Brahmin and Non-Brahmin: Genealogies of the Tamil Present, is the latest work of M. S. S. Pandian, whose sympathies towards the Dravidian movement can be easily discerned from his English-language essays on politics. This book represents an attempt to theoretically defend his political position, and I will use this as the basis for a consideration of certain matters.
Pandian describes his method for the analysis of the identities “Brahmin” and “Non-Brahmin” in 20th century Tamil politics as being “genealogical,” as well as grounded in a subaltern-studies approach; that genealogy, a concept introduced by Michel Foucault, is to be employed to analyze Tamil society, is evident from the book’s very cover. To date, there is a signal dearth of serious scholarship on Dravidian politics. The number of sociological essays on the matter, for instance, is very small. Moreover, apart from paying lip service to the names of poststructuralists like Foucault, Derrida and Lacan, no one has truly followed their methods of analysis in the study of Tamil social and cultural life. Likewise, there has been no work on Tamil Nadu that fully exploits the (putatively) radical potential of subaltern studies. So what does Pandian’s text, so full of promise with respect to filling the aforementioned lacunae, in fact do?
For the past century, Pandian tells us, Tamil society has been dominated by two mutually opposed figures, the Brahmin and the non-Brahmin. In seven chapters Pandian describes the emergence of these concepts, their context, their mutually oppositional stance, the will-to-power of their proponents, the political practices taken up in their name, the basic truths they contain, and finally assesses their relative success.
The first chapter, serving as an introduction, briefly describes the colonial context, arguing that that context was the single most important cause of the rise and particular shape of the two opposed figures. The second and third chapters address the historical formation of “the Brahmin” on the basis of several different kinds of evidence.
The fourth chapter addresses two discursive attempts —the first, by the Buddhist intellectual Ayothee Thassar, the second that of the Saiva Maraimalai Adigal— that sought to counter the representation of the Brahmin. The nature of the Justice Party, the first organization to politicize the figure of the Non-Brahmin, is the subject of the fifth chapter, while the sixth charts the differences between Justice, for whom politics was based on seizing power, and the rising Dravidian movement’s new politics of Self-Respect. This is followed by a consideration of the extent of popular support for the Dravidian movement under E. V. Ramasami —which Pandian asserts had a subaltern character— asking, to what degree did the population at large rally behind the sign of the non-Brahmin? Following decades of Dravidian politics centered on the conceptual opposition between Brahmin and Non-Brahmin, Dalit politics emerged as a voice of critique in the Tamil Nadu of the 1980s; Pandian discusses its effects in the final chapter, focusing, for example, on the fact that the very political subject “Dalit” was introduced in order to reassert Dalits’ particularity in the face of the term “Dravidian” under which they had been subsumed.
English-language analyses of society all have a very peculiar character. For they are either lacking in any particular utility for the societies about which they write, or are simply not in circulation in those societies; such works, thereby, need not concern themselves with the self-representations of those societies. English-language scholarly discourse thus follows its own course, attending only to the niceties of scholarly exactitude and jargon-laden prose Moreover, there is little difference between the scholarship of those belonging to the societies in question and those outside it, since both kinds of scholar will conform to the discursive frameworks set by the academy.
The term “Non-Brahmin” is central to English scholarship on 20th century Tamil politics, and Pandian too employs it in his very title. In the English-language imagination, “Non-Brahmin” is a concept that signifies a popular political movement that seized power through the mobilization of the people. To what extent is that conception accurate? And what is the usefulness of the term “Non-Brahmin,” so ubiquitous in English scholarship, when deployed in Tamil? If this was indeed a popular concept, by what name was it known? We usually translate “Non-Brahmin” as “other-than-Brahmins” (pirāmaṇarallātōr), but in ordinary language, apart from texts, this translation has no validity whatsoever. And given that no word corresponds to the putative entity “Non-Brahmin” in everyday linguistic usage, how can it be said that the concept structures Tamil political life? Can it really be the case that the concept, as well as the ideology based upon it —prevalent only in English and in translated form in Tamil scholarly texts— could determine the politics of the entire Tamil populace?
Furthermore, the fact that there is no Tamil word corresponding to “Non-Brahmin” suggests as well that the no identity “other-than-Brahmins” was ever constructed. Why then does Pandian write at such length about this figure, the Non-Brahmin, that lacks any reality?
