are ready to be again on like terms’ (Whelpton 1990:
57). Nevertheless, he formed a particularly close relationship with the
second brother, Krishna Ram Poudyal, frequently reporting and seconding
his opinions in letters to the Governor-General. His collaboration with
Brahmans was probably facilitated by the vegetarian and teetotal lifestyle
he had adopted after a recurrence of his liver complaint in 1837.
During 1839, moves by Ranjang’s faction threatened the financial interests
and even the personal safety of much of the nobility and many looked to the
Residency for political support. In April, Bhimsen Thapa was rearrested and
in July he committed suicide in prison. According to the official report of
the Nepali officials who brought Hodgson the news, he wept on hearing it;
he had at first refused Bhimsen’s smuggled plea to intervene on his behalf,
believing himself bound by government instructions not to interfere in the
factional struggle, and his request to the Governor-General for permission
to speak out had been sent too late.
Instability continued into 1840 with the temporary occupation by
Nepal of 200 square miles of British territory and a brief army mutiny that
seemed at one point to threaten the Residency itself. As well as successfully
demanding a Nepali withdrawal, the Governor-General, Lord Auckland,
now authorised Hodgson to press the king to appoint new advisors who
were friendly to the British, a policy which had been proposed the previous
year by the Governor-General’s council but rejected as premature by both
Auckland and Hodgson himself. Having committed substantial forces to
his ill-judged intervention in Afghanistan, Auckland was not in a position
to fight a full-scale campaign against Nepal, but the movement of troops
closer to the border and Hodgson’s manoeuvrings secured the appointment
at the beginning of 1841 of a ‘British ministry’ headed by a collateral
relative of the royal family and including both Krishna Ram Mishra and
his more prominent brother, Ranganath. Hodgson was active in the new
 Reports 137

administration, which continued until 1842, his task being eased by the death
of the senior queen in October 1841 but complicated by the emergence onto
the political stage of her son, Crown Prince Surendra. In April Hodgson was
involved in a public clash with King Rajendra over a British subject who was
party to a commercial dispute with a Nepali and who had taken refuge at
the Residency. He subsequently withheld from the king a letter concerning
the incident from the new Governor-General, Lord Ellenborough, which
Hodgson believed would weaken the position of the pro-British ministers.
Enraged, Ellenborough initially ordered Hodgson’s instant dismissal but
subsequently relented and left him in post with instructions to disengage
gradually from his entanglement in internal politics.
He accomplished this successfully and in December 1842 was an
enthusiastic observer of the ‘National Movement’, a concerted effort by
most of the nobility with backing from the army to make King Rajendra
curtail the excesses of Crown Prince Surendra and grant authority to
the junior queen, Rajya Lakshmi. Because of his failure to save Bhimsen,
Hodgson was distrusted by Bhimsen’s nephew, Mathbar Singh Thapa.
Nevertheless, over the months preceding Mathbar’s return to Nepal from
India in 1843, Hodgson sought to influence him in Rajya Lakshmi’s favour,
while declining to give him any direct assurance of his future safety. I n
May 1843, Hodgson sought Ellenborough’s permission to remain in Nepal
until 1844. This was ostensibly to complete a general study of the country
on which he was now working, but a story still current in Kathmandu’s
Muslim community suggests that another reason may have been the birth
of a third child to Begum Meharunnisha, a Nepali Muslim with whom
Hodgson had probably been living since the early 1830s.4 Although King
Rajendra, with the agreement of the leading courtiers, took the unusual
step of writing to ask the Governor-General to allow the extension,
Ellenborough insisted on his departure and offered him an appointment
as Assistant Sub-Commissioner at Simla. Taking this as an insult, Hodgson
resigned from the Bengal Civil Service. He was given an impressive send-off
by the royal court on 5 December 1843 and sailed for England from Calcutta
on 7 February 1844.

4 For this oral tradition see Joshi 2004. The issue remains controversial and the editor of the
volume in which Joshi’s essay appears argues that, given the care Hodgson lavished on his
openly acknowledged children, Henry and Sarah, he would not have abandoned a third
child had one actually existed (Waterhouse 2004: 9-10)
138 EBHR-39

Recent studies have modified the portrait of Hodgson as the complete

master of events in Kathmandu which is offered in the biography by his
personal friend, William Hunter. It is now known that even Lord Auckland,
who allowed him a free hand in late 1840, seemed to sense that Hodgson’s
sudden enthusiasms could leave him open to manipulation and complained
of his writing ‘so strongly from slight impressions’. There is also much to be
said for the view of Lord Ellenborough and of his successor in Kathmandu,
Sir Henry Lawrence, that the East India Company’s interests were better
served by simple reliance on its own military strength than by involvement
in factional politics. Nevertheless, Hodgson did succeed in keeping the
peace, and the war with Nepal which Auckland had thought likely to come
was avoided. The regret expressed in Kathmandu at his departure was
largely genuine and stemmed from a belief that he had saved the country
from a clash with British India which would have ended its independence.
Hodgson’s own popularity amongst many of his colleagues, and the recall
of Lord Ellenborough by the East India Company’s Court of Directors in
1844, would have enabled him to resume an official career, but he stood by
his decision to resign. After spending time with his parents in Canterbury
and with his sister Fanny in Holland, to whom he entrusted his two elder
children, he returned in 1845 to South Asia to continue his research in the
Himalaya. As the Government of India would not allow him to return in a
private capacity to Kathmandu, he settled instead at Darjeeling, a hill station
established six years earlier just to the east of the Nepal border and under
the superintendence of Archibald Campbell, who had been his assistant in
Kathmandu. He mixed little with the local European community, perhaps
because of his unhappiness at increasingly racist attitudes towards Indians.
The botanist Joseph Hooker stayed with him from 1848 to 1850 and he
himself usually visited Calcutta during the winter months. He was also
joined by his son Henry, who died at Darjeeling in 1856. He maintained
communication with Kathmandu and was for a time entrusted with the
education of Gajraj Thapa, a son-in-law of Jang Bahadur Rana, who had
come to power in 1846 and whose family was to rule Nepal until 1951. In
October 1857, he helped persuade the Governor-General, Lord Canning, to
accept Jang Bahadur’s offer to lead a Nepalese force into India to assist in
the suppression of the ‘Mutiny’.
He continued his zoological work and wrote on the physical geography
of the Himalaya, but concentrated in particular on the ethnology of the
 Reports 139

peoples of northern India, making extensive use of the comparative

study of their languages to argue for common origins. His belief that all
the ‘non-Aryan’ peoples of India belonged to one great ‘Tamulian’ family
was misconceived, but he successfully demonstrated that many languages
of Nepal and north-east India belong to what is now known as the Sino-
Tibetan language family. These studies also reflected his concern with the
position of ‘aboriginal’ ethnic groups in relation to later, Hindu settlers and
a belief, first formed in Nepal, that less Hinduised peoples were more reliable
supporters of British power than the higher castes from whom the old
Bengal army had been largely recruited. At the same time, however, he also
advocated mass European settlement in the hills. Hodgson also continued
the advocacy of mother-tongue education for the people of India which
he had begun at the height of the controversy between ‘Orientalists’ and
‘Anglicists’ in the 1830s. He maintained that the modern Indian languages
were capable of use for scholarly purposes, in the same way that modern
European languages had supplanted Latin for learned writing, and stressed
the desirability of enriching them from Sanskrit or Persian rather than by
importing loans from English. Lord William Bentinck had in 1835 decided
the issue in favour of the use of English as the medium of both education
and administration, but opinion had begun to swing Hodgson’s way and
his view that public funds should support mass education in vernacular
languages was officially accepted by the government in 1854. During a visit
to Europe in 1853, Hodgson met and married Anne Scott (c.1815-68). His
Nepali partner, Meharunnisha, who remained in Kathmandu in 1843, had
probably died shortly before this. His wife returned with him to Darjeeling,
but in 1857 her health broke down and because of this and also his father’s
illness, Hodgson returned to England in 1858. He settled down to the life of a
country gentleman in Gloucestershire, first at Dursley and then at Alderley,
but after 1883 he wintered at the ‘Villa Himalaya’ at Mentone on the French
Riviera. His wife died in January 1868 and the following year he married
Susan Townshend, a clergyman’s daughter from Co. Cork. His children born
in Nepal had all died at an early age and there were no children from either
of his formal marriages. Although Hodgson himself had been plagued
with ill health in Nepal and India, he enjoyed a long and vigorous old age,
continuing to hunt until he was 68 and to ride a horse until he was 86. He
remained intellectually active, receiving visits from his old friends and
fellow scholars and also holding a candle for Gladstone and (after 1886) for
140 EBHR-39

Irish Home Rule amongst the largely Tory local gentry. He died peacefully
at 48 Davies Street, London on 23 May 1894 and was buried in the grounds
of the church of St Kenelm at Alderley. A plaque on the inner wall of the
church is inscribed as follows:

TO THE BELOVED MEMORY OF BRIAN HOUGHTON HODGSON OF THE

BENGAL CIVIL SERVICE. HON. DCL OF OXFORD. FELLOW OF THE ROYAL
SOCIETY. CORR. MEMBER OF THE INSTITUTE OF FRANCE. HON. MEMBER
OF THE GERMAN ORIENTAL SOCETY ETC. ETC. AS RESIDENT MINISTER
AT THE COURT OF NEPAL HE RENDERED DISTINGUISHED SERVICE TO
HIS COUNTRY AND TO THE CAUSE OF ORIENTAL LEARNING. HE DIED 23
MAY 1894. HAVING LIVED MANY YEARS AT ALDERLEY GRANGE IN THIS
PARISH HE WAS BURIED IN A VAULT NEAR THIS CHURCH. IN LOVING
REMEMBRANCE OF TWENTY-FIVE HAPPY YEARS THIS TABLET IS PLACED
HERE BY HIS WIFE SUSAN HODGSON. REQUIESCAT IN PACE.

Hodgson published around 200 articles in journals and newspapers. His

most important writings were re-issued as Essays on the Languages, Literature

John Whelpton, Michael Hutt and David Gellner beside the Hodgson memorial plaque in
the church of St Kenelm at Alderley, July 2011. Photograph by Michael Hutt.
 Reports 141

and Religion of Nepal and Tibet (1874) and Miscellaneous Essays Relating to Indian
Subjects (2 vols., 1880), which are regularly reprinted in India and Nepal. He
donated over 400 Sanskrit manuscripts and several hundred Tibetan wood-
printed volumes to European libraries and to the Asiatic Society in Calcutta,
and in 1864 turned over his collected materials on Nepal to the India Office
Library. He presented over 10,000 specimens (mostly birds) to the British
Museum and also a folio of almost two thousand zoological drawings by
himself and his assistants.
Among many other distinctions and honours, he was made a
Corresponding Member of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain (1828),
Fellow of the Linnaean Society (1835), Chevalier of the Legion of Honour
(1838), Fellow of the Royal Society (1877) and Honorary D.C.L. of Oxford
University (1889).
Surviving photographs and the busts in the Asiatic Societies in Calcutta
and London confirm his biographer’s reference to his finely-cut features
and dignified bearing. He could be over-impressionable and over-sensitive
while, to a modern reader, his writings sometimes show signs of pomposity
and, less frequently, of a patronising attitude towards the South Asian
peoples among whom he spent so much time. These failings were more than
offset by a strong sense of personal responsibility, prodigious intellectual
energy and enthusiasm, and an obvious ability to inspire affection and
often fierce loyalty among many of those around him.

References
Baral, L.S. 1964. ‘Life and writings of Prthvīnārāyaṇ Śāh’. Unpublished
University of London Ph. D thesis (available online at http://himalaya.
socanth.cam.ac.uk/collections/rarebooks/downloads/Baral_1964_
thesis.pdf
Cocker, M. and C. Inskipp 1988. A Himalayan Ornithologist: The life and works of
Brian Houghton Hodgson. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Clarke. T.W. 1969 ‘Nepali and Pahari’. In Current Trends in Linguistics Vol. 5:
Linguistics in South Asia, pp. 249-76. The Hague/Paris: Mouton.
Dhungel, R. 2006. ‘The long-ago fight for Kirant identity’. Himal South Asian
19(7): 52-56 (also at http://www.himalmag.com/2006/october/essay.
htm )
Dhungel, R. 2007. ‘Opening the chest of Nepal’s history: the survey of B.H.
142 EBHR-39

Hodgson’s manuscripts in the British Library and the Royal Asiatic

Society, London’. South Asia Archive and Library Group Newsletter Issue 3
(January).
Dixit, K.M. 1973(2030 b.s.) Jangabahādurko Belāit-Yātrā. 3rd ed. Kathmandu:
Sajha Prakashan
Dixit, K. M. 2003. ‘Looking for Mr Hodgson’. The Nepali Times 18-24 July.
Gellner, D. N. 1985. ‘Hodgson’s blind alley? On the so-called schools of
Nepalese Buddhism’. Journal of the International Association for Buddhist
Studies, 12(1): 7-19.
Gellner, D.N. 1986. ‘Language, caste, religion and territory: Newar identity
ancient and modern.’ European Journal of Sociology, 27: 102-48.
Gellner, D.N. 1999. ‘Introduction’. In Contested Hierarchies: A collaborative
ethnography of the Newars of the Kathmandu valley, Nepal, edited by D.N.
Gellner & D. Quigley. Delhi: Oxford University Press.
Hasrat, B. 1970. History of Nepal as Told by its Own and Contemporary Chronicles.
Hoshiarpur (Punjab): V. V. Research Institute Book Agency.
Hutt, M. J. 1988. Nepali: a National Language and its Literature. New Delhi:
Sterling.
Joshi, H. R. 2004. ‘Brian Houghton Hodgson – the unknown story’. In The
Origins of Himalayan Studies: Brian Houghton Hodgson in Nepal and Darjeeling
1820-1858, edited by David Waterhouse, pp. 39-48. London: Routledge
Curzon
Hunter, W.W. 1896. Life of Brian Houghton Hodgson. London: John Murray.
Lamsal, D.P. (ed.) 1968. Bhāṣā Vaṃśāvalī (Bhāg-2). Kathmandu: National
Library.
Malla, K.P. 1983. ‘Nepāla: archaeology of the word’. In The Nepal Heritage
Society Souvenir for PATA Conference, Kathmandu, pp. 33-39 (Also available
at http://www.kpmalla.com/?at​tachment_id=285)
Mitra, R.L. 1882. The Sanskrit Buddhist Literature of Nepal. Calcutta: Asiatic
Society of Bengal.
Paudel, N. (ed.). 1965/6 (2020V.S.) Bhāṣā Vaṃśāvalī (Bhāg-1). Kathmandu:
National Library.
Pels, P. 1994. ‘The politics of aboriginality: Brian Houghton Hodgson and the
making of an ethnology of India’. International Institute for Asian Studies
Year­Book, ed. P.v.d. Velde, pp. 147-168.
Shakya, Daya R.. 2006. ‘Do we really need to say “Newari”?’ http://
www.jwajalapa.com/index.php?option=com_content&view
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=article&id=26:do-we-really-need-to-say-newari-&catid=63:english-
articles&Itemid=40
Snellgrove, D. 1987. Indo-Tibetan Buddhism: Indian Buddhists and their Tibetan
successors. London: Serindia.
Waterhouse, D. (ed.) 2004. The Origins of Himalayan Studies: Brian Houghton
Hodgson in Nepal and Darjeeling 1820-1858. London: Routledge Curzon.
Whelpton, J. 1991. Kings, Soldiers and Priests: Nepalese politics and the rise of Jang
Bahadur Rana 1830-1857. New Delhi: Manohar.
Whelpton, J. 1999. ‘Notes on the life of Brian Hodgson’. Voice of History 14(2):
25-32.
Whelpton, J. 2004. ‘Brian Houghton Hodgson (1800-1894)’. In Oxford
Dictionary of National Biography, edited by H.C.G.Matthew. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Yogi, K., D. Yogi & S.P. Regmi (eds.) 1952 (2009 VE). Gorkhāvaṃśāvalī. Kashi.
144 EBHR-39

Report on ‘Changing Dynamics of Nepali Society and Politics’

