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DISCUSSION
A Relook at the Term ‘Tribe’
Saqib Khan
Over the years, the academic
literature has shown growing
differentiation among the tribes
and challenged the notion
of tribal homogeneity. This
response to Sumit Guha’s “States,
Tribes, Castes: A Historical
Re-exploration in Comparative
Perspective” (EPW, 21 November
2015) looks at the critiques of the
idea of a homogeneous “tribe.”
Discussions with Ritambhara Hebbar were
crucial in shaping the article in its present
form. Thanks are also due to Geetanjoy Sahu,
Archana Prasad and R Ramakumar.
Saqib Khan (saqib9867@gmail.com) is a PhD
student at the Tata Institute of Social Sciences,
Mumbai.
82
S
umit Guha’s “States, Tribes, Castes:
A Historical Re-exploration in
Comparative Perspective” (EPW,
21 November 2015) has provided oppor-
tunity for a much needed debate on the
use of the term “tribe.” Taking a look at
societies in the ancient and medieval
world, including India, Guha rightly
critiques the use of the term in Indian
sociology and political discourse. He
also suggests some new terms as alter-
natives. Though he correctly points out
that it was the anthropological and soci-
ological studies that built the notion of
the tribe in India, he appears to have
missed the critique of this very same
notion by sociologists and other scholars
in later years.
Taking off from Guha’s article, I have
attempted to highlight the contestation
behind the term tribe. Colonial anth-
ropology, and the anthropological and
sociological literature from the 1920s
and 1930s onwards “froze” the notion of
tribe in time and space on account of
certain features; tribe was also seen as a
homogeneous and undifferentiated cate-
gory. In the period after independence,
the state also largely conformed to this
notion. However, over the years, the
academic literature has questioned the
notion of the tribe as a homogeneous
and undifferentiated category and has
pointed out differentiation within tribes.
‘Definition’ or ‘Identification’?
Guha (2015) writes that India’s tribes
have been officially defined, since at
least the 1960s, as having five key fea-
tures.1 However, as Beteille (1986)
argues, the problem in India was the
identification of tribes rather than that
of defining them through scientific or
theoretical considerations. The tribe in
India was basically a politico-adminis-
trative category and had hardly any
socio- cultural or economic connota-
tion (Pathy 1984).
febrUARY 20, 2016
Thus, through the five key features
(pointed out by Guha), certain social
groups were identified or brought into
the fold of tribes. This convention of
characterising certain groups in Indian
society as tribal was established during
the 19th century by British administra-
tors and it has continued since then
(Beteille 1987).
A Homogeneous Category
Colonial anthropology in the 19th cen-
tury and early 20th century played
an important role in shaping the tribe as
a category in India. After the foundation
of the Asiatic Society of Bengal in
1784, British administrators, missionaries,
travellers and anthropologists collected
data on tribal and rural groups and
wrote about their life and culture (ICSSR
1972).2 These early writings presented
only descriptive accounts of the land
and its people as they were and detailed
ethnographic accounts of tribes and
castes, and major emphasis was laid on
kinship, social organisation and religion
(Vidyarthi 1968; Pathy 1982; Xaxa
2008). An important feature of these
works was that they emphasised the
study of tribes as entities distinct from
the other social categories of the country
(Pathy et al 1976: 399). Tribes came to
be seen as “aboriginal” and “primitive”
(Guha 2015). Colonial anthropology,
thus, froze the category of the tribe in
two ways: it made the tribe an entity
inherently distinct from other social cate-
gories/groups, and it saw tribe as having
fixed traits.
In the period after independence, the
government too strengthened the idea
of fixed traits (Guha 2015). This could be
seen from the five features through
which certain social groups were identi-
fied as tribes in India. Also, the develop-
ment strategy adopted in this period
promoted the idea that the “tribal” de-
noted an “ethnic” community (Prasad
2011). The category of the tribe in India,
thus, came to be frozen in time and
space on account of being distinct social
entities from others and having fixed
and permanent traits: “aboriginal,” “pri-
mitive,” displaying other features like
vol lI no 8 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

isolation and backwardness, etc, as
decided by the state.