If we accept that there is nothing that properly corresponds to “Non-Brahmin,” under what sign did the people rally together politically? While there is no unity to be found behind the political term “Non-Brahmin,” animosity towards Brahmins had pervaded every corner of Tamil society. The difference between north and south had emerged as significant, and the rivalry between Sanskrit and Tamil was deeply felt. There was recognition of the fact that we were being derogated, and indeed betrayed, by North Indians. Tamils understood themselves as autochthons, subjected to slavery by North Indians —Aryans— who had come from elsewhere. And the view that South Indian Brahmins were the representatives of those very North Indian perpetrators attained hegemony. All these ideas, however, appeared against the backdrop of the representation of the “Dravidian.”
What then is Pandian’s purpose in leaving aside these facts —well-known to even ordinary Tamil men and women— and claiming instead that a discourse of the “Non- Brahmin” flourished? There is an obvious answer, which is simply that this is the structure provided by English-language scholarship; the reason, that is, is that, in English-language thought, “Brahmin” and “Non-Brahmin” are assumed to be real. At the same time, moreover, the Anglophone world has recently critiqued terms like Aryan and Dravidian as outmoded fabrications, and there might thus be a certain embarrassment in employing “Dravidian. “All these, of course, are only possible reasons. I suspect, however, that Pandian’s interest in using “Non-Brahmin” to the exclusion of “Dravidian” has different reasons, about which more below.
There are three aspects of Pandian’s prominent use of “Brahmin/ Non-Brahmin” that deserve consideration. The first concerns how he imagines the formation of the figure of the Brahmin and its context. Second is the inadequacy of his perspective on Ayothee thassar and Maraimalai Adigal; Ayothee thassar, in particular, has been incorrectly characterized. And third are the problems with this depiction of Dravidian politics as “subaltern.”
Pandian’s text carefully details the strategies employed by Tamil Brahmins to affect a renaissance in the early decades of the 20th century. Brahmins occupied the majority of positions of power in the British government. In a situation in which more and more were beginning to adopt the lifestyle of the white man, Brahmins’ efforts to protect their traditional prestige, and the Hindu religious order with which it was intertwined, emerged as central to the 20th century construction of the Brahmin. For the everyday practices that emphasized the Brahmin’s position —including vegetarianism, Vedic recitation, the concern with bodily purity, and living at a distance from others so as to reinforce the uniqueness of their status and thus their prestige— were threatened by intimate contact with the British, and this was a source of considerable anxiety. Brahmins raised the cry that each of them was bound to protect Brahmin traditions, which were in danger of being destroyed by the slow penetration of Western mores; Pandian’s text asserts, moreover, that this struggle was the field in which Brahmins as a caste experienced a resurgence, and was at once central to larger struggles to preserve Hinduism, and ultimately, to win the nation. That is to say, Pandian rightly argues that the resurrection of the Brahmin is inextricably linked to triumph of both the Hindu religion as well as the Indian nation. Others have also noted the interdependence of the triad “Brahmin-Hindu-Bharat” and with this I have no quarrel. My disagreement with Pandian, rather, is with the reasons he gives for the sudden simultaneous emergence of the Brahmin caste configuration, Hinduism and nationalism.
Pandian cites two reasons for this: first, the scathing critiques of Brahmins and Hinduism propounded by European missionaries, and second the notion of the ancient glory of Hinduism “discovered” by Orientalists like Annie Besant, Max Muller and Henry Olcott In these two events, both of which took place in the 19th century, Pandian sees the sole cause —the one negative, the other positive— of the renaissance of the Brahmin. Put more succinctly, Pandian argues that colonialism was the sole cause of Brahmin revival.
Colonial rule always seeks to transform both the material and the ideological. It has ever been careful to support those native forms of power that dovetail with its own ends. Colonialism, furthermore, has been inordinately successful in leaving its mark upon every colony it establishes, and in that sense, it would seem that we ought to agree with the view that colonialism resulted in the revival of the Brahmin and of Hinduism. But a problem arises when we ask whether Brahmins were provoked to these ends by colonialism alone. That is, it is difficult to accept that Brahmins, thus provoked, neglected, and suppressed, would have hit upon the simultaneous revival of themselves, their religion and their nation as the means by which to struggle against colonial rule. Yet Pandian seems to maintain a naïve faith in this remarkably simple explanation, and writes accordingly.
Brahmins have been part and parcel of the colonial machinery since it came into being. Pace Pandian, it was not the 19th century that solidified the European-brahmin nexus; rather, it began to solidify two centuries before that. Robert de Nobili’s conversion efforts in Madurai attracted many brahmins, who flocked to the church inasmuch as the church was prepared to change its practices —including dress codes and other forms of social practice in order to win brahmins over; the fact is that brahmins and vellalars responded to this invitation in great numbers. And it is equally integral to the history of Tamil Nadu that European missionaries’ erroneous assumption that the conversion of brahmins would lead to the conversion of society as a whole (an assumption dominant castes naturally found very appealing) was not only belied, but threatened the very existence of the Christian church in South India.