Khem Shreesh

In an attempt to understand the tremendous changes Nepal has undergone

in the twenty years since the first restoration of democracy in 1990, an
international conference entitled ‘Changing Dynamics of Nepali Society
and Politics’ was held in Kathmandu on 17-19 August, 2011. The conference
was hosted jointly by the Alliance for Social Dialogue (ASD), the Association
for Nepal and Himalayan Studies (ANHS) and Social Science Baha (SSB) with
the support of the Open Society Foundations and the Swiss Confederation.
There was a preponderance of young and emerging scholars among the
paper presenters, although established scholars were also well represented.
A total of 31 papers were presented in twelve parallel sessions during
the conference, namely: 1) State-building in a ‘new’ Nepal; 2) Politics of
social change; 3) Devolution and local governance: bureaucracy, leaders
and popular participation; 4) Identity politics: region, caste and religion;
5) Identity movements and strategies; 6) Civil society, participation and
resistance; 7) Nation and culture; 8) Identity politics, conflict and ‘new’
Nepal; 9) Politics over time and space; 10) State and foreign policy; 11)
Market and social change; and 12) Socio-economic changes, compulsions
and lives in rural and urban areas. Each session was chaired by a senior
scholar and each paper was commented upon by a discussant from a related
disciplinary and research background.
Selected individuals from academia, government and research
organisations as well as policy makers and young scholars also took part in
the deliberations. A couple of Nepal scholars from India were also invited
to participate in the conference as a means of continuing our engagement
with Nepal’s most important neighbour.
In general, the papers focused on the dynamic nature of change in society
as an outcome of internal and external interactions, and also on resistance
and adaptation to those changes. The Mahesh Chandra Regmi Lecture 2011,
delivered by James F. Fisher, formerly Professor of Anthropology and Asian
Studies at Carleton College, Minnesota, set the tone for the conference.
Fisher reflected on his four decades of research experience in Nepal and the
changes that have occurred in society over this period: the transformation
 Reports 145

of rural areas, family structures and politics and society in general, and
‘globalisation’. The lecture was based on his original research in Dolpa in
the northwest Nepal and his study of Sherpas in the eastern Himalaya,
and also from his observation of political figures and their lives in the half
century since he began working in Nepal.
Politics was a dominant aspect of the conference, and the papers
presented had four broad characteristics. First, while each paper looked at
the Nepali state from its own disciplinary standpoint, some papers tried to
engage with the Nepali state and society more closely by looking at the rise
of ethno-nationalism and its decisive role at the present juncture in Nepal.
Such papers looked at the policies and practices of past governments and
regimes with an emphasis on representation and recognition, or the lack
thereof.
A second recurring theme was federalism and the protracted transition
to equitable peace and social justice. The papers and the discussions
they provoked focused on various models of federalism and the possible
problems posed by them, and on how federalism could invite another
round of conflict.
A third approach was to look at the politics of change in terms of
mobilisation and the production of identities. Thus, several papers focused
on spatiality and regionality, and in particular local politics and their
relation to national-level politics. They discussed the rise of identity politics
and how the state has attempted to ensure recognition based on ethnicity,
caste, region and religion, and focused on how identity movements gained
currency in the post-1990 period and momentum during the present period
of transition, and have been mediated to some extent by civil society
actors and communities who have sought and promoted participation
in all spheres of society. They also highlighted the struggles against and
resistance to externally imposed constructs and notions.
The fourth feature of many papers was their focus on the social changes
brought about by politics, which has undergone change in meaning and
substance over time from one dominated by a ruling elite to a broad-based
representative democracy. However, minorities still face the obstacles of
inadequate representation and a lack of access to services and social justice.
Along with socioeconomic change, politics has heralded a promising future
for some while for others it represents a continued life of hardship and
isolation from family and society.
146 EBHR-39

The conference was also an opportunity to organise plenary public

events in the evenings. The first evening was devoted to ‘Sanghiyata
ra Yeska Ayam’ (Federalism and Its Dimensions) with two speakers,
Mahendra Lawoti and Anil Bhattarai, focusing on two different themes.
The second evening saw a discussion based on a presentation on ‘Rajnaitik
Sankramanma Nepal’ (Nepal’s Prolonged Political Transition: Where Are
We Heading?) by Nilamber Acharya, chair of the Constitutional Committee
of the Constituent Assembly. The third day saw a panel discussion with
scholars working on education deliberating on ‘Shikshyama Chunauti: Ek
Bahas’ (Emerging Trends in Education: Challenges and Opportunities).
It is planned to publish papers from the conference in three volumes
under the broad themes of ‘state’, ‘identity’ and ‘socio-economic change’.
 147

INTERVIEW
148 EBHR-39

Women, Law and Democracy in Nepal: An interview with

Sapana Pradhan-Malla

Gérard Toffin and Shova Shakya*

Sapana Pradhan-Malla was born in November 1963. As a practising lawyer

before the Supreme Court, she has been an advocate for the rights of Nepali
women in several landmark cases. She is a founding member of the Forum
for Women, Law & Development (FWLD) (Mahila, Kanun tatha Bikas Manch),
Legal Aid Consultancy Centre (LACC), Lalitpur, and of the Public Interest
Litigation Forum (Pro Public), non-government organisations. She has
published extensively on the legal status of women in Nepal. Since 2008,
she has been a member of Nepal’s Constituent Assembly. She has been
awarded the 2008 Gruber Foundation Women’s Rights Prize alongside two
other activists from other countries for advancing gender activities.1

‘I can speak Bhojpuri more fluently than Newari.’

GÉRARD: Sapana, would you first tell me about your childhood?
SAPANA: I was born and brought up in Nawalparasi. Although I’m Newar by
birth, four or five generations of my family have lived there, so we are more
like locals and I’ve adopted the Terai culture.

GÉRARD: Was Newari spoken at home?

SAPANA: My grandparents used to speak it fluently. All their daughters-in-
law come from Kathmandu and they send their daughters to Kathmandu.
As a consequence my mother speaks Newari fluently but not my father. I
can speak Bhojpuri more fluently than Newari. When I reached class five, I
decided to come to Kathmandu because all the members of my family used
to study there. I was the youngest and my parents wanted me to stay with

* Gérard Toffin is Director of Research at CNRS (Paris). He has been conducting research in
Nepal since 1970 and he is currently working on women’s legal issues in the Kathmandu
Valley. Shova Shakya is a Harka Gurung Research Fellow (SIRF, Lalitpur). At present she
is focusing her research on Newar single women. This paper is part of a larger research
project, ‘Justice and Governance in India and South Asia’, co-ordinated by Daniela Berti,
CNRS.
1 This interview was recorded on 18 August 2010 at FWLD, Thapathali, Kathmandu.
 Interview 149

them. As a result, I fell behind in my studies. I only started studying the

alphabet in class three. The standard of education was poor in Nawalparasi,
so there was no option for me but to come to Kathmandu.

University and first professional experience

GÉRARD: You got your Masters degree from the University of Delhi in India?
SAPANA: My first degree is from Tribhuvan University in Kathmandu where
I graduated in law in 1987. At that time no Master’s degree existed in Nepal.
India was the nearest and most affordable, so I decided to pursue my studies
there. I did my Masters in law at Delhi University in 1990. That’s where I
could really focus on my studies and learn how to survive in a competitive
environment. After that, I went to Italy to learn skills such as arguing a case
and the art of writing. An education in law is not enough until you learn the
appropriate skills.

GÉRARD: Did you stay there a long time?

SAPANA: I went there twice. Once for a development lawyers’ course
where you learn to draft contracts to launch joint ventures and how to
advise clients. That was for three months. The second time it was for an
investment and enterprise lawyers’ course.
I specialised in corporate management in India. On returning to Nepal
after completing my university education, I started my law practice and
focused on company law. I was a corporate lawyer and I took on a lot of
work in foreign investments, joint ventures. Later on, I also focused on
industrial relations. That was right after the first democracy movement
(1990) and there was a lot of agitation and industrial unrest in the country.
So I started practising labour law as well. I was doing rather well in that
field until I suddenly realised that I wanted to help the women who came
to me asking for help. At that time I wasn’t able to. It wasn’t only socio-
cultural prejudices that existed in society; even the law was influenced
by socio-cultural values. So I gradually started examining their cases.
However, I wasn’t able to help them because the law itself was a barrier
to justice for women. Then I decided to work on improving the law and
reforming discriminatory law. That’s how I started my journey towards
gender equality.

GÉRARD: I’m impressed by the interviews I’ve been able to hold with young lawyers
150 EBHR-39

of your generation here in Nepal. Many lawyers are women. Am I wrong or are there
a large number of women lawyers in the country?
SAPANA: It is encouraging to see the numbers but in actual fact there are
not that many. If you look at the statistics, how many women are lawyers
and license holders in Nepal? Five or six percent. Of those how many come
to the profession? And how many of those continue to practise when they’re
married? Even if they do remain in practice, how many are able to compete
in the profession? Now that’s a multi-tiered question you’ve just raised. The
legal profession is not easy. It’s a demanding profession requiring a lot of
time and reading. You find yourself forever having to study. In our culture
there is no sharing of responsibilities, so women are still expected to do
everything at home. Because of that women are not able to find a balance
in their professional lives, compete with male lawyers and find a balance in
their own personal lives.

‘Equality is the key to democracy’

GÉRARD: What other factors led you to fight for women? Of course there was the
political change after 1990. Democracy must have played a major role.
SAPANA: I’ve always said that democracy is very important in order to
respect, protect and promote rights. Because of the democratic environment,
we were able to express our frustrations and demands. Although at the
time it was a new democratic environment and changes were slow coming.
I would say that our voice was respected, not least because of the freedom
of expression. In terms of changing the law, the 1990 constitution provided
new provisions for public interest litigation (PIL). Now if a group’s rights
are violated, anyone can go and file a case. This provided a large avenue for
us to challenge the law and to make the State accountable for outlawing
any discrimination and for ensuring equality.

GÉRARD: Over the last two decades you have been involved in many confrontations.
You were involved in the Kumari controversy, at least as it was traditionally
practised under the king’s rule. You have also been involved in gay and lesbian’s
rights, abortion and so on. Now that you are a Member of Parliament , what would
you say is the common link behind all these struggles?
SAPANA: It goes back to my childhood. I always wanted to challenge issues
such as discrimination, exclusion, restrictions and how minorities are
treated. Whether it is women or children’s issues, gay and lesbian rights,
 Interview 151

all these people are a minority. As for women in particular, they are a
majority, yet they are marginalised. All these groups find themselves in an
unbalanced power relationship; they don’t have any access or control over
resources and they are deprived of equal opportunities. Consequently, they
are excluded from the decision-making process. So, the common thread is
to establish some form of equality. Equality is the key to democracy, the key
to the rule of law.

GÉRARD: Nevertheless, you live in a country where hierarchy is the basis of all social
links, not only in the villages but also in the urban environment.
SAPANA: Yes, there use to be a class and caste hierarchy and the country
was under the heavy influence of religion. However, we have been able to
challenge that. Religion is definitely a sensitive issue. Immediately after the
second revolution (2006), the attack was aimed at religion. I am a Hindu,
born and brought up as a Hindu…

‘Religion is just an individual belief.’

GÉRARD: You are wearing a necklace bearing a figure of Ganesh.
SAPANA: Yes, I’m wearing Ganesh. It’s just for fashion, and my mother
gave it to me. I like my culture. I believe religion is merely an individual
belief. Unless you can challenge those things you cannot change the
structure that has been created through history. Without challenging
caste hierarchy how can you introduce equality? Without challenging
patriarchal hierarchy how can you introduce equality for women? Without
challenging traditional notions how can you talk about gay and lesbian
rights? You simply cannot. Without challenging religion and culture, how
can you talk about legalising abortion or criminalising marital rape or
ensuring equal inheritance rights?
We adopted quite a strategic approach in the process. Instead of openly
declaring war on religion, we challenged those cultures, those values which
discriminate [against] certain groups, whether it be women, Dalits or
Janajatis. We started with discrimination and violence; that was our point
of entry. As far as gay and lesbian rights are concerned, I was committed to
them because these minorities used to be tortured by the police. How can
the police who are supposed to protect and create a secure environment
abuse them? We fought against abuse, discrimination, violence, and that
really helped us to become politically stronger in striving for equality.
152 EBHR-39

Legal changes
GÉRARD: Women’s legislative and judicial status has changed tremendously from
legal and legislative points of view over the last two decades. A number of provisions
in favour of women regarding equality between the sexes have been adopted, not to
mention the abortion rights obtained in 2002 and the equal rights for daughters and
brothers regarding parents’ property. As for marriage between people of the same
sex, just this morning I was reading an article in a Nepali newspaper about a priest
who married two homosexuals in Pachali temple in Teku and who said: ‘I don’t know
if it’s a good thing or not but I did it and we have to adapt to change.’
SAPANA: Yes, I received an email about that.

GÉRARD: Even if some issues have not yet totally been recognised by the Supreme
Court, as you said, the mindset has changed tremendously. From a legal point of
view, in some sectors Nepal is even more progressive than India. Can you comment
on these marriages between people of the same sexes, on Nepal being more
progressive than in India and on the incredible series of reforms within just two
decades of legislation? You’re probably going to say that there is still a lot to do, but
we have indeed already witnessed major waves of reform.
SAPANA: Again I think it’s because we are still focusing on transforming
democratic values within the state structure. The opportunity has been
created because of the momentum. In matters of development, Indians are
still ahead. Yet, in terms of reforming law and expanding rights, we may
have gone further. I think it’s all down to the political context. Here, the
insurgency, which challenged inequality and unbalanced development,
played a great role in the overall process.
Lots of changes have indeed taken place but that’s not due to the
political parties. Major advances in women’s rights have come about thanks
to us, women lawyers, who started challenging the law through research,
advocacy and public interest litigations. There’s been a huge contribution
from NGOs, such as Forum for Women, Law and Development (FWLD), Legal
Aid Consultancy Service (LACC) and Pro-Public. These are the three main
organisations that have taken a leading role in challenging the law. As a
result, property rights have been reformed, abortion legalised, and a new
human trafficking law enacted. We now have a new domestic violence act,
and an anti-sexual harassment bill is being examined by Parliament. Even
in the forthcoming Interim Constitution, many women’s rights are now
protected.
 Interview 153

Gay and lesbian rights

SAPANA: In terms of gay and lesbian rights, a publicly self-declared gay is now
a Member of Parliament, which itself is a symbol of change in the country.
It’s not only because the Supreme Court says that the gay identity has to be
respected. Their existence has to be recognised by the State and as a result,
the upcoming constitution states that there shall be no discrimination on
the basis of sexual orientation or of different genders. We have had this
adopted in the upcoming constitution on which we are working, but at least
the manner in which it has been drafted has already been acknowledged.
Those are the major changes that have taken place so far. Same-sex
marriage has not in fact been recognised. In the same decision the Supreme
Court stated that they’ve asked the government to look into the possibility
of same sex marriage because marriage laws, as they stand at present,
specify that marriage must be between a man and a woman. So, regarding
the social event between people of the same sexes that took place and was
publicised on different TV channels, the government did not interfere
because it’s a private matter. However, there is a marriage chapter in
Muluki Ain that says that, if any rights are violated you can file a case; such
as in cases of child marriage or forced marriage.
A problem arises if they wish to register a same-sex marriage in court.
Declaring themselves spouses is not a contentious issue. However, legal
recognition of their marriage in the eyes of the law is problematical if
they wish to be recognised as a married couple. For this reason, when
the domestic violence law was enacted, Sunil Babu Pant2, Binda Pandey,
Arju Deuba sought to recognise family relations, the relations between
any persons living together. We tried to address their concerns but we
failed. The alternate language I proposed to the committee was to include
the word ‘dependent family’, so that it would recognise any person living
together within a family relationship, including the helpers at home.
However, a majority of parliamentarians refused to recognise this. We
failed to understand their position. If there’s violence inside the home, it
has to be recognised by the State, and the victims have to be guaranteed the
necessary protection and justice. Unfortunately, a majority of Members of
Parliament were against it.
2 Sunil Babu Pant is the founder and director of the Blue Diamond Society (an organisation
fighting for the rights of lesbians, gays, bisexuals and the transgendered (LGBT). He is
presently a member of the Constituent Assembly.
154 EBHR-39

Religious and civil marriage

GÉRARD: Let us compare France and Nepal. In France we have two types of
marriage: the optional religious marriage and the compulsory legal marriage which
is celebrated before the mayor at the town hall…
SAPANA: Here too we have both types. A religious marriage can be
registered but only if it is between a man and a woman. Through a religious
ceremony, one can be recognised as a couple but if problems arise during
the marriage, no particular help is provided.
We therefore encourage people to register under the Personal Incident
Act3 for documentation and statistical purposes. However, one can choose
to get married in court, which is the lawful way of marrying.4 Upon
registering the marriage, information is recorded that might come in useful
in cases of marital problems. When a relationship is not recognised by law,
then you cannot claim any rights.