Second, an associated aspect along
with the freezing of the category was
seeing it as a homogeneous one. From
the 1920s and 1930s onwards, the litera-
ture on tribes was marked broadly by
anthropological, cultural and ethnic
views which more or less saw tribes as
an unchanging, unstructured and homo-
geneous category.3 These saw Indian
tribes as a community in a unique and
unchanging historical and cultural set-
ting, and held the belief that the tribes
were a homogeneous and unstructured
community where exploitation and so-
cial conflict had no place. Following
classical colonial anthropology, Indian
anthropologists depicted tribes as small,
self-contained, self-sufficient and autono-
mous communities practising subsist-
ence economy with limited trade, in
which exploitation and social conflict
was absent (Pathy et al 1976; Pathy
1982). Also, the clustering of tribes into
one group by the Constitution ignored
differentiation among tribes and legiti-
mised a tribe as one with a distinct
social and cultural identity, while treat-
ing it as an economically homogeneous
group (Shah 1979: 459). In the early dec-
ades of the period after independence,
studies tried to show the existence of a
strong tribal identity marked by a social
and cultural distinctiveness, but under-
stated economic and political exploita-
tion of tribals (Prasad 2011: 6).
Differentiated Category
Over the years, the literature has shown
the gradual emergence of differentiation
within tribal society and has also ex-
plored class relations within it. It has
also been argued that in addition to the
problem of definition of a tribe, several
propositions prevalent in studies on
tribes in India, namely that of seeing
them as completely isolated and ahistoric,
static and homogeneous societies, the
notion of exploitation by non-tribals and
equal access to state benefits were ques-
tionable (Pathy 1984: 17).
Pathy (1982) argued that attempts
by Indian anthropologists to show the
non-existence of differentiation among
tribals had strengthened the myth of
Economic & Political Weekly EPW febrUARY 20, 2016
homogeneity. This was also the reason for
their reluctance to see the formation and
development of class in relation to the
so-called tribal societies (pp 25–26). Cit-
ing case studies from two tribal villages
in Odisha, Pathy et al (1976) show that
tribal communities had developed class
forces within themselves depending
mainly on the nature of private land-
holding and to some extent by the sanc-
tion of their tradition and special privi-
leges granted by the state (p 404). Acc-
ording to Chaudhuri (1992), uneven
tribal development and differentiation
was leading to class formation among
the tribals.
Shah (1979), in his study of the
Chaudhri tribes of Gujarat, showed that
the poor and better-off Chaudhris per-
ceived the problems of their community
differently; they perceived the problems
of their stratum to be the problems of
their tribal society. There was solidarity
among better-off Chaudhris as well as
between them and the better-off sec-
tions from other tribes. The better-off
vocal tribals identified their interests
with those of the non-tribal middle and
rich cultivators and the urban middle
class. In the wake of any threat to their
economic interests by the poor of their
own ethnic group, they joined hands
with the better-off non-tribals.
Pathy’s study in the tribal villages of
Gujarat showed that tribes were inter-
nally differentiated with respect to
land, rate of exploitation of labour and
income, but essentially structured in
terms of class; tribes were actually
as class-ridden as the rest of Indian
society. Investigating the actual benefi-
ciaries of tribal welfare programmes in
the selected villages, the study found
that barely 10% of the tribals had bene-
fited and within this group again, it
was usually the landlords and rich
peasants who had profited more than
those for whom the programmes were
meant (Pathy 1984: 212).
Patel (1988) looked at agrarian trans-
formation in tribal India, especially land
alienation and its redistribution. The
usurpation by a minority of the advan-
tages provided by the market and
benefits extended by the state led to
differentiation among the tribes based
vol lI no 8
DISCUSSION
on education, occupation, income and
assets. They have become differentiated
into categories like rich, middle, poor
and the landless. This has led to the
emergence of class relations, tradition-
ally absent in tribal societies (Xaxa
2008: 120).