When missionaries left Tamil Nadu in the 18th century, Brahmins returned to Hinduism, since their hope that following European missionaries would result in political and material gain came to nought. Thus brahmins as such never posed any problem for missionaries. Rather, what is evident is that members of the brahmin caste are willing to the accept or give up anything for the sake of political gain.
If there was no conflict between missionaries and brahmins during the 17th century, why did the 19th century turn out to be one of such tension between them? This was simply because now missionaries approached lower castes instead of upper castes, particularly those who were categorized unseeables (Nadars), as well as other oppressed communities. This meant that missionaries had to openly criticize Hindu traditions, the caste system, as well as brahmins and other high upper castes, a change in their tactics that was thus not due to their genuine appreciation of caste oppression, but was only a ruse meant to win the trust of those who suffered under the caste system. In other instances, the marginalized communities themselves used missionaries as tools to give them voice.
One dimension of 19th century colonialism was its function as the representative of oppressed communities. The latter began, to a great extent, to deploy missionaries to speak on their behalf. (Veeramamunivar [Beschi], Pope, Caldwell and other missionaries were not only taught the Tamil language by colonial subjects, they were also taught the politics of the times, a fact which is critical for historical analysis. Significantly, even today it is widely accepted that Veeramamunivar’s contribution to Tamil was the result of the influence of those who taught him. Likewise, the most important sources of Caldwell’s socio-cultural perspective are his Tamil teachers; without them he could not have come to the conclusion that Pallars and Parayars were the original Dravidian communities.) Marginalized communities, in addition to using missionaries to voice their views on various issues, also began to secure through them that what they had formerly lacked access to: education, jobs, and economic opportunities.
While this was going on one side, the oppressed in different parts of Tamil Nadu were beginning to organize and assert their rights. Muthukutti Samigal’s Ayyavazhi movement in Southern Travancore and Iyothee Thassar’s Buddhist movement in Northern Tamil Nadu are among the most important efforts of these groups to mobilize. The emancipation of the oppressed castes was the focus of these organizations: they thus sought to uproot cultural domination, to reject Hinduism, and to demand basic rights from colonial authorities, and most important, to advance in the realm of education.
It ought to now be clear that brahmins’ anger against colonizers and missionaries was not because the latter were the dominant power, but because they started to represent the interests of marginalized communities. As these communities broke free from traditional forms of bondage and began seeking their own share of political power, upper castes, especially brahmins, were stirred to action, realizing they could no longer rely on the colonial regime to preserve their domination. And thus, dominant castes began to style themselves as “anti-colonialists.”
This is the history of brahmins’ turn to nationalism. It was with this in mind that Iyothee Thassar and others vehemently opposed the swadeshi movement and condemned it as a brahmin ploy. Why does Pandian feel the need to forget or conceal all these facts? What would have induced him, on one hand, to cover over political movements of the marginalized, and on the other to describe brahmins using the term “anti-colonial,” which sounds inappropriately heroic?
Instead of reprimanding Pandian for all these lapses, however, I think it would be more productive to unpack the reasons that lie behind his interpretation. As I said above, the English-speaking world has its own categories, and exists in isolation as a secret society. Entering it is no simple matter, for it does not accept just anyone. In order to become a member one has to meet certain qualifications, and compliance with its rules and regulations is a perquisite for entry. One such important criterion is learning its jargon. And even this criterion is not achieved once and for all: when the jargon changes, the person who speaks needs to change with it. At a particular time the terms “Aryan” and “Dravidian” were favored, followed by “Brahmin/ Non-brahmin”; now the most used words in this language are “colonialism” and “Orientalism.”
No ordinary terms, “colonialism,” “Orientalism” (and “anti-colonialism”) has a wealth of implications, and the terms colonialism and anti-colonialism have produced derivative concepts like post-colonialism and neo-colonialism. When the European nations colonized Asian and African countries, they undertook subtle measures of cultural oppression and manufactured colonial subjects according to their own design. Thus colonialism is not only political domination but also cultural hegemony. Those countries that have gained political independence have not yet achieved cultural decolonization. And it is only decolonization in all spheres that is true independence. Colonialism instituted this extremely significant form of cultural domination through a body of knowledge known as Orientalism.