‘Having a law is not enough, but having a law is important’

GÉRARD: Despite all the progress and changes, the situation of women still seems
very far from this ideal, progressive picture. In many places, it rather fits the
description given by Lynn Bennett in the case studies she undertook in the early
seventies. There are large discrepancies between the urban settlements in the
Kathmandu Valley, some district headquarters and rural Nepal. How are the
reforms implemented in rural areas?
SAPANA: Although there have been some improvements, that is not enough.
There are many laws and policies that need to be improved upon. Having
laws is not enough, yet having laws is important because without laws
you cannot make the State and State institutions accountable. Once you
have laws, the next step is: how to apply them, whose responsibility is it
to promote laws, to create institutions, generate resources and change the
mindset? Law and society go hand in hand. Consequently, investments have
to be made by the government, donor agencies as well as by civil society.
The challenge right now is to implement the laws we have and we are
focusing our efforts on this. We are talking about the de facto, practical

3 In Nepali this act is called Byaktigata Ghatana Darta Ain. In that process, the marriage is
recorded at the Municipality Office (Nagarpalika), section: Panjikadhikari Shakha.
4 Court or legal marriage is called darta bibaha in Nepali. In that case the marriage is
registered at the CDO (Chief District Office). It merely involves registering both parties,
with no civil ceremony.
 Interview 155

realisation of rights, for which we all need to work together. In the past,
there was the denial of rights through law. Now that laws have been adopted,
how do we transpose them into real life? At least, people now have access to
justice. But how do we make the legal system function properly? How do we
make pro-poor services available, how do we obtain legal aid, how do we set
up a programme of legal literacy or economic empowerment?
Having some knowledge of law is not enough. Women need to be
educated. As I always say, law is inclusion. Though law can create an
external policy framework, empowerment is necessary. We have to develop
the inner capacity of women so that they can claim their rights. Inclusion
and empowerment go together. On the subject of empowerment, my
first priority has always been economic empowerment. Unless you have
achieved that, even if you do have rights, you cannot exercise your choice.
For example, there are many cases of bigamy and domestic violence,
but women have no choice but to live with the family. Either the State
has to make alternate arrangements or women have to be economically
independent so that they can exercise their choice.

Fight for laws, fight with guns

GÉRARD: Would you say that building democracy in a country like Nepal is more
about fighting for laws than fighting with guns against the State? What will be the
role of the judiciary and law in this democratisation process?
SAPANA: Building a democracy in a country is achieved through the rule of
law. When we say rule of law, we definitely do not want to use guns and that
is why we have initiated this peace making process. Guns can never bring
peace and development to a country. With guns there would be anarchy,
which would last forever.

The Kumari issue

GÉRARD: Now, I’d like to talk about the Living Goddess Kumari. There are burning
debates on this topic, mostly in the Kathmandu Valley, between supporters and
opponents of the Kumari religious institution. The Kumari goddess was linked to
royalty and kingship. Obviously in the present situation this link has had to be
severed. What is your position regarding this cult?
SAPANA: The major criticism we face about advocating the Kumaris’
rights is: why talk about the rights of a few girls? Nevertheless, let me just
make a few remarks. Firstly, even if a single individual woman’s rights are
156 EBHR-39

violated, that case is a concern for human rights activists and the State. The
actual number of persons is not the point here. Secondly, we do respect
Newar culture and the prestige issue is also involved here. There are many
Shakyas who feel that it’s their culture and they should be allowed to
practise it. We do indeed respect their culture. I respect ancient traditions;
it’s a personal choice. Yet on the other hand, you also have to consider
science, development and technology.
Today, we are in the 21st century. Can we still believe that a living
goddess can confer political power on the rulers? Is it a credible institution
or not? Even if you believe it, and it is a source of pride to the family, what
about the child? What about her right to freedom, right to be with her
family, right to entertainment? Those rights are recognised by the Child’s
Rights Convention.
Up until the age of 10 or 11, she is a goddess, and from then onwards
she becomes an ordinary human being. How will she cope with this sudden
change from bestowing blessings on her devotees to becoming an ordinary
human being? What kind of psychological trauma will she suffer? Indeed,
the concern we have been raising over the years is that even if you want
to practise this cult as a cultural tradition, the child best’s interests should
be considered. And that should come first. Does the Kumari have equal
opportunities as far as education is concerned, equal opportunities to
develop as a normal child in an environment that she needs to evolve in?
Other things trouble me. I don’t believe, for example, what the Kumari’s
priests say about menstruation; that she is polluted after reaching this
stage in her development, and that she is therefore no longer a goddess.
If I am a goddess, I should be a goddess forever. Menstruation is a mere
reproductive function.

SHOVA: It is also said that there should be no wound on the Kumari’s body, and that
no blood should flow from the goddess’s body.
SAPANA: Traditionally, an ex-Kumari wasn’t even supposed to get married.
But that was challenged and changed. Now many of them do get married.
It was also said that as long as you are a virgin, you are a goddess. Why is
there a demarcation line that puts a price on virginity? We also have to
challenge the right to sexuality and to equal sexual relations. Because of all
these issues, my position has been that this religious institution needs to
respect children’s and women’s rights.
 Interview 157

GÉRARD: It’s rather a particularly interesting case. One of the main issues here deals
with the separation between religion and civil society, a process that happened in
France and Western countries in the 18th and 19th centuries. This is a very challenging
question from a sociological and comparative point of view.

Feminisation of professions
GÉRARD: There has been a growing feminisation of professions in urban areas,
in the police force, airline companies and law. What is the main impact of this
transformation on family life and society at large?
SAPANA: I would say that it will bring positive changes to the country, to
society, to the family….

GÉRARD: Even if it’s more difficult to cope with family life as very often women have
to juggle between their job outside and work inside the home…
SAPANA: When you work at home, the work you do is not recognised. When
you work outside, your contribution is recognised economically; your
independent existence as a citizen and your identity is recognised. We are
also challenging the notion that a woman has to stay at home inside the
house and take care of the children, because that responsibility can in fact
be shared. So it’s also a call for social change, for sharing responsibilities
inside the house and taking care of the children. It’s what we want to target;
the line we have proposed in the constitution is that sharing responsibility
and taking care of the children, as well as recognising women’s contribution
to the household, should be recognised as contributing to the national
income. Moreover, the benefit of women working in the police or in the
legal profession also challenges the notion that women should only work
in service sectors, in traditionally ‘feminine’ jobs such as airhostess, nurse,
teacher, etc.
Consequently, women now make up 33 percent of the CA in Parliament.
We are now working in technical fields, in the political realm and in power
structures. Although there are not enough of us, our part in the nation-
building process is on the rise. If women do not contribute to nation-
building, how do you expect the country to change? So what matters is not
only having adequate laws, but also citizens who are engaged in the process
of change.
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Citizenship and women

SHOVA: How is the issue of taking nagarikata pramanapatra (citizenship certificate)
in your mother’s name progressing?
SAPANA: This is a major issue that we will be working on in the upcoming
Constituent Assembly. At the moment, a woman is recognised as a legal
descendant. Based on blood relationships, she can confer citizenship on her
child, but if she’s married to a foreigner, she cannot. The child has to be
born in Nepal and has to permanently reside in this country. These two
conditions have to be fulfilled. Even when this is the case, a child is only
entitled to become a citizenship through naturalisation.
The difference between citizenship by descent and naturalisation is
that the former is a right whereas in the second case you have to apply
for naturalisation and it’s up to the State whether to grant it or not.
Furthermore, you are not entitled to any public positions if you have obtained
naturalisation. You can never become president or prime minister. So, on
the one hand, a woman is recognised for her lineal descent in conferring
citizenship but in the event where she’s married to a foreigner, that right is
withheld. This restriction is completely discriminatory.

Single women
SHOVA: There are problems where women are abandoned by their husbands or
husbands’ families. When a mother has to apply for her child’s nationality, she faces
difficulties in public administrations.
SAPANA: Yes, even though the law has changed, there are cases of
harassment by public employees.

SHOVA: On the top of that they ask for extra money. Just last year, a lady paid
about 20 thousand rupees to a public employee to obtain a temporary citizenship
certificate and passport for her son.
SAPANA: She should not have accepted. Since you yourself are working on
single women’s issues, I would like to inform you that two decisions have
recently been taken by the Supreme Court. Even though a woman can confer
citizenship on her child, any public employee will refer you to your husband’s
district. However, according to the Supreme Court’s decision, you can now go
to your mother’s place of residence where she acquired her citizenship. It
doesn’t have to be your father’s house. Even if a woman is married, she has a
choice of whether to take citizenship in her father’s name or in her husband’s
 Interview 159

name. This is a new decision on the part of the court. Before, if you were
married, you were only allowed to take citizenship in your husband’s name.

SHOVA: If she’s still single and has a child, then it’s a problem for her when applying
for her child’s nationality.
SAPANA: She can apply for citizenship through her father’s name or after
submitting her husband’s death certificate and a copy of her husband’s
nationality.

GÉRARD: Is this a major problem? Have you come across such cases that have a
wider national bearing?
SAPANA: Single women are really well organised. Single women’s
associations (Women for Human Rights, Single Women Group, WHR)
are very active. Because of their collective voice, their issue is perfectly
visible. But there are deeper problems at home and in society. Socio-
cultural problems, the kind of stigmatisation they undergo, and the
restrictions applied to these women are intolerable. However, in terms of
legal problems, all the barriers have been brought down. All old laws which
discriminated [against] single women have been amended. Now, a woman
has equal rights to property, and even if she remarries, she doesn’t have
to return the property. These changes have indeed been made. Now what
needs to be done is to empower single women, to involve them in income-
generating activities and to educate them. The government has allocated an
‘earmarked budget’ for them. This year the budget provides single women
with allowances but only when they reach the age of 60.

GÉRARD: Is this allowance given irrespective of land ownership?

SAPANA: It should only be given to socio-economically backward groups
and immediately after a woman becomes a widow, not after the age of 60.
This is what we are trying to push through parliament. There is a possibility
that the forthcoming budget may address this issue.

‘Politics can change’

GÉRARD: You became a member of the Constituent Assembly in 2008, as you were
already familiar with political affairs. How has this experience been for you? Did it
seem perfectly natural for you to enter politics? To act in civil society is one thing, to
deal with different political parties is another.
160 EBHR-39

SAPANA: It has been a new experience for me. I have always been very
vocal and active, and had already started demanding my rights at an early
age. Once on the inside, the situation was quite different though rather a
strategic one for us. Politics can change things. It can prove to be very good
at bringing change to a country. Since all the political parties are open to
change, I see this as an opportunity. But the way we used to be active outside
is not the same as being inside where you reach a consensus between
different political parties. We are not now only working on individual
rights, we are involved in different rights groups, and negotiating for rights
is not an easy task. At least I feel that as insiders, we can influence different
political parties as well as my own political party (United Marxist Leninist,
UML). Sometimes we can negotiate directly. We can act as a bridge between
political parties and civil society.

A country in a transitional phase

GÉRARD: The main aim of this assembly is to draft a constitution. Is there a link
between this work of reflecting on different topics and the drafting of such a
constitution?
SAPANA: The country is in transition. We are in a conflict transformation
process. Establishing non-State actors as a mainstream political party
and changing the whole political system from a monarchy to a republic
is far from easy. After creating an entire movement within the nation and
inculcating certain aspirations in the population, attempting to meet these
expectations is a formidable endeavour. A series of promises, a range of
goals have been set out, but successfully prioritising these goals in order to
achieve them represents a real challenge.
We could have separated the Constituent Assembly and parliament,
which isn’t what we did. That was one of the mistakes we made. The CA
could have just focused on drafting laws. Another mistake is that the
Constituent Assembly does not function as an elected institution. If you
look at the Interim Constitution and its Preamble, you will note that it was
adopted and based on a political agreement. And now we want to make a
new law, a new constitution through the Constituent Assembly.
The Assembly is focusing more on political negotiations rather than
on the people’s needs and expectations. More consensuses are being
reached within the political parties, which are again another diversion
in the Assembly, at least that’s the way I see it. We could have separated
 Interview 161

the power-sharing and the constitution-making processes. But when you

give the political parties all the power to draw up a constitution, the whole
process happens to be dominated by politics.
GÉRARD: It’s also a very interesting process. Due to its population’s fabric, its own
problems, Nepal is inventing and negotiating a new republican model. It will not be
on the same lines as the Republic of India since traditions are different.

Uniform code of law, personal law and law for minorities

GÉRARD: In addition to judicial differences between Nepal and India comes the
question of a uniform code and personal laws. As you know, in India Hindus, Muslims,
Christians and Parsis have had their own traditions recognised in matters of family
marriage and so on. In Nepal, as far as I know, a uniform code of law prevails.
Are you in favour of modifying this uniform code in response to the demands put
forward by Janajatis and other minority groups? What is your position on personal
laws and a distinct code for minorities?
SAPANA: We have already agreed to respect pluralism. Pluralism is a
precondition for democracy. When you recognise the concept of pluralism,
you also recognise the principal of legal pluralism. Nepal is now recognised
as a multi-national and secular state. Diversity therefore has to be
considered in terms of caste, class, religion, ethnicity and language. In that
context, yes, we have to respect legal pluralism. We have to observe the
customs and traditions of the different ethnic groups and religions. It is our
duty to respect personal beliefs.
Some Muslim groups are asking for their own personal law to be an
integral part of the code. As a human rights activist, I cannot say no and not
respect their choice. Yet this cannot run counter to the constitutional values
that promote non-discrimination and equality. We cannot compromise on
the values that have been promoted by the constitution. For this reason, we
have proposed a language in the constitutional framework that says: any
culture, any tradition, and any religion, if discriminatory, will be recognised
as a form of exploitation. We have thus tried to create such mechanisms to
deal with possible threats. Another aspect is that yes, we have one unified
code but that code was based on Hinduism. We want to depart from this.

GÉRARD: Nepal is now a secular country.

SAPANA: We want to have a unified code, respecting human rights norms
and values, prohibiting discrimination and respecting equality; a code
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which doesn’t treat anyone differently because of their religion or culture.

If this has a negative outcome, it will not be tolerated.

Parity
GÉRARD: My last question is about parity. India is on the point of adopting such a
measure for its political assembly.
SAPANA: This hasn’t been finalised in India. Their objective is quite
different. They introduced this policy for a year, for one term, and only
in parliament. There are some reservations at local government level. But
here in Nepal, women already hold 33 percent of the seats in parliament.
We are still not satisfied with that figure. Why only 33 percent, why not 50
percent? Why only in parliament? We want parity in all state structures.
So, we are targeting 50 percent in our negotiations, not only in
parliament but in the overall structure. The language we have proposed
in the forthcoming constitution is that if the President is a man, then the
Vice-President should be a woman; if the Speaker is a man, then the Vice-
Speaker should be a woman. That measure has been accepted, but since
then we have submitted an amendment proposing a term of office for each,
one term for a man and one term for a woman. We are trying to negotiate
this proposal. In ensuring women’s political involvement, we have moved
much further than India.

GÉRARD: In France, some feminists contest this reservation system for women,
saying that it’s not democratic, i.e. it goes against equality. There is also a debate
about introducing reservations for other categories of people in several Western
countries.
SAPANA: If you look at different instruments of human rights, including
the European Convention, affirmative action doesn’t mean forever. It’s a
compensatory system of justice. Until minorities/marginalised groups
reach that level, it’s a special, temporary measure. Reservation is not
permanent. It doesn’t have to be for a quota or a seat, it can be in any other
environment, any other socio-economic system. I don’t think it should be
seen as a challenge to democratic values. It should be seen as a means to
ensure democracy because democracy means equality.
GÉRARD: You rightly pointed out that it is temporary. That is a very good point.
Thank you very much for granting us this interview.
 Interview 163

Acknowledgements
This interview was transcribed and first edited by Sushma Amatya. We
would also like to thank Bernadette Sellers (CNRS) for proofreading the
English.
164 EBHR-39
 165

OBITUARIES
166 EBHR-39

Richard Keith Sprigg (1922-2011)

Heleen Plaisier

With the death of Richard Keith Sprigg on September 8, 2011, the Himalayan
scholarly community has to say farewell to this pioneering intellectual, who
was a generous mentor and engaging friend to many of us. Keith Sprigg
remains well known for his important contributions to Tibetan, Lepcha,
Limbu, Burmese and other languages, as well as for his Firthian approach to
phonology, applied to the field of comparative Tibeto-Burman linguistics.
Keith Sprigg was born in Melton Mowbray in the United Kingdom on
March 31, 1922 and completed his first academic degree in Cambridge,
where he received a First Class Honours in the Classical Tripos in 1942.
He joined the Royal Air Force
during the Second World War
and between 1943 and 1947 he
served in the UK, India, Ceylon,
Singapore and Japan. During this
eventful period, he managed to
pursue his linguistic studies and
obtained War Degrees, a B.A. in
1944 and an M.A. in 1947.
In 1948, Keith started working
at the School of Oriental and
African Studies (SOAS) in London
as a Lecturer in Phonetics. He
studied Tibetan in Kalimpong
and Gyantse, during visits in
1949 and 1950, during which
time he was mentored by David
Macdonald. This visit not only
kindled a long-lasting interest
in both Tibetan and Lepcha, but
Dr. Sprigg presents a paper to the Tenth in Kalimpong Keith also met
Annual Conference of the Linguistic Society of
Nepal at Kirtipur, November 1989. his future wife, Ray Margaret
Photo by Michael Hutt Williams, a great-granddaughter
 Obituaries 167

of David Macdonald. Keith and Ray married in 1952 in Melton Mowbray.