Based on his study of tribal talukas in
seven districts of Gujarat, Bose (1981)
showed that inequality and stratification
prevailed among the tribals and was
similar to that among non-tribals. Some
of the dimensions included four classes
of peasantry among the tribes (rich pea-
sant, middle peasant, poor peasant and
agricultural labourer), ownership of land,
access to government benefits, number
of schoolgoing children, and political
power. The notion of “tribal identity”
was also open to question. A homogene-
ous tribal identity was promoted by
upper class tribals only to the extent of
making broad and generic demands like
tribal development, protective legisla-
tion, white-collar jobs, higher education,
etc, while class differences could be seen
on demands like wages (p 196).
In her study of the autonomy move-
ment in Jharkhand, Hebbar (2003)
holds that tribes had been subjected to a
time warp which fails to accommodate
the diversity in tribal life and experience
over time. Baviskar (1995), in her study
of the environmental movement in the
Narmada Valley, argues that tribal con-
flicts reflect that the tribal community
was not an “idyll of harmony and co-
operation”, but was also faced with dis-
sent and friction (p 233). Baviskar’s work
(Shah 2011) shows the class dynamics of
rights’ struggles. In her work on Bastar
in Chhattisgarh, Sundar (1997) critiques
the romanticised notion of tribes. Simi-
larly, historians like Prasad (2003) have
also critiqued the romanticised notions
of tribal life, identity and ecology. Alpa
Shah’s (2011) study in Jharkhand exp-
lores the contradictions in tribal society.
She argues that “concerns of the poorest
rural adivasis often contradicted those
of the urban-based indigenous-rights
activists and local rural elites.” There
were differential claims on the state,
and there was also a class dimension of
what she calls the “indigenous rights
movement” (pp 10–32).
83
DISCUSSION

Conclusions
This article attempts to highlight some
of the problems associated with the term
tribe. In countries like India it was
more about identifying tribes rather
than defining them. This practice of
identification was established during
the colonial period and it was colonial
a­nthropology which set the category of
tribes as being “frozen” on account of
being distinct from other social groups
and having permanent traits. Together
with this, anthropological and socio­lo­
gical literature on tribes in the later pe­
riod saw tribes largely as a homogeneous
category. The state conformed to this
notion of tribe, and government agen­
cies still largely employ tribe as a blan­
ket and undifferentiated category. How­
ever, over the years, the literature has
shown growing differentiation among
the tribes and challenged the notion of
homogeneity. In the wake of serious con­
testations as well as increasing literature
that shows differentiation, it becomes
pertinent to relook at the term.
Notes
1 These features, according to Guha, are: primi­
tive traits, distinctive culture, geographical
isolation, shyness of contact with outsiders and
backwardness (p 51).
2 Volume III of Indian Council of Social Science
Research’s (ICSSR) Survey of Research in
Socio­logy and Social Anthropology reviews
some important tribal studies in India since the
colonial period.
3 Isolation, assimilation and Integration were
some of the important themes occurring in
these works. For a discussion on some of these
works, see Uberoi et al (2007); see also Prasad
(2003).
References
Baviskar, Amita (1995): In the Belly of the River:
Tribal Conflicts over Development in the Nar-
mada Valley, New Delhi: Oxford University
Press.
Beteille, Andre (1986): “The Concept of Tribe with
Special Reference to India,” European Journal
of Sociology, Vol 27, No 2, pp 297–318, available
at http://www.jstor.org/stable/23999264, ac­
cessed on 31 March 2015.
— (1987 rep): Essays in Comparative Sociology,
Delhi: Oxford University Press.
Bose, Pradeep Kumar (1981): “Stratification among
Tribals in Gujarat,” Economic &Political Weekly,
Vol XVI, No 6, pp 191–96.
Chaudhuri, Buddhadeb (ed) (1992): Tribal Trans-
formation in India-Volume II: Socio-Economic
and Ecological Development, New Delhi: Inter-
India Publications.
