José Gerson da Cunha, his myths and histories: Rethinking Origin Myths in Goa IV

For some time now I have been revisiting the myth recounted by Narayan Kondiba Mane, a Dhangar shepherd from the district of Kolhapur in Maharashtra. The myth tells of the birthing of the hero Parashurama and his relationship with the Goddess Yellamma. Mane’s myth suggests that Parashurama was born of the virgin Goddess Yellamma as a punishment for her violation of the sacred grove of Mahadev. Saddled with a baby, the Goddess was given aid by the Shia heroes Imam Hassan and Imam Hussein who built a residence for her on the hill of Saundati not far from Belgaum. As the title of this series of columns indicates, we can use this Dhangar narrative to rethink the central role that is often given to a brahmanically-imagined Parashurama when recounting Goa’s mythical origins
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Rethinking the now popular Parashurama myth requires that we recognize that the centrality that the brahmanical, or Puranic, myth currently enjoys is perhaps only a century old. Prior to this period the idea that Parashurama, son of the sage Jamadagni and Renuka, created Goa by shooting an arrow into the sea was not widespread. On the contrary, this was a Puranic version alone, and each Purana, or copy of a Purana, had its own peculiar spin on the narrative.  Take, for example, the fact that there is no unanimity as regards what it was that Parashurama used to push the sea back. Was it an arrow that he shot from his bow, as is believed in Goa, or an axe as is the case further down the west coast? Further those outside of brahmanical society, and this included the vast majority of society, had limited, or no access to these Puranic stories. As Mane’s recounting of the myth of Yellamma and Parashurama indicates, there were a variety of other myths, outside of the brahmanical sphere, that provided different life stories for these personalities. How is it, then, that the Puranic myth gained the popularity that it enjoys today?

The key to this question lies in the figure of the orientalist gentleman-scholar José Gerson da Cunha (1844-1900), who operated from Bombay in the nineteenth century.  Cunha’s contribution to history was to locate a variety of the Parashurama myths and establish a single version that he would publish and present as a scientific version, as the following extract from his famous work, The Konkani Language and Literature (1881), demonstrates:

"The edition of these fragments which I published in 1877, and the translation of which I have now completed, show the work to contain more mythology than history, more fiction than truth, and this embodied in a Sanskrit which has but little regard for orthography and grammar. Difficult as it is to disentangle the thread of truth from the confused web of fiction, or of those hopeless mazes of legends and myths which everywhere abound, there are still incorporated into the work some local traditions of more or less worth, treasured up for centuries by the Brahmans of the Konkan, who consider it to be their paladium. It may in consequence be utilized by patient and critical labour, obtaining some obscure hints, defective in chronological data though they be, from which grains of historical truth may be extracted." (p.8)

This extract suggests that the version we do have of the myth was the result of his editorial interventions. While it is clear that Cunha clearly saw these texts as fanciful and mythical, it is also obvious that he sought to identify history from the piles of myth that he encountered. It is because he suggested that one could find history in these myths, and because of the locations - the Gazetteer of the Bombay Presidency and European conferences - where his works were published, that his assertions came to be accepted as history.

But why was Cunha so concerned with extracting history from this myth?  The answer is pretty straight forward; Cunha had an obsession with caste, establishing the antiquity of his own caste, and his caste’s location as that equivalent to European nobility. Consider this extract from George Moraes’ obituary of the man in the Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bombay (1964-64: 8): “Another weakness of Dr. Da Cunha was his caste complex. In his Konkani Language and Literature he never misses an opportunity of boosting the caste of the author if he happens to be of his caste, however obscure may have been his work…” Earlier in this obituary (page 3), Moraes also credits Cunha with providing an interpretative gloss that allowed the title of Shenvi or Shenoy to be understood as that of aristocracy. 

Reflecting on Gerson da Cunha, the scholar Filipa Vicente (2012) points out that his European-ness and his brahmin-ness were critical to the way in which he sought to project himself. Both were absolutely essential to his identity and worked in tandem. Where on one occasion, he was described merely as a brahmin, Cunha manifested great discomfort because this fact of his identity was separated from his Catholicism.  Vicente points out that “this declaration of his Europeanism does not necessarily signify a rejection of his Indian identity. It was precisely his Goan origins that enabled this combination of both his identities. Goa's ‘Portuguese nature’ and his own personal and family history attributed to him with the Europeanism he acknowledged, and which he wanted others to recognise in him, while also recognising his Indian Brahman identity.” In other words, da Cunha’s Catholicism allowed him to be seen as a European in European circles, while his brahmanical identity allowed him to claim the ancient and noble pedigree that he conferred on his caste fellows.