During 1951 and 1952, the Lepcha scholar Karphoo Tamsang from
Kalimpong worked with Keith on the Lepcha language at SOAS. In 1955-
6, Keith and Ray went on an expedition to Nepal to do fieldwork for six
months. The country had not been open to foreign visitors for long when
they travelled from eastern Nepal to Kathmandu, which made for an
interesting and impressive journey. Keith was able to collect abundant
material on the languages he had become interested in, such as Limbu,
Newar, Bantawa, Sherpa and Tamang.
Following this long fieldtrip, Ray and Keith had two children: David,
born in 1957, and Maya, born in 1958. Keith continued to work at SOAS, and
the first fieldtrip would be followed by many others, to Sikkim, Pakistan
and India. He completed a Ph.D. in the 'Phonetics and Phonology of Tibetan
(Lhasa dialect)', and was promoted to Reader in Phonetics at SOAS in 1968.
After Ray suffered a stroke on New Year's Eve of 1975, she remained
partially paralysed and her health was fragile. In 1980, Keith took early
retirement and he and Ray settled in Kalimpong. There, Dr Sprigg became
something of an institution. He was much liked by the local residents, to
whom he would often address an elaborate greeting in their native language,
which left some of them dazzled even after many years of him doing so.
Many scholarly guests from all over the world came to seek his advice and
guidance, or simply to enjoy his and his wife’s delightful company. Those
who did not know Keith Sprigg personally in Kalimpong recall the sound
of his bagpipes, which travelled far in the hills and was familiar to many.
In 1982 he was awarded a Litt.D. by the University of Cambridge, and
on his 65th birthday a Festschrift was presented to him (D. Bradley, M.
Mazaudon and E.J.A. Henderson, eds, 1988, Prosodic Analysis and Asian
Linguistics to honour R.K. Sprigg, Pacific Linguistics). A bibliography of his
work up to 1987 can be found in this Festschrift. For his work on Lepcha
language, culture and history, Keith was awarded the K.P. Tamsang Lepcha
Language and Literary Award in 1996. In 1997 he was made a life member
of the Indigenous Lepcha Tribal Association, which refers to him as ‘a
champion of the Lepchas’.
When Ray died in 1999, Keith returned to the UK and initially stayed
with his children. He later remarried and lived in Crowborough, Sussex,
with his second wife, Elizabeth. In his later years, Keith was struck by
macular degeneration, but although his eyesight slowly deteriorated, he
168 EBHR-39

kept working and completed a dictionary of Balti, which was published

in 2002 (RK Sprigg, Balti-English English-Balti Dictionary, London: Routledge
Curzon). Elizabeth and Keith enjoyed travelling and visited several
conferences together. Keith kept in touch with the academic world and his
colleagues and former students until his health started giving away. During
the last year of his life, Keith was not in good health and his eyesight was
very poor. He was lovingly nursed by his wife at home.
Those of us who have had the privilege of knowing this remarkable
man may recall that Keith appreciated saying a cheerful goodbye, along
the lines of ‘Happy we have met, happy we have been, happily we part and
happy we shall meet again.’ We remember his intellectual sharpness, his
generosity and his unfailing sense of humour. Keith Sprigg will be dearly
missed by many.
 169

Michel Georges Francois Peissel (1937-2011)

Roger Croston

Michel Peissel, who died on 7th October 2011 aged 74, perhaps travelled
more widely throughout the Himalayan and greater Tibetan regions than
any other westerner. Between 1959 and 2003 he undertook 29 major trips
to the region. Another passion was for the eastern coast of the Yucatan,
Mexico. Although regarding himself as an amateur adventurer rather
than an academic, he wrote more than 20 books and was involved in 22
documentary films, mostly on his Himalayan and Tibetan expeditions and
including a four part series, ‘Zanskar, the Last Place on Earth’, for the BBC
in 1980. He was fluent in several languages, including Tibetan. He was a
Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society and was the youngest member
of The Explorers’ Club of New York when he joined. Frequently he had to
battle with Indian, Chinese and Nepalese bureaucracy in order to cross
disputed borders. He was twice banned from India and on occasion declared
persona non grata by China and Nepal. He was someone who loved solving
geographical puzzles and making cultural comparisons. For example, he
once found an amulet in Lhasa of a similar design made by Scythians on
the Black Sea 2,000 years earlier and wondered what historical links there
might be.
The son of a French diplomat, whose negotiating skills he learned to
use with great effect, he was brought up in England and France. He learnt
English before French, because his father was posted to London when he
was young. Peissel studied for a year at the University of Oxford and for a
year at the Harvard Business School, dropping out from both. Subsequently,
however, he obtained a doctorate in Tibetan Ethnology from the Sorbonne,
Paris.
At the age of 18, he became fascinated by Tibet after having read
Fosco Maraini’s book Secret Tibet and he started to learn Tibetan from Sir
Charles Bell’s Grammar of Colloquial Tibetan. However, Tibet was sealed off
to foreigners following China’s annexation of the country in 1950, so he
looked at a possible career in economics and attended the Harvard Business
School. After a year, in 1958, he decided to take a spring break to Mexico
with a companion, and exploration replaced economics in his life. In
170 EBHR-39

Yucatan, Peissel continued on alone and in 42 days he walked 200 miles

to Belize, coming across fourteen unknown Mayan archaeological sites en
route. He wrote his first book, The Lost World of Quintana-Roo (1963), about
this journey,
In 1959, his interest turned again to the Himalaya when he hoped to get
permission to enter Bhutan. However, authorisation was denied him until
1969. Therefore he decided to go to Nepal and study the Sherpas in Solu
Khumbu. In Nepal he penned his second book, Tiger for Breakfast (1966).
Pesissel and his translator Soko Karmay spent several months in the
remote and minute kingdom of Mustang during the summer of 1964. He
was the first westerner to reside there for long enough to study and record
its culture and history. With this material, he completed a doctoral thesis at
the Sorbonne and wrote a cover story for the National Geographic Magazine
in 1965. His third book, Mustang, a Lost Tibetan Kingdom (1967), won several
major awards and became an international best seller. It secured him a
reputation and the finance to support further adventures. He visited Nepal
and Mustang again in 1966 and 1967.
In 1969, he was finally able to cross Bhutan from west to east and was
one of the few westerners, other than diplomats and doctors, to travel
through the kingdom. About this journey he wrote Lords and Lamas, a Solitary
Expedition across the Secret Himalayan Kingdom of Bhutan (1970).
In 1972, as a spin off from his sojourn in Mustang, Peissel published
Cavaliers of Kham: the secret war in Tibet, which got him into serious trouble
with the Americans, the Nepalis and the Chinese, who banned him from
visiting China for years. Other than George Patterson of the Daily Telegraph
[London], who filmed the conflict with Adrian Cowell in the mid 1960s, he
was the first to describe in detail the bitter guerrilla war that had been
fought for 20 years by the Khampas. During the 1950s and 60s, the Khampa
rebels were supported by Nationalist China (from Taiwan), the American
CIA, India, and even the USSR. They would attack the Chinese Peoples’
Liberation Army posts and military convoys on foot or horseback, using
only rifles. Soon afterwards, Mustang was closed to foreigners for the next
25 years because of political sensitivities and in 1974 the Khampas were
eliminated by Nepalese forces due to Chinese political pressure. In 1991,
Peissel made a return visit to Mustang to investigate ancient cave sites.
In 1972, he made an expedition of 1,200 miles along with Michael
Alexander and Bob Cordukes in a one-man hovercraft, up sections of the
 Obituaries 171

unnavigable Kali Gandaki River in Nepal that included a gorge section

flowing between the 26,000-foot peaks of Annapurna and Dhaulagiri. This
journey is described in his The Great Himalayan Passage: across the Himalayas
by hovercraft (1974). They claimed to have pioneered the sport of shooting
up rapids.
In the mid to late 1970s he turned his attention to the other minor
kingdoms of the Tibetan cultural zone, which he visited as soon as foreigners
were permitted to enter, namely those of Ladakh and Zanskar, about which
he published Zanskar. The Hidden Kingdom (1979).
In 1980, he travelled to the source of the Ganges and the next year
studied the Minaro people of the upper Indus, recording an extensive
vocabulary of archaic Shina. He was intrigued to encounter long nosed, fair
skinned European looking people, who some think may be descended from
the troops of Alexander the Great, or who some regard as Aryans or refer
to as ‘Dards’, the name used by Herodotus for the inhabitants of ‘the region
of gold digging ants’. The latter, he concluded, were burrowing marmots,
which threw up goldbearing sand. Further research took him, in 1982,
across the Indo-Pakistan cease-fire line in disguise, having dyed his hair
and skin with walnut juice. Consequently, he published The Ants’ Gold (1984)
and continued this research in 1996 to theorise that the Dansar plateau in
Baltistan was the true location of Herodotus’s account.
In 1982 he made a winter journey around Mount Minya Konka in Kham
and in 1986 penetrated humid, tropical southeast Tibet around Pemako and
the pilgrimage region of Tsari along the great bend of the Brahmaputra
river, which until then had been visited by very few western visitors.
His next interests led him to, in 1992, 1993 and 1994, to tiny isolated
Tibetan valleys to study ancient breeds of pony sized horses, namely the
thoroughbred Nangchen Horse and the Riwoche Horse which resembled
the primitive horses depicted in ancient cave paintings. He studied horse
care and equine pharmacology in Tibet and undertook further research
along with Dr Ignasi Casas in 1995.
Another journey during 1994, along with Sebastian Guinness and
Dr. Jacques Falck, took him along an unfrequented, difficult route to the
historical source of the Mekong River by following the branch of the Black
Mekong. About this journey he wrote The Last Barbarians: The discovery of the
source of the Mekong in Tibet (1997). (However, satellite photography later
proved the White Mekong branch to be 2.6 miles longer.) In 1997, Peissel
172 EBHR-39

went to Guge in western Tibet in search of cave sites and salt routes and a
year later was on the Western Changthang plateau filming Tibetan bears,
blue sheep and wild yak. He again crossed the plateau in 1999 to film more
wildlife and to study the Sengo nomads. A further journey was made in
2000 to Amdo, as well as to the spectacular 160 foot tall, dry-stone tapering
Towers of Pasang Kongpo, some of which have survived 700 years in an
active earthquake zone. Peissel’s final journeys were to Pe Yul in 2002 and
other areas of eastern Tibet in search of animalistic art objects and Scythian
traditions and, in 2003, to lower Mustang and Patan to study bronze casting.
Meanwhile, Peissel continued his interest in boats. In 1987, along with
Mexican archaeologists, he built a sea going ancient Mayan style dugout
canoe and travelled 500 miles along the Mexican Yucatan coast to replicate
10th century Mayan trade. The following year he fabricated a replica Viking
longboat and with a crew of six navigated up the River Dvina and down the
River Dnieper from the Baltic to the Black Sea, a 53 day, 1,500 mile journey
recreating that of the Varangians, a group of whom, the Rus – ‘the men who
row’ - founded the state of Rus and the Russian monarchy.
In 2003, in one of his last books Tibet, the Secret Continent, Peissel distilled
his knowledge of his many Asian adventures. In it he describes high altitude
flora and fauna; the history of Tibetans from the stone-age to the golden age
of Tibetan Buddhism and the rise of the Dalai Lamas; he relates the spiritual
aspects of everyday life and chronicles the exploration of Tibet from the
early Portuguese missionaries to the 1904 military invasion of the British
and the 1950 military annexation by China; he describes the destruction of
the Cultural Revolution and the more recent reconstruction of monasteries
and the relative relaxation on religious and cultural practices; he expresses
his concern about the ethnic swamping of the Tibetans by Han Chinese and
what he saw as the second class status of Tibetans in their own land. He
concluded that Tibet is much the same as the proverbial elephant described
by blind people: everyone grasps a different aspect, but no one gets the
whole picture. During his 40 years of traversing over 12,000 miles on foot
and horseback with various companions in the Tibetan cultural region and
the Himalayas he conversed with hundreds of locals whom he found, as
have so many, to be particularly endearing. Peissel was perhaps the only
traveller in the region ever to have seen, touched and understood the
whole animal.
Michel Peissel was married three times: first to Marie-Clare de
 Obituaries 173

Montaignac, with whom he had two sons; second to Mildred Missy Allen
with whom he had a son and a daughter; and finally to Roselyn LeBris with
whom he had another son.

References
** also published in French
The Lost World of Quintana Roo (1962) **
Tiger for Breakfast: The Story of Boris of Kathmandu (1966)
Mustang, A Lost Tibetan Kingdom (1967) **
Lords and Lamas: A Solitary Expedition across the Secret Himalayan Kingdom of
Bhutan (1970) **
Cavaliers of Kham: The Secret War in Tibet (1972) **
The Great Himalayan Passage (1974) **
Himalaya, continent secret (1977)
Les Portes de l’or (1978)
Zanskar, the Hidden Kingdom (1979)
The Ants Gold. The Discovery of the Greek El Dorado in the Himalayas (1984) **
Les Royaumes de l’Himalaya (1986)
La Tibetaine (1987)
The Voyage of the Itza (1990) **
La route de l’Ambre (1992)
La Khamba (1996)
The Last Barbarians: The Discovery of the Source of the Mekong in Tibet (1997) **
Le Dernier horizon: A la decouverte du Tibet inconnu (2001)
Tibet: The Secret Continent (2002)
Tibetan Pilgrimage: Architecture of the Sacred Land (2005) **
Also, with Missy Allen, various titles in the Encyclopaedia of Danger Series
(1992-1993)
174 EBHR-39
 175

BOOK REVIEWS
176 EBHR-39

Territory, Soil and Society in South Asia

edited by Daniele Berti and Gilles Tarabout
Delhi: Manohar, 2009, 379 pages, ISBN 9788173047824

Reviewed by David N. Gellner

The long shadow of Louis Dumont’s masterwork Homo Hierarchicus hangs

over the anthropology of South Asia still.1 Some would have us believe that
its influence was always pernicious and that Dumont achieved nothing,
except to distort the vision of subsequent generations. This is surely too
extreme. But there are certainly many points on which it is necessary to
engage with his conclusions and to ask why he argued as he did.
One of the issues where Dumont’s obiter dicta have been seriously
misleading is in his insistence that the Indian (or South Asian) village
has ‘no sociological reality’ as he and Pocock put it in their foundational
manifesto, ‘For a sociology of India’, in the first 1957 issue of Contributions
to Indian Sociology. Dumont and Pocock were arguing against the romantic
view of India as made up of hundreds of village republics. What they were
arguing for was a view of Indian society in which caste and kinship were
the primary determinants of identity and belonging, and territory and
economic position, while not irrelevant, were supposedly subordinate to
them.
The book under review is an attempt to challenge this idea with nine
empirical chapters arranged chronologically from the earliest Vedic times
to the present, focusing on notions of territory, soil, and social belonging
(though ‘belonging’ as such does not appear as a theoretical term). As with
most edited collections, some of the chapters engage more with the main
theme (as least as defined by the editors) than others.
The first two chapters, by Sanskritists Michel Angot and Gérard Colas,
deal respectively with ideas about space, ritual, and sacrifice in the Vedas
and with ideas about gods and their ownership of territory in texts and
inscriptions. Angot’s paper is long, detailed, and suggestive, but remains
bounded by the world of the texts, a world that presupposes a nomadism