Orientalism, a corpus of views on the colonies, was the product of Europeans’ distorted gaze. The foundation of Orientalism was colonial powers’ assumption that colonized societies were primitive, and that colonialism alone could civilize them. It is only with these two structuring assumptions —colonialism and Orientalism— that the current English-language world operates, and it insists that those frames are the only legitimate ways of perceiving anything about the colonized. Yet the discourses of colonialism and Orientalism, as far as Indian societies are concerned, continue to uphold the brahmin. Scholars like Pandian have not realized this. Or even if they have, they haven’t changed their scholarship accordingly. Because in the Anglophone world, when writing for the approval of that world, one need not have qualms about honesty or justice. After all, everything is play! A play of words!
Pandian opens with the bold promise that his book will rubbish Europeans and their conceit, but in the end he only upholds brahmins on one hand, and denies the role of oppressed communities in the history of Tamil Nadu on the other. Even more deplorable is his depiction of Iyothee Thassar. To suit his purposes, Pandian considers Iyothee Thassar who discussed “Tamil,” “Dravidian,” and “Buddhist” identities —and Maraimalai Adikal who described the terms “Tamil,” and “Vellalar”— as voices representing a “Non-brahmin” identity. Iyothee Thassar once mocked the latter category, remarking, “So there’s a community of Non-brahmins? Are they a caste or something else?” Can there be any justification, then, for calling Thassar a “Non-brahmin”?
Likewise, Pandian puts forth two contentions regarding Thassar that are simply farcical. His first is that though Thassar’s and Adikal’s historical analyses were rigorous and challenged brahmanical power, the two were pedantic and lacked popular appeal.
Though that view may fit Adikal, it is ridiculously off the mark with respect to Thassar, who did not operate like a typical academic. Rather, Thassar was famous for holding public meetings and speeches, and shared platforms with important political activists, such as the pioneer of communist thought in Tamil Nadu, Singaravelar. Thassar published a weekly called Tamilan for seven years in which the most important section was “Letters to the Editor”, a column that attracted correspondence from Trivandrum all the way to the Kolar Gold Fields. Further, Thassar’s establishment of Buddhist meeting houses (Buddha viharas) in many parts of South India became the cornerstone of the Dravidian movement. In fact, it was Thassar’s Buddhist activism that later fuelled the appeal of Dravidianism in northern Tamil Nadu.
In addition, Iyothee Thassar’s writings in his weekly Tamilan stressed the everyday concerns of ordinary people such as water scarcity, difficulties in obtaining adequate pasturage, discrimination based on untouchability, and the like. Moreover, much of his historical writing dealt with understanding festivals such as Dipavali, Pongal, and Karthikai, as well as rituals associated with birth, marriage, death, and so on, all of which were central in the lives of the masses. Thassar’s reinterpretations of classical Tamil literature and his scholarly reflections on Buddhism —as well as the scholasticism they represent— were only one minor aspect of his work. The view that Iyothee Thassar did not communicate in the language of ordinary people reveals more about Pandian’s lamentable ignorance of Pandian than it does about Thassar, who was known for writing in various print media, petitioning the government, and communicating with the public regularly.
Yet even that misperception is bearable in comparison with his second contention regarding Iyothee Thassar. Namely, Pandian describes Maraimalai Adikal as a Saivite thinker and Iyothee Thassar as a Parayar Buddhist; Pandian categorizes them in this way throughout his text. Whether or not Adikal was only a Saivite Thinker is a debate that I do not want to take up here. But I do want to consider the politics of identifying Thassar as a Parayar.
Right from the moment that Iyothee Thassar’s writings reappeared in the Tamil public sphere efforts to identify him as a Parayar thinker began to circulate in many quarters. Some celebrated him with the label, while others used it to deride him. Yet nobody cared to ask whether labeling Thassar a Parayar was appropriate. The Dalit Panthers began to celebrate Thassar as their gift, while certain others began to accuse him of being a “Parayar who denigrated Arunthathiyars [another Dalit community].” In this melee the question of which identity was most fitting for Iyothee Thassar was entirely forgotten.
Unlike other intellectuals, Iyothee Thassar spent most of his life thinking about identity politics. It all began when the colonial census appeared, asking for one’s religious affiliation. Since Thassar was convinced that he was not a Hindu he explored alternative identities such as “Adi Tamilar,” and then “Dravidar.” Yet he did not claim “Tamilar” and “Dravidar” as identities appropriate only to Parayars, the caste into which he was born. On the contrary, he constructed those identities with the intention of including backward, oppressed, and indigenous Tamils as a whole.