José Gerson da Cunha was writing in very volatile times, with new identities being manufactured by a variety of groups and new orders emerging, alongside an incipient Indian nationalism that privileged a brahmanical past. That Cunha’s machinations worked and were acclaimed by so many is an indication that his work fulfilled a need of a variety of persons, both Hindu as well as Catholic, then as well as currently. Perhaps we cannot grudge them the social mobility that they desired. However, it is important that we recognise that the ‘history’ that we babble about today was born from very peculiar circumstances geared towards personal agendas of brahmanical groups. It is also important that we recognise that the social mobility that these individuals and groups sort was a mobility exclusive to themselves. It engendered a mobility at the cost of that of others, namely the non-brahmanical groups. Mane’s Dhangar myth of the Goddess Yellamma, Parashurama, and the Shia Imams indicates to us that non-brahmins have different stories to tell, stories that deserve as much credit as those told by brahmins, especially because they may engender a more inclusive world.

(A version of this post was first published in the O Heraldo dated 10 July 2015)

Rethinking Origin Myths in Goa

Some months ago, I recollected an incident where a group of Gauda, Kunbi, Velip, and Dhangar activists from Goa were asked if they had any origin myths about Goa that would contest the more popularized origin myth of Parashuram. As I recounted, these activists were unable to offer one. What they could offer, however, were narratives of their peoples being systematically cheated of their rights in the land. It was in this context that I suggested that not every history needs to be ancient to have value. Histories can be recent and still be valid.

Imagine my surprise, therefore, when some weeks after writing that column, I came across a scholarly essay titled “Muharram Processions and the Ethicization of Hero Cults in the Premodern Deccan,” by Hugh van Skyhawk, which featured in the book South Asian Religions on Display: Religious Processions in South Asia and in the Diaspora (2008). Discussing the manner in which various sacred traditions of the Deccan engaged with each other, Skyhawk recounted an oral text of Narayan Kondiba Mane, a Dhangar shepherd from the district of Kolhapur in Maharashtra. The reason for my surprise was that while this oral text that Skyhawk translated did not deal with an origin myth for the land that was, through Portuguese intervention, to become Goa, it did contain a narrative mentioning the familial interaction of a variety of pre-colonial deities in these territories.

The narrative is about the “Canarese” Goddess Yekva or Yellamma, and begins by underlining the fact that she was the youngest and most stubborn of seven sisters: “Yekva, Mhakva, Durgava, Durgva, Margva, Jakva, and Tukva.” This youngest sister was once separated from her siblings when she felt thirsty during a hunt. Though she was unable to find her sisters, she did eventually find water in Mahadev’s pond. While at the pond, her eyes fell on a chickpea plant, whose stem she felt compelled [by hunger no doubt] to pluck. As she leaned forward to do so, however, Mahadev cried out that should she carry out this action, “blame” would fall on her. But Yellamma was not one to listen. Oh no! She pulled a twig from the bush, and instantly, a burning blister formed on her palm.

Poor Yellamma, alone and frightened, ran in pain until she could bear the pain no longer. She pricked the blister, and found in it a lump of blood, and a radiant little baby was born. And who was that baby, born from the blister on Yallamma’s hand? Parasarama, or Parasurama!

It was after having birthed the baby Parasurama and traveling some more that Yellamma finally stumbled upon her sisters. When they saw her carrying the little baby, however, the sisters cried out, “Stay away! Don’t come closer! You have made us the relatives of a bastard! We don’t want to touch you! And we don’t want you in our group! As you have borne a bastard, go away from us! Don’t ever come to us!”