1 Full title: Homo Hierarchicus: The caste system and its implications (first published in French
1966, standard English translation 1980, University of Chicago Press).
 Book Reviews 177

that the bearers of the texts had already given up. Colas’ chapter discusses
Mimamsaka theorists such as Sabara who sought to defend iconophobic
Vedism but clearly already knew of divine images that were supposed to
own territory. Colas argues that is likely that ‘A traditional Indian scholar
could at the same time claim “erudite”, or even iconophobic positions,
and worship a divine image according to his personal education and
family culture’ (p.115). Colas’ paper, grounded in a comparison of texts
and inscriptions, comes up with a negative, though if correct significant,
finding: the philosophical texts of ancient South Asia did not feel the need
to philosophise about the relationship of a deity with its territory, leaving
that to legal texts and to daily practice.
The next section of the book, on land, soil, and the sense of belonging,
opens with Phyllis Granoff’s chapter on geographical boundaries in
medieval religious practice, ranging over Jain, Buddhist, and Vallabhite
sources. Her conclusion is that what appear in the texts as sectarian
debates about the right way to perform rituals are in fact geographical
disputes between different peoples. In the following chapter we move to
the ethnographic present: Caterina Guenzi and Sunita Singh examine the
ways in which astrologers in Banaras diagnose soil. The poor bring a sample
of the soil to the astrologer; the rich often pay for an astrologer they trust
to travel long distances to examine a prospective house plot and perform
rituals on the spot. Astrologers believe that they can sense the qualities of
the place. One told them, ‘If you are a pure, wise and honest person, omens
come out by themselves’ (p.195).
The fifth chapter is a long and detailed paper by Caroline and Filippo
Osella, entitled ‘Vital exchanges: land and persons in Kerala’. They begin
from E. Valentine Daniels’ rightly celebrated account of personhood and
the land in the second chapter of Fluid Signs: Being a person the Tamil way
(University of California Press, 1984). They go on to show how Keralans’
ideas about persons, territory, and dwelling are deeply implicated in each
other, with consequences for the way houses are built and people are
cremated and the ash and other remains buried (unlike in other parts of
South Asia, they are not washed away in rivers). They end with a plea for
avoiding any ‘all encompassing root metaphor’ or model ‘which entails
predictability, coherence, consistency and so on’—in other words (unlike
Sarah Caldwell’s Oh Terrifying Mother (OUP 1999) or Dumont, whom they
don’t explicitly mention) they prefer an explicit methodology of ‘bricolage
178 EBHR-39

[which] may in the long run turn out to be far more generative and
suggestive of connections’ (p.234).
The third and final part of the book, ‘Religious and Political Territories’,
has four chapters, by Gérard Toffin on the Newar villages of the Kathmandu
Valley, by Gilles Tarabout on temple disputes in Kerala, by Daniela Berti
on divinities and mediums in Himachal Pradesh, and by Christiane Brosius
on BJP propaganda videos. Toffin establishes definitively that territory is
a fundamental principle at all levels of Newar social organisation. Dumont
himself used such materials (then only available from a superficial but none
the less perceptive paper by Fürer-Haimendorf) to argue that Nepal was
quite different from India. What Toffin does not establish is that territory
in any sense trumps kinship.Territory works hand in glove with kinship at
every level. Only in very rare and exceptional cases do non-kin ever get
absorbed into the territorial unit. For all practical purposes such fluidity
in kin groups (so common in Southeast Asia, for example) does not occur.
The key question is whether there is any truth in Dumont’s view that
Nepal is quite separate from India, or whether rather, as argued by Sylvain
Lévi (Le Népal, 1905, Leroux) and Robert Levy (Mesocosm: Hinduism and the
organization of a traditional Newar city in Nepal, University of California Press,
1990)—neither of whom is mentioned here—the culture of Newar towns
and villages is typical of India, though at an earlier period of history.
Tarabout returns the discussion to Kerala and introduces some valuable
nuances into the discussion of territory in pre-modern India. In fact, far
from Indians having no sense of territory, as the stereotype would have it,
territorial jurisdictions are everywhere: ‘If anything, far from having no
territory, we have too many of them!’ (p.284). The point then is that Indians
did indeed have the notion of clear boundaries between territories—they
were not all fuzzy as often claimed—but they were often overlapping and
extremely complex. Such shared sovereignties could not be accommodated
into the state-making of the colonial regime. This is illustrated through the
case of the Annamanada temple, control of which was disputed between
the kings of Cochin and Travancore for over a hundred years, until finally
settled in 1909. In her chapter, Daniela Berti shows how local divinities
with precisely defined territorial jurisdictions still play a key role in local
life, speaking through their mediums, and providing legitimation to local
politicians. Christiane Brosius, in the final contribution, looks at the ways
in which the Hindu Right in India imagined and projected new ideas about
 Book Reviews 179

the Indian nation and its territory through the new video media in the early
1990s. This material is now also available in her 2005 book, Empowering
Visions: The politics of representation in Hindu nationalism (Anthem).
It is a pity that Territory, Soil and Society in South Asia had to wait six years
from its original publication in Italian in 2003 to appear in English and that,
having done so, it could not have been provided with an index. It is a pity
too that Levy’s Mesocosm (cited above) was not drawn into the conversation.
None the less, the collection is valuable for its attempt to support Dumont’s
contention that ‘India [more properly: South Asia] is one’ even while rightly
disputing his downgrading of the territorial principle. Most South Asianists
and Himalayanists should find plenty of good material to think about in
this volume.
180 EBHR-39

Karakoram in Transition: Culture, development and

ecology in the Hunza valley
edited by Hermann Kreutzmann
Karachi: Oxford University Press, 2006, 419 pages, ISBN 9780195472103

Reviewed by Davide Torri

This volume collects the research efforts and insights of several scholars
on a very peculiar area of the Karakoram, the Hunza Valley. As stated by
the editor in his preface, the Hunza Valley has been the focus of scholarly
attention for many years now. The book is thus an attempt to bring together
a wide range of contributions from different disciplines, schools of thought
and backgrounds in order to ‘present the state of knowledge as well as to
provide an insight into the complexities of the cultural, ecological, and
economic assets of the Hunza Valley’ (p.4).
Divided into three parts, the volume addresses a range of issues,
including the geology, history and anthropology of the area. Section
One is devoted to the environment and its resources: a natural history of
the region is depicted, starting with reports of geological features of the
Hunza Valley since the Quaternary Glaciation, geomorphology and case
studies on ‘transglacial landforms’, followed by detailed essays on forests,
flora and fauna.
Section Two deals with history and memory: several chapters highlight
the complex history of the area, a cultural cross-roads of strategic
significance since ancient times, as testified by a report on rock inscriptions
in several languages. The relationship between history and memories is also
explained in the intertwined play of written and oral testimonies, and oral
sources are called in to reconstruct the account of the battle of Nilt (1891)
and the story of Zawaar Mayun Ali of the clan of Yabon (p.225). A couple
of chapters are devoted to an analysis of the linguistic mosaic comprising
several languages (Burushaski, Shina, Wakhi, Domaaki, etc.).
The last chapter of this section functions as an ideal bridge between
Sections Two and Three, with its focus on the comparison of photographs
taken by Lt. Col. David Lorimer during the 1930s with those taken by Julie
Flowerday in the 1990s.
The third section, devoted to culture and development, explores several
 Book Reviews 181

on-going projects, including the restoration of historical buildings such as

the Baltit Fort, NGO activities, and changes in the agricultural and economic
landscape, education and tourism.
The volume thus presents the reader with several topics, each of them
in a very detailed and specific manner. This could also prove to be its
central flaw: despite appreciating the multidisciplinary approach (the only
way to really describe such complex realities), readers may be unable to
fully understand each contribution, given the high degree of specialisation
required for each field.
The conceptual frame of the volume is reminiscent of the Gazetteer
tradition of the late British Empire, and a geopolitical and strategic
interest is highlighted in the preface. The starting point for transition and
transformation (the main key words according to the editor, see p.1) is the
end of the cold war and the collapse of the Soviet Union, while the last
chapter, ‘Story of Our Transformation’ written by Nazir Sabir, ends with a
reference to the local impact of the 9/11 terror strikes in New York.
Located at a vital cross-road between empires, the Hunza Valley’s
strategic value has been long recognised: it was one of the first places
to be connected to the plains through a telegraph line and, later on, the
mighty peaks of the Karakoram witnessed the building of one of the highest
highways in the world. Now, as ever, Hunza is a threshold opening towards
different directions (Afghanistan, China, India) in one of the world’s most
troubled regions.
It is certainly true that what may appear to be a remote corner of the
world is, in fact, connected with events unfolding somewhere else (as the
recent, and still unclear, showdown in Abbottabad demonstrates), but it
is equally incorrect to assume that everything must be linked to ‘western’
interests. The story of transition and change in the Hunza Valley has
a much longer history, as the chapter written by Jason Neelis clearly
shows. In his essay entitled ‘Hunza-Haldeikish revisited: epigraphical
evidence for trans-regional history’ (pp.159-170), Neelis analyses rock
inscriptions from the area that provide valuable information on the
history and culture of the Hunza Valley, establishing beyond doubt its
role in ‘trans-regional patterns of cross-cultural transmission between
north-western frontiers of South Asia, the Iranian borderlands, Central
Asia, Tibet, and China’ (p.159). Inscriptions in several languages ranging
from Sogdian to Tibetan and Chinese indicate that the region was a major
182 EBHR-39

cultural crossroads and a strategic location from the first millennium CE

onward.
The strategic role of the Hunza Valley during the 18th and 19th centuries
is further analysed and carefully described by Irmtraud Stellrecht’s ‘Passage
to Hunza: route nets and political processes in a mountain state’ (pp.191-
216), focusing on Afghan, Chinese, Moghul and British interest in this
regional centre of power. Lying at the centre of an area of mountain passes,
the valley was identified by British intelligence as a possible gateway for
Russian armies in their march toward the south in the years of the ‘Great
Game’, when the Mir of Hunza was the custodian of the routes leading up
to the Pamir. This ultimately led to the British conquest of Hunza in 1891
(p.199).
The rich bio-cultural diversity of the Hunza Valley is a precious heritage
to be preserved and this volume may well help to spread understanding of
this while disseminating interesting materials collected by researchers over
the course of the last three decades. The volume is a valuable contribution
for all those interested in the region. It challenges narrow approaches based
on single disciplines and instead promotes comprehensive knowledge that
encompasses natural sciences and humanities, bridging a critical divide
that still seems to dominate academia.
 Book Reviews 183

Nature, Culture and Religion at the Crossroads of Asia

edited by Marie Lecomte-Tilouine
New Delhi: Social Science Press, 2010, 382 pages, ISBN 9788187358466

reviewed by Nayanika Mathur

This collection of essays sets itself the agenda of revisiting the hoary
anthropological debate on nature and culture in a region that it describes as
constituting the ‘crossroads of Asia’: the Himalaya. I was initially intrigued
by the additional reference to ‘religion’ in the title but the preponderance of
religious philosophy, thought and rituals in subsequent chapters explained
this inclusion. The collection is divided into two parts with the first dealing,
in fact, with choice concepts in Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam and shamanism.
Charles Malamoud discusses the utopia of a forest hermitage as a stage
of life and sacrificial rites as illustrative of the deployment of nature within
Sanskrit literature. Stephane Arguillere ruminates on the concepts of
nature and culture within Tibetan thought, and concludes that to posit a
distinction between the two would constitute a misunderstanding of this
philosophical tradition. In an expansive paper, Marc Gaborieau studies
Arabic texts and Himalayan and Indian ethnographic material to draw
out convergences between Hindu and Muslim conceptions of nature.
In an excellent piece, Roberte Hamayon argues that the words ‘nature’
and ‘culture’ should not be taken as seriously as their actual operation
within native conceptions of Siberian shamanism. Following this classical
anthropological move, she concludes ‘although “Nature” and “Culture”
may help characterise the analytical models drawn from Siberian data,
these categories are nonetheless too vague, sometimes even misleading, to
account for certain aspects of native conceptions’ (p.113). Her conclusion,
thus, is similar to the one arrived at by Arguillere, though in a different
context.
While the first part of this edited volume deals directly with the theme
of the collection, the contributions are (with the exception of Hamayon)
restricted to a somewhat schematic debate on nature/culture within
the great traditions that they explore. It was thus with a rising sense of
anticipation that I turned to the second half of the book, which claims to
attend to ethnographic particularities of the Himalayan region.
184 EBHR-39

The first two chapters in this section certainly lived up to expectations.

The editor, Lecomte-Tilouine, kicks off with a sketch of the janajati movement
in Nepal. Her contemporary account of the intimate relationship between
claims of indigeneity and biodiversity conservation is an astute illustration
of the modes through which ‘nature’ can be mobilised for purposes of
political rights-making. Furthermore, the irony that the same ideology of
conservationism that is mobilised to make claims on the state itself poses
a strong threat to the traditional lives of janajatis is not lost on her. Ben
Campbell proposes the concept of ‘environmental subjectivity’ to explore
aspects of human-environmental relatedness. He proceeds to do so in an
extremely accomplished manner by engaging with current sets of writings
and ethnographic material drawn from Tamang-speaking communities in
Nepal. Interpreting and connecting myths to the contemporary cultural
politics of conservationism allows for a forceful argument on the limitations
of the utilisation of Western concepts of nature.
These two contributions are followed by a somewhat formulaic
interpretation of rites among the Mewahang Rai in Nepal by Martin
Gaenszle and an undifferentiated account of Jad pastoralists’ perceptions
of their social world in Garhwal, India by Subhadra Channa. Claus Zoller’s
short account of love in the Indus Kohistan made for interesting reading
but did not quite gel with the mandate of this collection. Similarly,
Rachel Guidoni’s piece on Tibetan relics and their ‘position in nature
and culture’ appeared a tad forced. The two chapters on different facets
of agricultural practices in Yunnan by Wilkes and Bouchery carried with
them fresh ethnographic details. The final article by Chiara Letizia mulls
on what makes river confluences sacred. She asks if it is the entry of, so
to say, culture into nature that endows these spaces with sacredness, but
concludes convincingly that this would be a specious analytical framework
to adopt.
Overall, this is an enjoyable collection of essays, with each piece
acting as a stand-alone contribution to aspects of a region that remain,
perplexingly, understudied. I did feel, however, that more theoretically
charged arguments could have been made on ‘nature, culture and religion’
by engaging in a fuller manner with the extant literature. As it stands,
this book falls just short of pulling together an ethnographically rooted,
distinctly Himalayan perspective on what remains one of the most enduring
debates in the social sciences.
 Book Reviews 185

Not Exactly Shangri-la

Martin Moir
New Delhi: Rupa and Co., 2009, 264 pages, ISBN 9788129115461

reviewed by Michael Hutt

Martin Moir is the retired deputy director of the Oriental and India Office
Collection of the British Library in London. In this, his first novel, he relates
the adventures of one Timothy Curtin, who has recently completed a
doctorate in something vaguely Tibetan and is now researching the history
of the Himalayan kingdom of ‘Kalapur’. In his capacity as the secretary of
the ‘Royal Himalayan Centre’ in London, Curtin organises a lecture by the
visiting abbot of Kalapur’s main monastery. In the course of his lecture the
abbot reveals that a secret document entitled ‘The Lives of the Lamas’ will
shortly be made available to selected foreign researchers, and before he
departs he hands Curtin an official invitation to visit Kalapur. As Curtin
embarks upon his scholarly adventure, we learn that a violent struggle is
going on in Kalapur, in which the construction of the kingdom’s recent
historical past is a major bone of contention. Curtin’s research therefore has
major political implications, and he finds himself under pressure to reach
a set of prescribed conclusions, particularly with regard to the mysterious
death of a senior lama some sixty years earlier.
Moir’s novel, which is clearly inspired in part by James Hilton’s 1933
novel Lost Horizon, is a curious mixture of colonial-style adventure story,
pseudo-scholarly travelogue, romance, and modern political allegory. At
its best, it is very entertaining. For instance, the question of the existence
or non-existence of the yeti is a principal concern for the members of the
Royal Himalayan Centre, who are sorely divided over the matter, and Moir’s
wry account of their argument is great fun. The narrative also displays a
close familiarity with Buddhist Himalayan cultures, and Moir describes the
religious environment well. However, although it is told with some panache,
this reader found parts of Moir’s story somewhat unconvincing and winced
at some of the Orientalist stereotypes that appear in the course of its
telling. When Hilton wrote his novel for an English-speaking readership
between the wars, the Himalaya could safely be treated as a mythological
setting. But as I read Not Exactly Shangri-la I found myself questioning the
186 EBHR-39

wisdom of setting an adventure story in a polity that is fictional but which

is located none the less in a real cultural and geopolitical milieu. On the
other hand, of course, this is a novel that was not written for a nit-picking
Himalayanist academic, and I must end by expressing my appreciation of
the way in which the author has deployed his scholarly knowledge and
creative imagination.
 Book Reviews 187