It was only after constructing a collective identity for the marginalized as a whole that Thassar went on to explore the specific history of the category Parayar. This was not a means to reconstruct his own caste’s glory, but rather to understand brahmins’ hatred of Parayars. He arrived at the meaning of the term Parayar in Intira Tesattu Varalaru (The History of the Indirar Nation). It is here he understands that those who announced [Tm.: parai] the true designs of brahmins came to be labeled Parayars. Unlike in the present day, the category Parayar did not then refer to one particular kinship group or its descendents, but rather to those who believed in Buddhist principles. The label was thus an imposition of brahmins. Brahminical machinations did not stop with this: in order to further insult the Buddhists who had been expelled outside the village, it subsumed them, along with vagabonds, and indigenous illiterates of various sects and religions, under the label Parayar. As a result, those who believed and practiced Buddhist dharma, and those who were members of other religions, were all categorised as “Parayars”.
Iyothee Thassar’s analysis of the category Parayar in his “The Origins of the Parayars” also demands serious attention. He insists therein that the category of persons labeled “Parayar” was not an occupational group, a group of blood or marital relations, or a family; rather, it was a label given to those who were staunch believers in truth and [Buddhist] principles. Therefore, for Thassar there was nothing to celebrate in the term “Parayar.” It was with the conviction that no-one should have to submit to an identity imposed upon them by others that Thassar conceived the category “indigenous Buddhist.” Even this became “Tamil Buddhist” after the publication of Tamilan. Thassar’s long quest for a suitable identity can thus be discerned is in his writings.
Given all this, is it justified to call Iyothee Thassar a Paraiyar? Today we narrowly identify Parayars as blood or marital relations, or a family, but Thassar specifically repudiated these attributes of identity, and thoroughly dissected that of his own caste. How very foolish to either condemn such a person as a Parayar, or, for that matter, to celebrate him as one!
In order to understand Iyothee Thassar well Pandian should read his work very carefully. But since Pandian seems instead to have fallen for the vicious propaganda about Thassar that currently circulates in Tamil Nadu his views are riddled with these kinds of confusion.
Pandian’s conclusion that only E.V.R. Periyar’s position could dismantle brahminical domination deserves some serious consideration. No doubt brahminical identity and the Hindu mythology that backed it up were subjected to unimaginable ridicule by Periyar. Nevertheless, what were the consequences of such efforts? No one seems interested in pushing this question.
It is only because of Periyar, we are told, that the repudiation of brahminical myths was possible, and that “Brahmin” as an identity became an object of ridicule in the public sphere. These are considered to be the achievements of Periyar. But what has really happened thereafter? What does it mean when those brahmins, who were believed to have been displaced from Tamil politics, took control of the Central Government of India? Since brahmins moved from first dominating the judiciary during the colonial period, to then becoming well placed in politics, to now—particularly Tamil brahmins— controlling the media, congratulating ourselves that we have dismantled brahminical domination is ridiculous! Has it been possible to counter the brahminical views that circulate now in the media? Is there any strategy contained within Periyarism that can counter the current manipulation of public discourse by the brahmin caste? Or, for that matter, does anyone today dare to speak with the same impunity as Periyar did then? We know well the trouble Kalaignar [M.Karunanidhi, the current chief minister of Tamil Nadu] lands himself in, and the scorn heaped on him, when he occasionally speaks as Periyar did!
This means that there is some serious flaw in Periyar’s perspective. What is the real reason behind the fact that those who call themselves followers of Periyar are today unable to speak as he did then? Surely Pandian, who invokes Michel Foucault and the like, would know the answer.
Corporations not only manufacture rebels, but choose from among them and permit them to spread rumors and oppositional voices. Corporations are able to monitor and control dissident voices this way. That is how Periyar was produced. Brahmanism enjoyed his talk; but only his talk. And after Periyar, brahmins have still not bestowed the privilege of being a rebel against the system upon anybody else.
Thus Periyar’s “revolt” against brahmins only served to strengthen them. Pandian should understand this. And if this is the case, it may be asked, what should our stance against brahmins be? If there is to be any possibility of success for a new form of opposition, it will have to find its source in Iyothee Thassar —a person now denigrated by people like Pandian who sympathize with Dravidian organizations. Yet Iyothee Thassar’s perspective leaves no room not only for brahminism, but for all casteist constructs.
In order to see these facts clearly, people such as Pandian need to remove their blinders. First of all, they should be prepared to disbelieve their own theories. They must disengage from intoxicating concepts such as ‘rebellion’ ‘struggle,’ and ‘revolution.’ They should practice listening to the faint voices that erupt in the peripheries of society. Finally, they need to bear honesty and gratitude in mind. Otherwise, of the two critiques against the Dravidian movement, they will continue to deign to cite only the Dalit critique, and elide critique based on the movement’s flawed conception of Tamil identity, as outlined in works like Guna’s Dravidianism Destroyed Us.