The stunned Yellamma had nowhere to go now, and after much wandering, she came upon “the Musalman brothers Asan [and] Usan,” that is, Hasan and Hussein. She requested, and received, shelter from them, and spent the night on the verandah of their home. In the morning, she requested a place to live. The brothers responded by placing a stone in a sling, flinging the stone in the air and indicating to Yellamma to follow the stone, for where it fell, that place would be hers. Yellamma did as requested and followed the stone, which had fallen on Saundatti hill by this time.

She reached the hill at sundown and encountered the home of one Jagul Satyava, whom she petitioned for shelter for the night. Satyava responded that he would have gladly given her a place to stay, “but mine is a Musalman house and there will be meat.” Yellamma would not take no for an answer, however, and persuaded Satyava to let her spend the night in the house. When Satyava’s sons, Bhram, Apa, Asan, and Usan, returned home with two wild goats, Yellamma called out, “Your maternal aunt has come! My boy should sit down with you. Let your sister join your dining row!” And so it was, the narrative tells us, that Yellamma, with the baby Parasuram on her lap, sat with the Muslim boys as they prepared to eat.

The narrative also informs us that “Yallamma sprinkled the nectar of immortality on all the meat they had there, and gave [the dead animals] their full life-force again. And Baby Parasarama was accepted in the circle of the Musalman boys, and in bliss did they eat together.” Subsequently, in the morning, the four brothers erected a temple to the virgin goddess on Saundatti hill, so that there would be space for all of them. The narrative concludes that “After they had built the temple the Canarese Yallava took Baby Parasarama and stayed in the temple on the hill.”

To those of us accustomed to the neat divisions between Hindu and Muslim, this narrative would present something of a shock. Indeed, the narrative seems to have all the makings of a contemporary soap opera. According to Skyhawk, it highlights the role of the Shia heroes, Hasan and Hussein, as protectors of helpless women and children in South Asia. From a Goan point of view, however, the narrative gives us a plethora of positions from which to think about Goa. Given that the territories that would go on to constitute Goa participated both in the Canara region and the Deccan, this narrative allows us to think of a pre-colonial Goa that was not entirely brahmanical. On the contrary, it was also a space where Islam, and especially Shia Islam, held sway. Further, this Shia Islam had rather intimate fraternal engagements with the non-brahmanical faiths in the region. One could also hazard a guess that these non-brahmanical and non-Muslim deities were in latter times Sanskritised to give us brahmanical deities—like the Parashurama we know today—who have completely different histories. Indeed, it appears that the two myths are speaking of two entirely different Parashuramas.

However, there is no need to rush into readings of this Dhangar myth at this time. For now, all that we need to do is know that there are other myths that would upset the certainty of the dominant discourse. And this, as most students of the social sciences would know can only be a good thing since it opens up space for more questions and new visions.

Contd....

(A version of this post was first published in the O Herald on 17 April 2015)

Positive Politics and Karbala: Reflections in honour of Imam Hussein, Prince among Martyrs

When Mr. Iqbal Mohiuddin rose to address the gathering at the Seminar on Positive Politics, organized for the Popular Democratic Front in Margao on the second day of the New Year, he did not begin by greeting the audience on the commencement of the Georgian New Year. On the contrary, he presented to the largely Muslim audience, his greetings on the start of Muharram, the first month of the Muslim calendar, and then subsequently went on to also greet them on the start of the Georgian calendar.

It was a pity that Mr. Mohiuddin did not continue his address with a reflection on the solemnity of Muharram. The solemnity begins on the first day of that month, and culminates on Ashura (ten in Arabic), the tenth day of that month. This period marks the martyrdom of Imam Hussein and many of his band of followers, on the burning plains of Karbala, a city now in modern day Iraq. Had he done so, he would have in one stroke, placed before us the challenge of and for positive politics that faces us in India today.

Imam Hussein was the grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, and a claimant to the office of Caliph (the leader of the Muslim community). This position however was taken up by Yazid, seen in some traditions as a tyrant. Imam Hussein, seen as the righteous was halted at Karbala enroute to the city of Najaf, where his caravan, comprising women and children, was besieged, and under the burning sun deprived of water for days. On the tenth day, Imam Hussein was martyred in battle, and his body mutilated, but only after he was forced to witness the death of his sons and brother, at the hands of the forces of Yazid. It is in commemoration of this cruel killing of the virtuous grandson of the Prophet, that every year Muslims, and among them especially the Shia, gather to mourn in the months of Muharram and Safar.