New Nepal: The Fault Lines

Nishchal Nath Pandey
New Delhi: Sage Publications, 2010, 164 pages, ISBN 9788132103165

reviewed by Milly Joshi

The Comprehensive Peace Agreement of 21 November 2006 and the

peaceful elections to Nepal’s first ever Constituent Assembly on 10 April
2008 are milestone events in the history of Nepal. As these landmark events
transpired, ‘New Nepal’ became a much-coveted dream for many Nepali
people. Nevertheless, there was a lot of ground to cover and challenges to
overcome before the promise of a New Nepal could be realised.
Nishchal Nath Pandey’s New Nepal: The Fault Lines offers a
comprehensive documentary analysis of Nepal’s contemporary political
milieu following the People’s Movement of April 2006. The aftermath of
the People’s Movement, the metamorphosis of the Hindu kingdom into
a federal democratic republic, and its concomitant challenges and perils
are outlined. The author clarifies his position in the preface: ‘This book
will strive to analyse the events of the post-Jan Andolan II stage, including
the background in which repeated amendments were made to the interim
constitution, and highlight major fault lines that need to be addressed if
durable peace is to be achieved’ (page xiii). Ironically, issues that brought
masses of people together and contributed to the success of the People’s
Movement—that is, issues of identity, language, religion, ethnicity and
region—are themselves now being debated, inhibiting the drafting of a
new constitution.
In chapters one to three, Pandey focuses on the immediate aftermath
of the People’s Movement, the most discerning effects of which were the
unleashing of a storm of protest (following the first amendment of the 1990
Constitution) and the unprecedented emergence of a number of armed
forces in the Tarai. The newly formed interim government found itself
negotiating a fine line between holding a Constituent Assembly election
and drafting a new constitution against the backdrop of the crisis in the
Tarai and the growing distrust between and within the parties themselves.
Pandey outlines the array of contexts (some historically significant and
some highly dismaying, for instance, the Lahan incident, the Gaur massacre
188 EBHR-39

and the mayhem in Kapilvastu) in which repeated amendments were made

to the Interim Constitution.
As the book progresses, the author draws out a series of faults within
Nepal’s peace process. To begin with, he critically analyses the relevance
and challenges of implementing federalism in Nepal in a context where the
very structure of federalism is a moot point. Pandey castigates leaders for
creating the illusion that a federal system will be a panacea for all political
and social ills. According to the author, given the country’s unique history
of unification and the diversity of its population, a federal system based
on ethnicity/caste, language or region cannot be the ultimate solution to
social exclusion, but would rather be the impetus for the creation of an
insurmountable chasm between its people. Pandey argues that if federalism
were to be implemented in Nepal, it would need to be implemented with
certain caveats. He also argues that issues of language and religion developed
political traction during the post-revolutionary period, triggering debates
and a series of unanticipated events that acted against the sentiments and
wellbeing of the general public (such as the bomb blast in the Church of
the Assumption in Patan). The author warns of serious consequences if
language and religion become dominant issues in Nepal’s political realm.
In chapters seven to ten the author highlights the key issues and
challenges confronting the nascent federal republic, namely the integration
of the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) into the Nepal Army; the exigency to
deconstruct old political traditions (those that foster anarchism); and the
revitalisation of an economy shattered by a decade-long Maoist insurgency.
The author considers the integration of the PLA into the Nepal Army as
the key challenge for New Nepal’s peaceful trajectory, as integrating rebels
(who are deeply influenced by political ideology) into the national army
would be a new initiative not just for Nepal but also for the whole of South
Asia. The challenge is deepened by the fact that these armies have been
in conflict for more than a decade. Among the Nepali Congress and other
parties, scepticism and fear that the Maoists might control the Nepal
Army following the integration of the PLA is further delaying the process
of integration. Chapter seven addresses the series of political events and
debates that finally culminated in the resignation of Prachanda as Prime
Minister. Pandey also highlights (in chapter eight) the role played by the
United Nations Mission in Nepal (UNMIN) in the peace process through its
monitoring of the ceasefire agreement, the surveillance of PLA cantonments
 Book Reviews 189

at seven sites and, most important of all, the electoral assistance provided
by UNMIN to the Election Commission, and the monitoring of the historic
CA election.
In the closing chapters (eleven and twelve), the author describes Nepal’s
relations with India and China regarding trade, transit and tourism. Nepal’s
relationship with India has been at best ambivalent. Following the People’s
Movement, India was thought by many rightists (pro-monarchists) to
have been a catalyst behind the downfall of the monarchy, and was held
accountable by the mainstream parties, namely the CPN (Maoist) and CPN
(UML), for the sudden emergence of armed forces causing unrest in the
Tarai, questioning India’s interest in gaining influence in the Madhes or
the whole of Nepal. Chapter eleven highlights key issues in Indo-Nepalese
relations that propelled debates during the post-revolution period.
Among these were the collapse of the Koshi embankment (which led to a
demand for the revision or repeal of the 1950’s treaty) and the issue of land
encroachment along Nepal’s borders. The author also recommends areas
in which Nepal needs to foster ties with India in order to rejuvenate its
economy and forge sound relations with its neighbour. In chapter twelve,
Pandey outlines various aspects of Sino-Nepalese relations, such as the
issue of Tibetan refugees as well as tourism, connectivity and border trade,
with a focus on goods that have potential in the Chinese market. The author
finally specifies resource areas in which Nepal should initiate joint ventures
with China to uplift its economy.
Overall, New Nepal: The Fault Lines provides readers with a comprehensive
understanding of political developments in Nepal following the April uprising
in 2006, in the light of historical events. On the one hand, the book offers a
synopsis of the key events that ensued from the People’s Movement, while
also providing a critical analysis of issues concerning state restructuring.
However, the book does show deficiencies in dealing with some significant
issues relating to the process of social exclusion. For instance, the author
fails to unpack the historical carryover of social exclusion embedded in the
process of Nepal’s unification. Pandey presents the ‘history of unification of
Nepal’ in a conventional, rather than critical, way by not questioning Prithvi
Narayan Shan’s legacy of consolidating ‘Asli Hindustan’, which continued
throughout the Shah dynasty. The author writes: ‘Nepal was united by King
Prithvi Narayan Shah the Great (1723 A.D-1775 A.D) by bringing together
22-24 different principalities belonging to various castes and ethnic groups.
190 EBHR-39

Recognising this delicate ethnic composition, King Prithvi had named his
country a “garden of different flowers”’ (p.41).
Basing his discussion of the issue of language on Dev Raj Dahal’s work
(1996), Pandey writes, ‘it was natural that in the country, which is invariably
multi-lingual, the politics of language turns easily into a thorny issue and
that was why Nepali language was developed as a lingua franca for the
past three centuries, which served as a link language among different
communities’ (p.63). Nowhere in the book does the author seek to question
the historical orchestration of the ‘linguicide’ of many ethnic minorities
rendered by the state’s adoption of a one-language policy. According
to Oommen (1986), one language, one religion and one state policies
demanding that the population of the state become homogeneous despite
its ethno-cultural heterogeneity were a ‘pathological obsession’ that ‘had
and can develop into extreme nationalism of the fascist variety, leading
to genocide and/or culturocide; that is, the systematic liquidation of the
cultural identity of minorities’ (pp.53-57).
The author also articulates a strong dissatisfaction regarding Nepal’s
secularisation. He writes, ‘In Nepal’s independent history of over 200 years,
we have never had the state telling its subjects what religion to belong to or
dictating the religious practices of the people’ (p.68). He further argues that
the secularisation of the country has in fact instigated a gradual erosion
of the religious harmony that remained undisturbed for centuries prior to
the official declaration of Nepal as a secular republic. However, it is not the
case that Nepal has never had communal clashes between religious groups.
Dastider (2007) gives a list of clashes that took place between Hindus and
Muslims at different times before Nepal’s secularisation, although those
clashes were quickly defused by the then rulers. None the less, Dastider
adds that ‘communal clashes in Nepal remained a rare event as long as
Muslim minorities kept a very subdued and low profile, and did not raise any
objection to their low caste status, or the overall deprivation they suffered
for professing a religion which was considered inferior to the official one’
(2007:164). By suggesting that Nepal was inherently secular despite its status
as a Hindu kingdom, Pandey seems to have ignored the institutionalisation
of social exclusion (gender, caste/ethnicity and religion) under a dominant
Indo-Aryan culture that allowed the penetration of Hindu patriarchal
ideology into the legal system of the country, as manifested in the civil code
of 1854 and its amendments.
 Book Reviews 191

Despite the author’s failure to deal with certain issues pertaining to

social exclusion, the book is valuable and important for making sense
of recent political developments in Nepal and their implications on the
national and international stage. Highly analytical and descriptive, this
book will cater to the interests of a wide range of researchers, analysts and
academics interested in or even new to the political dynamics of Nepal.

References
Dahal, D.R. 1996. The Challenge of Good Governance. Kathmandu: Centre for
Governance and Development.
Dastider, M. 2007. Understanding Nepal: Muslims in a plural society. New Delhi:
Har-Anand Publications Pvt Ltd.
Oommen, T. K. 1986. ‘Insiders and outsiders in India: primordial collectivism
and cultural pluralism in nation building’. International Sociology 1 (1),
53-57.
192 EBHR-39

Looking at Development and Donors: Essays from Nepal

Devendra Raj Pandey (edited by Seira Tamang)
Kathmandu, Martin Chautari, 2011, 419 pages, ISBN 9789937838924

Reviewed by Jeevan Raj Sharma

Foreign aid has been the subject of a great deal of development rhetoric in
Nepal. Although its objectives have rarely been met, foreign aid continues
to shape Nepal’s development’s priorities, modalities and outcomes.
Currently, around 70 percent of the country’s development expenditure is
financed by external aid and this has remained more or less constant for
the last four decades. Clearly, foreign aid has been a key part of Nepal’s
development experience, and of its successes and failures. Pandey’s book
documents and examines the ‘symmetrical relationship’ between the
history of ‘failed’ development and foreign aid in Nepal and is concerned
with fundamental questions: Why has there been very little development
despite six decades of foreign aid? Is foreign aid part of the solution or
part of the problem? Pandey’s intellectual position is rooted in his premise
that ‘failed’ development is manifested as rampant poverty, widespread
corruption and violent conflict. The book offers a sad and ironic picture
of development efforts and foreign aid in Nepal. The author demands
accountability from donors:

Much of the malaise is the result of ineffectual Nepali institutions

and actors … However, given the symmetrical relationship between
foreign aid and development in Nepal and the embedded unequal
donor-recipient relationship, foreign aid cannot escape scrutiny and
responsibility for what has and has not happened. (p.11)

Unlike his previous book, provocatively entitled Nepal’s Failed Development,

the current volume is a collection of 24 discrete essays on the broadly
defined theme of development and donors. Except for Chapter 1, which
was written specifically for this book as a way of providing an overall
framework for the collection, these essays have been published separately
over the last three decades as newspaper articles, official presentations
and academic writings. The chapters are arranged chronologically under
 Book Reviews 193

three headings (‘Panchayat Period’, ‘1990 Democratic Era’ and ‘The Year
2000 and Beyond’) with a very short six-page introduction by Seira Tamang.
The chronological organisation of the book not only reflects the distinct
political environments of each period but also global trends in regimes of
foreign aid.
Pandey’s writings are not just informative but also highly analytical,
with conceptual clarity on a range of topics. The key merit of the book
lies in Pandey’s rich historical and reflective analysis, thanks to his
background as head of the foreign aid division in 1970s, finance minister
in the first 1990 democratic cabinet, leading specialist of development and
leading civil society activist in the last decade or so. As Tamang asserts in
her introduction, ‘Despite, or perhaps because of, the many avatars that
the author has taken over this period, the essays display a remarkable
consistency’ (p.1).
Pandey’s essays offer critiques of development and donors on several
fronts and possess a rich potential for further analysis and research for
readers interested not only in the history of foreign aid in Nepal, but also
for those interested in the theoretical scrutiny of development and foreign
aid more widely.
Pandey writes, ‘the development partners were able to promote ‘the
demand side’ of the right–based approach to democracy, development and
development cooperation’ (p.402). He adds, ‘however, when the “supply
side” is weak, the process creates a room for conflict’ (p.402). This raises
an important point: Was the Maoist insurgency, which took hold, spread
and was ultimately successful, somehow linked to the nature of the aid
policies that foreign donors and agencies implemented in the country over
the last few decades? More broadly, should we conceptualise the conflict
as a consequence of a perceived ‘development failure’ in Nepal? The case
that Peter Uvin argued with respect to the development enterprise in
Rwanda (Uvin 1998) may well also be applicable to Nepal. In developing
countries such as Nepal, where foreign aid provides such a large share of
the financial, technical, ideological and human resources of government
and civil society, development aid cannot but have played a crucial role in
shaping the processes that contributed to the emergence of the conflict.
Pandey raises the issue of the ‘depoliticization’ of development policy
making and thus the issue of sovereignty in the context of foreign aid and
associated ‘political’ intentions, demands and conditionalities. He takes
194 EBHR-39

issue with donors’ concern with governance, which has expanded the
domain of policy making to civil society and NGOs. Throughout his writings,
Pandey asserts that development is not a technical but rather a political
process, and emphasises the importance of ownership and accountability
in policy making. He writes,

The corruption-afflicted, misgoverned countries generally need, and

the donors can always provide, suggestions and advice on what might
be done as remedies … But the donors must be cautious that they do not
design policies and programs in such a way that they end up owning
them, releasing the recipient from the much needed accountability.
This requires that the advice and suggestions do not ‘graduate’ to
command and conditionalities that become counterproductive. (p.238)

Pandey’s writings remind us that an intricate relationship exists between

donors and the regime in Nepal. Not only have foreign donors been a key
tool of political legitimacy for all kinds of regimes and governments in the
past, but as Shah (2008) has argued, they have also played an important role
in regime change and state reconstruction in Nepal through their funding
and influence.
Overall, despite the richness of the information and analysis presented
in the book, we are not in a position to answer the question of why foreign
aid continues to be poured into Nepal when it has not produced the desired
development outcomes. As post-structuralist scholars of development have
reminded us, rather than taking development failure as self-evident, we
need to ask what purpose foreign aid has served if not the stated objectives
of development. For those interested in the state, has foreign aid with its
discourses on governance and corruption had a profound, negative impact
on the capacity of the Nepali state and its legitimacy to govern? Let us hope
that Pandey or another scholar will interrogate these questions in the future.

References
Shah, S. 2008. Civil Society in Uncivil Places: Soft state & regime change in Nepal.
Washington DC: East West Center, Policy Paper 48.
Uvin, P. 1998. Aiding Violence. The development enterprise in Rwanda. West
Hartford: Kumarian Press.
 Book Reviews 195

La Fête Spectacle. Théâtre et rite au Népal

Gérard Toffin
Paris: Éditions de la Maison des sciences de l’homme, 2010, 198 pages, 34
colour photos, ISBN 9782735113132

Reviewed by Arik Moran

Gérard Toffin’s study of the Indra Jatra (hereafter IJ), the central festival
of the Kathmandu calendar, is a cultural exploration of the ‘ethos’ of
the greater part of the Newar population residing in the Nepali capital
(p.xxx). The scope of his analysis is ambitious, encompassing ethnography
(including the author’s three decades of intermittent observations of the
festival), history, Sanskrit traditions and theories from the domains of
theatre and anthropology. The sources and methodologies of these domains
are examined through the complementary axes of ‘spectacle’ (chapters
2-5) and ‘theatre’ (chapters 6-7), which are closely connected through
their underlying ritual functions (chapter 8, conclusion) and ultimately
exemplify the cultural syncretism of Kathmandu society as manifested in
the IJ.
The IJ’s central components are outlined in the introduction. These
include rituals connected with Indra, processions (jatras) of the goddess
Kumari, and the widespread worship of Bhairava. Despite dating from
different periods and consisting of starkly divergent practices, the
ensemble of these components forms a cohesive cultural product that is at
once unified and diverse. It is by tracing the links between these elements
and resolving their internal contradictions that the meanings behind
the IJ are unravelled. To facilitate this enquiry, Toffin points to three
fundamental ambiguities of the IJ (p.17): (1) although it is a celebration
of royal/state power, the presiding deity of the festival is popularly
represented as a weak prisoner; (2) as a Hindu state-level festivity, how
is it that one of the most important ritual activities of the IJ is entrusted
to a Buddhist girl (the anthropomorphised goddess Kumari) of the Shakya
caste of goldsmiths, which is perceived as particularly lowly by Brahmins,
whose religious specialists play a key part in overseeing the celebrations?
(3) finally, despite being a festival that commemorates the Newars’
defeat at the hands of foreign invaders, the primary participants in the IJ
196 EBHR-39

remain the autochthonous residents of the Kathmandu valley. In order to

resolve these paradoxes it is, according to Toffin, necessary to account for
the fact that the IJ constitutes festival, theatre and ritual all at the same
time. Accordingly, the first chapter delves into the connection between
these three elements, offering a concise review of scholarly literature on
theatrical aspects of ritual (pp.27-30), a discussion on the participatory
nature of festivals (pp.33-34) and an exploration of the rituality of theatre
(pp.34-37). The coexistence of theatre and ritual, which at times borders on
the inextricable (as in plays that entertain spectators while acting as rituals
that ward off evil spirits), is thus harnessed to justify the study’s mode of
enquiry.
The next four chapters address the factual unfolding of the IJ with an
emphasis on its ritual and festive/spectacular aspects. The first of these
traces the changing character of Indra in Sanskrit culture, from Vedic king
of the gods to secondary deity in Puranic literature, and concludes with a
detailed description of the Vedic predecessor of the IJ, the Indra Mahotsava.
The third chapter examines the rituals pertaining to Indra during the eight
days of the festival (usefully summarised in a table, p.51) in Kathmandu
today (pp.50-54). The paradox of Indra’s ambiguous status is also resolved
on this occasion: as king of the gods, the deity affirms royal/state power
through elaborate rituals that culminate in the erection of a pine mast
(yashim or lingam) in front of the palace grounds, yet, as a deity charged
with fertility, the god is popularly represented as a prisoner (as punishment
for his stealing of flowers/cucumbers, according to a local myth) who is
readily accessible (via the intermediation of Buddhist priests) to the Jyāpu
peasants who form the bulk of IJ participants (pp.54-61).
The next chapter arrives at the ‘the very core of the fête-spectacle’ (p.67),
namely, the processions of the goddess Kumari and the widespread worship
of Bhairava. The goddess’s processions through and ritual activities in
different parts of the city, which appropriately conclude with the sanction
of the state in the royal compound, are thus shown to unite the geographic,
social and political components of Kathmandu (pp.67-72), affording an
explanation for Kumari’s contradictory position as both venerated goddess
and seemingly low-caste Buddhist girl. The links between the horrific
deity Bhairava and the goddess are noted in the dancers bearing masks
of the former who accompany the processions and who, until 1849, used
to engage in ritual battles between troupes from the lower and upper
 Book Reviews 197

parts of the city (p.79). The Shaivite deity is further present in various
neighbourhoods during the IJ, where representations of its head are placed
on raised platforms by the Jyāpu peasantry, whose worship includes the
drinking of rice beer from a straw protruding from the god’s mouth, the
revelry that ensues corresponding with classical characterisations of the
festival as a space that challenges, or even inverts, normative behaviours.
The blurring of boundaries between spectators, participants and deities is
facilitated by the contrast between the public display of Indra(s), Kumari
and Bhairava(s) in the course of the IJ and their concealment during the
remainder of the year (pp.80-83). The fifth chapter outlines the numerous
funerary processions that take place during the festival. In highlighting
the protective functions of ritual and its relation to the city’s communal
life (through the delineation of geo-political boundaries between
neighbourhoods and of the city as a whole), it brings into consideration
the role of Bhairava as a deity associated with death and that of the king, as
protector and chief sacrificer/sacrifice of state.
Chapters six and seven engage the second axis of research, which links
the IJ with theatre. Delving into the theory of classical Indian theatre
(Natyashastra), Toffin points to an intrinsic connection between Indra as
the founder of theatre in classical Sanskrit culture and as presiding deity
of the festival, since both phenomena are aimed at ‘strengthening the
kingdom and its inhabitants, upholding the socio-cosmic order (dharma)
against obstructive forces and removing sickness’, rendering the IJ ‘a
commemoration of primitive Indian theatre’ (pp.97-99). The centrality of
dance to Indian theatre and its recurrence in the IJ are then elaborated
upon, along with a useful survey of the multiple theatrical performances
enacted during the festival (pp.103-113). The seventh chapter enters into
the aesthetics of Newar visual arts connected with the festival (masks, in
particular) and a discussion of the tensions between its Brahmanic and
Tantric elements.
The final chapters link the preceding expositions with the disciplines
of history and anthropology. Endorsing Hocart’s reading of ritual as a tool
for maintaining social cohesion, the eighth chapter makes an important
connection between the ritual aspects of the festival and its underlying
purpose of upholding the cosmic order through sacrifice, a goal that has
similarly been shown to constitute the purpose of Indian/Newar theatre
(pp.128-129). This is followed by an instructive survey of the primary groups
198 EBHR-39

participating in the IJ, their associations (guthis), their functions and the
importance of locality (pp.133-134). The ninth chapter resolves the third
paradox noted in the introduction, according to which the autochthonous
population’s participation in the IJ effectively commemorates its submission
to Parbatiya invaders during the eighteenth century (a defeat popularly
conceded in the expression ‘yamyāh, yamdya’, ‘the Festival of Kathmandu,
Kathmandu lost’; p.142). This apparent contradiction is explained as a
form of resistance: because the internalisation of the historical defeat is
secondary to the indigenous elements of the festival (i.e., the popular vs.
state-level worship of Indra, Bhairava, Kumari), it allows for a cultural
autonomy that upholds Newar identity in the face of the erstwhile
conquerors (p.143). The final chapter provides tentative chronologies for
the beginnings of the IJ’s components: the festival is dated to the 11-12th
centuries, the popular representation of Indra as prisoner to (at least) the
17th century, and Kumari’s chariot processions to the 18th century Mallas,
although the cult may predate this by five centuries (pp.147-152). Changes
in the modern era, including an augmentation of the IJ’s spectacular
character under the Rana Regime (1846-1951) and the weakening of inter-
caste ties as a result of democratisation in post-kingdom Nepal are noted in
the closing section (pp.153-155).
Resuming the central argument of his thesis, Toffin concludes with
an emphasis on the socio-historical contexts that contributed to the
amalgamation of ritual, festival and theatre in the IJ. The problems inherent
in ritual are convincingly presented by rallying Hocart’s distinction
between ‘specialized’ and ‘general’ rituals, which nurture a persistent
duality in large-scale rituals (pp.160-162). The participation of spectators
as a prerequisite for the festival’s success is consequently affirmed by
noting the IJ’s essential constitution of a grand-scale ‘metamorphosed
ritual’ that is supplemented by theatrics (e.g., the focal point of festivities
around the raising of the pine mast at the palace grounds). The importance
of accounting for social and historical cleavages is underlined in the final
section, which calls for more nuanced interpretations of the ‘socio-cultural
ethos’ and ‘categories of thought’ (p.167) to be discovered from the careful
study of the IJ’s details.
As a study in culture, the Fête Spectacle admirably achieves its goals.
It uses empirical data and theoretical elaborations efficiently to advance
an interpretation of the ethos of a society through the interdependent
 Book Reviews 199

elements of festival, theatre and ritual. This approach inevitably leads

to selective readings that are not always congruent with the author’s
ethnographic observations. This is clearly seen in the grouping together
of the rituals connected with Indra, Kumari and Bhairava as the core
activities of the IJ, which counters their participants’ claim that these are
distinctly separate (if overlapping) events (p.71). The drawing of parallels
between orthodox and heterodox elements in Nepali (Brahmanical/
Tantric) and Ancient Greek (Apollonian/Diyonisian) theatres (pp.121-
123) may also seem tenuous, but would no doubt appeal to the broader
readership at which the study is aimed. These minor points need not
detract from the important contributions made in the linking of different
theoretical strands. The tying (and vindication) of Hocart’s emphasis
on ritual as the primary tool for promoting social cohesion with Roger
Caillois’s stress on the rituals underlying festivals (pp.128-129), for one, is
a particularly welcome observation that illustrates the usefulness of this
multi-disciplinary approach. In conclusion, Toffin’s study of the eight
days in which Kathmandu transforms itself to bring state, public, gods and
humans into intimate contact with one another through the theatrical,
ritualised chaos of the IJ, offers important insights that remind readers of
the broader questions underlying festival celebrations, both in and beyond
the Himalaya.
200 EBHR-39

Himalayan Languages and Linguistics: Studies in

phonology, semantics, morphology and syntax
edited by Mark Turin and Bettina Zeisler
Leiden: Brill, 2011, 322 pages, ISBN 9789004194489

Reviewed by Nathan W. Hill

The work under review is the twelfth volume in the series ‘Languages of
the Greater Himalayan Region’. This series has heretofore comprised
reference grammars of Tibeto-Burman languages, typically the outcome of
Ph.D dissertations originally submitted to Leiden University. These eleven
grammars are of uniform high quality, providing detailed and clearly
written linguistic information, while eschewing the maelstroms of faddish
currents in theoretical or typological linguistics. Indeed, the researchers
associated with the Himalayan Languages Project have arguably
contributed more to advancing Tibeto-Burman linguistics than all other
working scholars combined. This twelfth volume mostly constitutes
papers originally delivered at the 11th Himalayan Languages Symposium,
graciously hosted by Krisadawan Hongladarom at Chulalongkorn
University in 2005. One of the editors (Mark Turin) and three of the
contributors are associated with the Himalayan Languages Project.
The volume opens with a paper by George van Driem in which he
outlines the contributions of linguistics, archaeology and genetics to the
population history of the greater Himalayan region. Most of the genetic
data van Driem and his team have compiled remains unpublished; this
essay is consequently more exciting for what it presages than what it
reveals. I lack some of van Driem’s optimism about the role of genetics in
the study of prehistory. Historical linguistics and archaeology offer
predetermined populations for investigation, but genetics does not. The
Tibeto-Burmans are speakers of Tibeto-Burman languages. The Brākhuṭi
culture is characterised by a habitation site and unifacial choppers. But
how does one assign ethnicity to a blood sample? The answer in the
Peoples’ Republic of China appears to be to look at the nationality (民族) on
someone’s identity card. Witness Chen et al.’s use of the terms ‘Han
Chinese’, ‘Tibetan Chinese’ and ‘Mongolian Chinese’ (2006). The reader
 Book Reviews 201

would have benefited from van Driem’s insights on this problematic.1

In the second essay, Plaisier presents a detailed comparison of four
systems for the transliteration of the Lepcha script. In addition to the
material aid this essay will bring to librarians and students of Lepcha
alike, it offers Plaisier an opportunity to present convincing arguments in
favour of her own system.
Huysmans offers readers a description of the Sampang verbal system.
Like all Kiranti verbs, the Sampang verb is complex and much analytical
work is required in order to make sense of it. Huysmans presents seven
successive analyses, and contextualises the Sampang verb against the
backdrop of proto-Kiranti as proposed in a series of articles by van Driem
(1990, 1991, 1992, 1997). The Leiden school has already made great
achievements in the description and analysis of Kiranti languages and this
glimpse of Huysmans’ forthcoming Sampang grammar suggests that this
progress will continue unabated.
Scholars without affiliation to the Himalayan Languages Project
contribute another six papers; three of these do not disappoint. Suzuki
offers an updated English version of his previous article on the phonology
of Sogpho Tibetan (2005). As in his other works on the phonology of
Tibetan dialects, Suzuki first surveys the consonant, vowel, and tone
inventory of the dialect, with special attention to allophonic variation. He
then contextualises the dialect, discussing the sound changes that derive
Sogpho Tibetan from Classical Tibetan, and compares certain features of
Sogpho Tibetan with other Khams dialects. Some text samples and
instrumental phonetic data would render Suzuki’s study even more useful.
The bibliography of this article unfortunately has many mistakes in

1 Equally a problem, and deserving of van Driem’s comment, is the grotesque cultural,
historical and ethnographic naïveté of so many working in genetics. For example, almost
all genetic studies reiterate a claim that the Tibetans are descended from Di-Qiang tribes
(Cavalli-Sforza et al. 1988: 6005, Gayden 2007, Zhao 2009); such claims are of no historical
value (Beckwith 1977: 1-3). Geneticists’ use of linguistics is no better. Yao et al.’s study of
mitochondrial DNA erroneously concludes that ‘linguistic and geographic classification
of the populations did not agree well with classification by mtDNA variation’ (2002: 63).
Depending on outdated theories of linguistic classification, they regard the Turkic and
Mongolian language families as sub-branches of ‘Altaic’ and see Tibeto-Burman, Chinese
and Zhuang-Dai as three branches of ‘Sino-Tibetan’ (2002: 65). Commitment to Matisoff’s
‘Sino-Tibetan’ theory similarly vitiates the conclusions of Su et al. (2000: 588).
202 EBHR-39

Japanese transcription (e.g. 研究 appears as kenkyu, kenkyuu, and kenkyuus,

p.73).
Dotson’s study of the vexing Old Tibetan term khrin is a model of
thoroughness and clarity. Analysing the use of this term in both legal and
ritual contexts, he hypothesises that the original meaning is ‘tether’,
which in legal contexts means ‘judicial punishment’ (p.93). Far from a dry
lexical study, this paper insightfully engages a number of themes in early
Tibetan society and religion, offering close readings of many passages. The
paper deserves to be read multiple times; pearls such as the treatment of
verbs of giving construed with the recipient in the absolutive (p.91) might
be easily overlooked.
Rehman’s paper presents nearly the first information ever on Kundal
Shahi and Hindko, two Indo-Aryan languages of the Neelam Valley, and,
by way of comparison, also treats Kashmiri. While these languages
generally conform to the expected picture of split ergativity in Indo-
Aryan languages, there are interesting differences in detail. For example,
ergative marking in Hindko is not obligatory (p.228). As the author himself
admits (p.231), any discussion of ergativity in three languages over a mere
fourteen pages is bound to be cursory.
The remaining three papers fall short of the overall quality of the
series and volume. Basing his investigation on work by Dixon (1982, 2004)
and Givón (1984), Kiryu explores a grab bag of words that he dubs
‘adjectives’ in Newar. Sentences such as ‘[m]ost adjectival words can be
negated by ma-ju:, although some may not be’ (p.107) show that Kiryu is
using ‘adjective’ as a pre-established category, and does not classify Newar
lexemes according to their structural form classes; the conclusion that
Newar has adjectives (p.128) although ‘there are no unique morphological
properties that distinguish adjectives from nouns and verbs in Newar’
(p.101) is consequently circular. Kiryu’s choice of theorists is unfortunate;
de Saussure, F. (1916) or Bloomfield (1933) are surer guides through strait
gates and on narrow ways. The simple English words ‘flash’ and ‘remain’
gainsay Givón’s proposal that nouns and verbs exist on a ‘time scale’, with
nouns on the most stable side and verbs on the side of rapid change (p.107,
cf. Givón 1984: 55). The greater part of Kiryu’s essay catalogues Newar
words according to ‘thirteen concepts that adjectives prototypically
 Book Reviews 203

denote’ (p.108), according to Dixon. Parts of speech categories are not

semantic classes; if they were, ‘burn’ and ‘fire’ would be the same part of
speech. Semantic categories, even when written in capital letters, exist in
the mind of an author and not in the structure of languages. Since ‘les
entités abstraites reposent toujours, en dernière analyse, sur les entités
concrètes’ (Saussure 1919: 190), what are the concrete entities on which
‘HUMAN PROPENSITY’ (p.108) rests?
Bartee’s paper is besprent with inaccuracies and omissions, such as the
identification of Minhe Mangghuer and Akha respectively with 土族語
Tǔzúyǔ and 哈尼語 Hāníyǔ2 and the categorisation of Naxi as a Lolo-Burmese
language (strangely contradicted on p.175, n. 53). Tibetan spelling also
gives her some trouble (correct slob.grwa.ba on p.136, versus incorrect
slab.grwa.ba on p.138 and bslab.grwa.ba on p.141). In addition, her
bibliographic knowledge is weak; the discussion of Khams and Nanzhao
history omits seminal studies such as Backus (1981) and makes no mention
of the bizarre renaming of the county of her fieldwork in 2001 from 中甸
Rgyal-thaṅ to 香格里拉 Shangri-La. More worrisome than such small
mistakes is Bartee’s complete mischaracterisation of the Standard Tibetan
verbal system. She shoehorns this language’s three-term evidential
system into a two-term ‘conjunct/disjunct’ framework. As sources for her
data and analysis she cites Denwood (1999), Garrett (2001) and Tournadre
(2003).3 She has not read these works carefully. None of these authors
employs the terminology ‘conjunct/disjunct’ and both Garrett (2001: 209
n. 1) and Tournadre (2008) pointedly rejected the value of these terms and
the Denkweisen that they facilitate.4 De Saussure tells us ‘la langue est un
système dont tous les termes sont solidaires où la valeur de l’un ne résulte
que la présence simultané des autres’ (1919: 159); and Haspelmath more
recently reminds us that ‘pre-established categories don’t exist’ (2007).
Bartee appears not to agree with these opinions.