The narrative that the story of Karbala builds up for us is that of the conflict between good and evil; between the path of righteousness, represented by Imam Hussein, and the path of corrupt and deviant State power, represented by Yazid. In standing up, and eventually dying for his convictions, Imam Hussein is configured as the Prince among martyrs laying the foundation for a culture, like that of Roman Catholicism, which holds a special place for martyrdom. This notion of martyrdom however transcends the usual idea of dying violently. Tradition also suggests that ‘one who dies in the love of the Prophet’s family, dies a martyr’. The path of imitation of their lives (of virtue) then also leads us to the hallowed stature of martyrdom.

It was thus appropriate that a Seminar on Positive Politics should have been organized within the first ten days of Muharram, and regrettable that despite this obvious alignment of dates, the connection was not made by any of the speakers.

The Seminar made a few important shifts that we should take note off. It was a move toward rearticulating the nature of nationalism in India. If nationalism, especially since after the Mandal Commission Report, has been articulated largely in upper caste (Hindu) or Brahmanical terms; speakers at the seminar indicated clearly that there another kind of nationalism was possible. This would be a nationalism that draws from the experiences and vocabulary of those excluded from the Brahmanical framework; Muslims, Dalits, other minorities. In terms of politics the seminar indicated that it was time to break out of vote-bank politics, where these communities are merely paid lip service, to move into a politics where rights are addressed and governance is the focus.

Nevertheless, various occurrences at the seminar indicated that it emerged from the same (problematic) soup of Indian politics. For example, assertions were made that prior to the arrival of the British, it was the Muslims who ruled, and there was none of the persecution that is today faced by a variety of groups across the country. My differences with this statement are not the obvious. That Muslims ruled prior to the British, and subsequent to the Hindus, is an invention of the British historians of India. The so-called period of ‘Muslim rule’ was a period marked by the rule of Turko-Afghans. Their religion happened to be Islam, but these Muslims were marked by sectarian and regional differences that marked them significantly. Also, they proved also the wisdom of Chanakya’s observations regarding real politic. In order to accommodate the demands of their realm, a number of these ‘Muslim’ rulers were Muslim in name alone, and consequently gave the rigid and doctrinaire Muslims of the time more than a few lines of worry. Secondly, these ‘Muslims’ ruled with the active support of brahmanised local elite. As such, power structures, as viewed from the dalit groups below, remained pretty much the same. That is to say, caste violence, endemic to the subcontinent continued to be a marked feature of ‘lower’ caste Indian lives. If we are to build a genuinely cooperative (and positive) politics, then it is imperative that we look beyond the ‘religious’ framework bequeathed by the British when we both, seek understand our past, and also move forward.

Finally, while I can understand the need to retrieve Islam and Muslims from the character-assassination it has been subjected to, we also need to realize that making such blanket statements as ‘there was no persecution under Muslim rule’ lulls us into a sense that merely being Muslim is enough to be good. Clearly this cannot be true. Mere confession of a faith is not enough, one has to also walk the path of the Prophet and the Imams, not merely literally, but mystically as well.

The more problematic aspect of the seminar was the fact of its structure. It was essentially a platform to launch a new political organization in Goa. Nothing wrong in that. However if we are to move toward new politics, then we need to also move away from the kind of organizing that is disrespectful of the audience. One cannot promise a seminar (necessarily dialogical), lump the audience in a room and then subject them to speech after speech, with no room for participatory discussion and dialogue. A movement toward positive and genuinely democratic politics will have be one that articulates a more respectful and dialogical consideration for the audience. Indeed the battle of Karbala was also marked by parleys, which resulted in some switching sides, more significantly some moving over from the side of Yazid to that of Imam Hussein.

Via the ‘Seminar’, the Popular Democratic Front has made its first appearance in Goa. If the reports about this mobilization from the states of the South are anything to go by, if the tenor of the speeches were anything to rely on, it would be interesting to see how they manage to gather groups in Goa toward more emancipatory agendas than the ones we are used to seeing in the quickly deteriorating situation of the secular and democratic Indian republic.

(Published in the Gomantak Times, 7th Jan 2009)