2 In fact, Tǔzúyǔ encompasses both Minhe Mangghuer and Huzhu Mongghul (Dpal-ldan-
bkra-shis, et al. 1996: 1) and Hāníyǔ is a language distinct from but closely related to
Akha (Lewis and Bai 1996: 1-2).
3 Tournadre (2003) was published in Ithaca and not in New York, as stated on p.182.
4 Bartee even writes that the sentence ṅa na-gi-yod ‘I’m chronically sick’ is ungrammatical
(p.143), apparently unaware of Tournadre’s (1996: 223) and Denwood’s (1999: 151)
discussion of this very sentence.
204 EBHR-39

The last and longest of the papers in the volume is a mixed bag. Zeisler
describes a number of phonetic and morphological features of the Śam-
skad and Gyen-skad dialect groups of Ladakhi. Confusingly, she treats
several dialects at once without offering a phonemic inventory or
morphological overview of any one. The paper appears to have three
conclusions: (1) these two dialect groups are quite distinct; (2)
phonetically conservative dialects are not necessarily morphologically
conservative and phonetically innovative ones not necessarily
morphologically innovative; and (3) Old Tibetan was already used as a
lingua franca in Ladakh at the time of the Tibetan empire. The first
conclusion is an important contribution to Tibetan dialectology, the
second a well known but significant insight of great importance to work in
historical linguistics, which always bears repeating. The third conclusion
is unwarranted on the basis of the evidence presented.
Zeisler’s article is brimming with detailed observations and insights.
Her examples of the reanalysis in compounds in the Gya dialect of b- from
the initial of the second morpheme to the final of an original open syllable
initial morpheme (pp.264-265) provide new data for an on-going
discussion. She elegantly employs her dialectological observations to
elucidate the philological interpretation of the words yab-med ‘ancestor’
and yas-se ‘from above’ in early Tibetan texts (p.276 and p.284). The
observation that work on historical linguistics should take inflected verbal
forms into account and not just uninflected stems (p.258) may be taken for
granted in work on other language families, but in Tibetan linguistics it is
trail blazing. Although in places her citations could be more extensive,5
there is no doubt she is an accomplished philologist. Zeisler’s skills as a
field worker are less impressive. Inexplicably uninterested in basing her
description on the linguistic behaviour of her consultants, she complains
in a number of places of their inconsistent judgments (p.261, n. 44; p.267,
n. 58). A native English speaker, asked how many vowels English has, will

5 In her discussion of ḥu/ḥo as a demonstrative (p.279), the failure to cite Dotson’s

interesting observations about ḥo-tshal (p.87) is rather surprising. Because ḥu is directly
attested as a third singular demonstrative (I.O.L. Tib J 737.1 lines 141-142, cf. de Jong
1989: 112), there is a need to infer the existence of such a usage on the basis of forms
such as ḥu-bu-cag ‘we’ and ḥuṅ-nas ‘and then’, etc. The speculation that this pronoun is
related to the sentence final morpheme -ḥo requires further demonstration.
 Book Reviews 205

normally answer ‘five’. Asking one’s consultants how many phonemic

tones a dialect possesses (pp.251-258) is not an effective way to learn the
answer to this question.
Although there is some danger that these three methodologically
weaker papers will perpetuate conceptual or factual errors in the hands of
the innocent, the auspicious price of €108 will presumably guarantee that
only committed professionals will acquire the volume. Such researchers
will find it a valued addition to their libraries.

References
Backus, C. 1981. The Nan-chao Kingdom and Tʻang China’s Southwestern
Frontier. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Beckwith, C.I. 1977. A Study of the Early Medieval Chinese, Latin, and Tibetan
Historical Sources on Pre-Imperial Tibet. Indiana University PhD
Dissertation.
Bloomfield, L. 1933. Language. New York: H. Holt and Company.
Cavalli-Sforza, L.L. et al. 1988. ‘Reconstruction of human evolution:
bringing together genetic, archaeological, and linguistic data’.
Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, USA 85: 6002-6006.
Chen, S. et al. 2006. ‘Allelic distribution of HLA class I genes in the Tibetan
ethnic population of China’. International Journal of Immunogenetics 33:
439–445.
Denwood, P. 1999. Tibetan. Amsterdam: John Benjamins.
Dixon, R.M.W. 1982. Where Have all the Adjectives Gone? and other essays in
semantics and syntax. Berlin: Mouton.
Dixon, R.M.W. 2004. ‘Adjective classes in typological perspective’. Adjective
Classes: A cross-linguistic typology, edited by R. M. W. Dixon and A. Y.
Aikhenvald, pp.1-49. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
van Driem, G. 1990. ‘An exploration of Proto-Kiranti verbal morphology’.
Acta Linguistica Hafniensia 22: 27-48.
van Driem, G. 1991. ‘Bahing and the Proto-Kiranti verb.’ Bulletin of the
School of Oriental and African Studies 54.2: 336-356.
van Driem, G. 1992. ‘Le proto-kiranti revisité, morphologie verbale du
lohorung’. Acta Linguistica Hafniensia 24: 33-75.
206 EBHR-39

van Driem, G. 1997. ‘A new analysis of the Limbu verb’. Tibeto-Burman

Languages of the Himalayas, edited by D. Bradley, pp.153-173. Canberra:
Pacific Linguistics.
Dpal-ldan-bkra-shis, et al. 1996. Language Materials of China’s Monguor
Minority: Huzhu Mongghul and Minhe Mangghuer. Sino-Platonic papers
no. 69.
Garrett, E. 2001. Evidentiality and Assertion in Tibetan. PhD thesis at
University of California Los Angeles.
Gayden, et al. 2007. ‘The Himalayas as a Directional Barrier to Gene Flow’.
The American Journal of Human Genetics 80: 884-894.
Givón, T. 1984. Syntax: A functional-typological introduction. Philadelphia:
Benjamins Pub. Co.
Haspelmath, M. 2007. ‘Pre-established categories don’t exist:
consequences for language description and typology.’ Linguistic
Typology 11: 119-132.
de Jong, J.W. 1989. The Story of Rāma in Tibet: Text and translation of the Tun-
huang manuscripts. Stuttgart: F. Steiner.
Lewis, P. W and Bai Bibo 1996. Hani-English/English-Hani Dictionary:
Haqniqdoq-Yilyidoq, Doqlo-Soqdaoq. London: Kegan Paul International.
de Saussurre, Ferdinand 1919. Cours de Linguistique Générale. Paris: Payot.
Su et al. 2000. ‘Y chromosome haplotypes reveal prehistorical migrations
to the Himalayas.’ Human Genetics 107.6: 582-590.
Suzuki Hiroyuki 鈴木博之 2005. ‘チベット語丹巴・梭坡[Sogpho] 方言の音声分析
Chibettogo Danba-Sopo [Sogpho] Hōgen no Onseibunseki [Phonetic
Analysis of the Danba Sogpho Tibetan Dialect.’ ニダバ Nidaba 34: 96-104.
Tournadre, N. 1996. L’ergativité en Tibétain: Approche morphosyntaxique de la
langue parlée. Paris: Peeters.
Tournadre, N. 2008. ‘Arguments against the concept of
“conjunct”/“disjunct” in Tibetan.’ Chomolangma, Demawend und Kasbek:
Festschrift für Roland Bielmeier zu seinem 65. Geburtstag, edited by B. Huber
et al., pp.281-308. Halle: International Institute for Tibetan and
Buddhist Studies.
Zhao, Mian et al. 2009. ‘Mitochondrial genome evidence reveals successful
Late Paleolithic settlement on the Tibetan Plateau.’ Proceedings of the
National Academy of Sciences, USA 106.50: 21230-21235.
 207

ENDPIECE
208 EBHR-39

Me at the Beginning of Life

Jhamak Ghimire

[Jhamak Ghimire was born with cerebral palsy in Dhankuta, Nepal, in

1980. She has published eight volumes of poetry, stories and essays and
has a regular column in Kantipur newspaper. She can communicate only
in writing, and to write she holds a pen between the toes of her left foot.
Jhamak Ghimire was awarded the Madan Puraskar, Nepal’s most
prestigious literary prize, in 2011 for her collection of autobiographical
essays, Jivan: kanda ki phul? There follows an English translation, by
Michael Hutt, of the opening chapter of this book.]

I have understood now that life is a beautiful flower of creation. Whether

my own life falls within my definition of life, well, I do not know. When my
heart wept I survived, because inside the pain laughter was restless each
moment. When I say that somehow or other I survived a burdensome life,
few will believe me now. The truth is extremely bitter, the reality equally
insipid. Many times while leafing through those pages of memory I myself
have shed tears. Such unlucky lines of fate were inscribed for me when I fell
to the ground from my mother’s womb.
On the sixth day after my birth my mother bathed me and washed me
and made me clean, and put me to sleep with an exercise book and a pen
under my pillow. It was a folk belief that Fortune would write my line of
fate on that night. Mother, you wanted Fortune to draw a good line of fate
right across my brow. But that was just your belief. Yes, Fortune did not
draw my line of karma well that night, nor did it write a good line of fate.
Time had filled my pockets with packages of ill fortune. I was a girl
who had been robbed by fate, who had neither the sweetness nor the joy
of life. So how could life be as I had imagined? In the end I had to live,
and so I did. But I lived as if there was no difference between the life of an
animal and the life of a human being. The only difference was that even
though I lived an animal’s life, I ate rice, that was all. A life without the
invisible sympathies and sensations of the human heart, which has no hurt,
no colour, no individuality: perhaps only a very few people get through
this condition. A poet might want to write a beautiful poem about escaping
 Endpiece 209

from this kind of life, some sensitive person might like this story. But at
that time my life was such a burden that it hurt me, and it had become hard
to endure the pain.
In everyone’s eyes I was someone who had been cursed by the gods,
because in this life I had received the fruit of sins from a former life. I had
been born into a society whose culture said that people lived from one birth
to another. So I was a thorn that pricked everyone’s eyes. When they saw
me those eyes did not fill with sympathy and that heart never melted with
love. Who were very displeased with me, who were very angry. In the end,
how right was it for them to be like this to a tender, innocent child? I had
no option but to endure all of those things in silence. Inside my child heart,
the question continually arose, ‘How am I to blame for all of this?’ I had no
medium through which to express this, no language, no way of indicating
through gestures, no power to utter it. I had life, and that was all, and the
little breath that was tangled up with it. How suffocating was my life? There
was no exit from it anywhere. If there had been any way out, a river of life
would have flowed unceasingly along with time.
Blessed Nature! You gave birth to me to endure the cruel behaviour of
human beings and you awoke the meaning of being me. When I was restless
with suffering you became my mother and wiped the tears that seeped from
my eyes. The mother who bore me also gave birth to me, even though it was
to suffer pain, she fostered me for nine or ten months in her womb and gave
birth to me. In this neither she nor I was at fault. It was the fault of fate.
Is the definition of disability merely to be born with a bodily incapacity?
If so, why do they not consider Homer incomplete? Why did the world
never consider the Nikolai Otrovskys, the Helen Kellers incomplete? These
people were weak in body, just like me. But they wrote history before they
departed, they left us a different perspective, they set down the meaning of
being human before they passed away.
But me? I was born in a world very different from theirs, born in a
different geography. For this reason I lived a life that was so unequal and
low grade that maybe only an animal could have lived such a life before.
When I achieved awareness, the shoots of consciousness had begun to
sprout in me, I think. But even achieving awareness became like a curse.
I did not have a voice with which to speak, nor any strength in my legs to
walk. Nor was there strength in my hands that I could fill a basket with
godavari, makhmali and sunakhari flowers. No, I had nothing of this at all.
210 EBHR-39

I was a helpless girl bereft of all these things, whose mind was filled with
a longing to run on the hills, but whose feet did not have the strength to
support her body. I longed to talk with others, but I had no voice! Because
these desires were ones that would never be fulfilled, they fell upon me,
wounded.
Yes, I was so robbed by fate that I was unable to even get up from my
bed. My poor grandmother, whitehaired like the moon over the hill, might
have picked me up and taken me on her lap. How she must have longed
that her son’s first offspring would call her ‘grandmother’ in its baby
voice, that it would pull at the wrinkles on her face with its little hands.
But grandmother, I could not fulfil your wishes. Your other grandchildren
fulfilled them. All I did was hurt you when you carried me on your back,
how you must have loved me, no?
At that time the economic condition of our home was not so good,
to the extent that it was very hard to manage two meals a day, morning
and evening. I have heard that mother and father often went hungry at
mealtimes, but somehow or other they fed us children. Grandmother, even
that was not enough for you, you fed me and made me greedy even though
you went without food yourself. And on top of that, you took me to sleep
with you and you gave me many different things to eat every time I woke
up, all through the night. Aha, how good it tasted, the food you gave me!
Grandmother, if you had not wrapped me in a torn up petticoat and put
me in a bamboo basket I might still have been peeing and soiling in my bed
today, or I may have already arrived with you in the heaven that people
imagine. I don’t know. But because of you I touched the various colours of
life and understood life from various angles, and experienced the beauty of
life myself. Grandmother, you are not with me now, that is your misfortune.
But you are still living all through my heart and mind.
INFORMATION FOR AUTHORS
Proposals and manuscripts should be sent to the Managing Editor, Michael Hutt ([email protected]) via
email. All articles submitted are subject to a process of peer review.
Book reviews should be sent to the book reviews editor, Mark Turin ([email protected]). Similarly,
Mark Turin may be contacted about books for review and will advise where they should be sent.
Articles should be written in English and should not exceed 10,000 words in length, including footnotes
and references. When preparing your manuscript for submission to the EBHR, please observe the
following conventions.
Spelling and punctuation
Use British English spellings, e.g. ‘colour’, ‘supervised’.
Use single quotation marks throughout, except for quotes within quotes, which should take double
quotation marks. Do not use scare quotes.
Reported speech and quotes from written sources should be given in plain text within single quotation
marks. Quotations extending to more than 40 words should be in a separate indented paragraph.
The titles of books and the names of newspapers and journals should be given in italics with initial capitals.
References should not be given in footnotes, which should be used sparingly to provide supplementary
information.
Diacritical marks may be employed for the transliteration of terms from Himalayan languages, but should
be used correctly and consistently. Personal and place names should not take diacritical marks.
References
References in the body of the text should use the Harvard system, e.g. ‘(Hacchethu 1997: 17)’ with a space
after the colon and no comma between author and date; where there is more than one reference listed,
put commas between them, not semi-colons.
When listing references at the end of articles, give the surname of the author followed by initials, e.g.
‘Malla, K.P.’ not ‘Malla, Kamal Prakash’. Give the main title of a book with capital letters, but use lower
case in the sub-title after an initial capital. Use lower case after an initial capital for the title of an article
or book chapter.
References should be given as follows:
[Monographs]
Bennett, L. 1983. Dangerous Wives and Sacred Sisters: Social and symbolic roles of high-caste women in Nepal. New
York: Columbia University Press.
[Chapters in books]
Ishii, H. 1995. ‘Caste and kinship in a Newar village’. In Contested Hierarchies: A collaborative ethnography of
caste among the Newars of the Kathmandu Valley, Nepal, edited by David N. Gellner and Declan Quigley, pp.
109-57. Oxford: Clarendon.
[Journal articles]
Scheppele, K.L. 2003. ‘Aspirational and adversive constitutionalism: the case for studying cross-
constitutional influence through negative models’. International Journal of Constitutional Law 1(2): 296-324.
We welcome reports on seminars and conferences. For advertising rates please contact the editors.
EBHR, Michael Hutt
School of Oriental and African Studies
Thornhaugh Street, Russell Square, London WC1H 0XG, UK.
[email protected]

EBHR
SOAS, LONDON  CNRS, PARIS  SAI, HEIDELBERG
ISSN 0943 8254
 EBHR 39

EUROPEAN BULLETIN OF HIMALAYAN RESEARCH • 39

ARTICLES

39
An Unpublished Account of Kinnauri Folklore 9
Sur Das, introduced by Arik Moran
Keeping the Hill Tribes at Bay: A critique from India’s Northeast 41 Autumn-Winter 2011
of James C. Scott’s paradigm of state evasion
Jelle Wouters
Shaping Secularism in Nepal 66
Chiara Letizia
REPORTS 127
INTERVIEW 147
OBITUARIES 165
BOOK REVIEWS 175

EBHR
ENDPIECE 207

EUROPEAN BULLETIN
OF HIMALAYAN RESEARCH

Autumn-Winter 2011
2011

published by the EBHR Editorial Committee

in conjunction with Social Science Baha, Kathmandu, Nepal