Guha, Sumit (2015): “States, Tribes, Castes: A His­
torical Re-exploration in Comparative Perspec­
tive,” Economic & Political Weekly, Special
­A rticle, Vol L, Nos 46 and 47, pp 50–57.
Hebbar, Ritambhara (2003): “From Resistance to
Governance,” Seminar, No 524, April, available
at http://www.india-seminar.com/2003/524/
524%20ritambhara%20hebbar.htm, accessed
on 2 January 2016.
Indian Council of Social Science Research (1972):
A Survey of Research in Sociology and Social
Anthropology: Volume III, Bombay: Popular
­
Prakashan.
Patel, M L (1988): Agrarian Transformation in Tribal
India, New Delhi: M D Publications.
Pathy, Jagannath (1982): “An Outline of Modes of
Production in ‘Tribal India’,” Buddhadeb Chaud­
huri (ed), Tribal Development in India: Problems
and Prospects, Delhi: Inter-India Publications.
— (1984): Tribal Peasantry Dynamics of Develop-
ment, New Delhi: Inter-India ­Publications.
Pathy, Jagannath, Suguna Paul, Manu Bhaskar and
Jayaram Panda (1976): “Tribal Studies in India:
An Appraisal,” The Eastern Anthropologist,
Vol 29, No 4, pp 399–417.
Prasad, Archana (2003): Against Ecological Roman-
ticism: Verrier Elwin and the Making of an
­Anti-Modern Tribal Identity, New Delhi: Three
­Essays Collective.
— (2011): “Tribal Societies and History Writing in
India,” Sabyasachi Bhattacharya (ed), Appro­
aches to History: Essays in Indian Historiogra-
phy, New Delhi: Primus Books and Indian
Council of Historical Research.
Shah, Alpa (2011): In the Shadow of the State: Indig-
enous Politics, Environmentalism, and Insur-
gency in Jharkhand, India, New Delhi: Oxford
University Press.
Shah, Ghanshyam (1979): “Tribal Identity and
Class Differentiations: A Case Study of the
Chaudhri Tribe,” Economic & Political Weekly,
Vol 14, Nos 7/8, pp 459–64.
Sundar, Nandini (1997): Subalterns and Sovereigns:
An Anthropological History of Bastar, 1854–
1996, New Delhi: Oxford University Press.
Uberoi, Patricia, Nandini Sundar and Satish Desh­
pande (eds) (2007): Anthropology in the East:
Founders of Indian Sociology and Anthropology,
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84 febrUARY 20, 2016  vol lI no 8  EPW   Economic & Political Weekly

PERSPECTIVES
Adivasis and the
Anthropological Gaze
V Sebastian
Through the display of material
culture, museums invoke not
only an imagined Adivasi past,
but also a fossilised vision of
their cultural present. While
these museums tend to fulfil a
pedagogical function through
the display of material cultural
objects, the implicit ideology
behind these exhibits has not
received the attention it deserves
in India. Why do ethnographic
museums choose to display
predominantly select groups
like the tribals? Why not also
display upper-caste women and
men and their lifeworld? Here is
where politics of representation
becomes inextricably intertwined
with ethnographic displays
in museums. This article
explores the dynamics of the
anthropological gaze and
how it has contributed to the
construction of the Adivasis as the
exotic cultural other.
V Sebastian (saby_vaz@yahoo.com) is with the
Gujarat Vidya Deep, Vadodara, Gujarat.
Economic & Political Weekly EPW OCTOBER 3, 2015
A
n intriguing aspect of the ethno-
graphic displays in Indian muse-
ums is the fact that in spite of
the existence of immense number of
ethnic groups in the country, there is an
overwhelming focus on the Adivasi
groups and their lifeworld in these ex-
hibits. The roots of this anthropological
gaze go back to the rise of colonial
ethnography which functioned mainly
within the framework of cultural evolu-
tionism and its ideological corollary of
cultural hierarchy.
Colonial ethnography which produced
the image of the tribals as primitive also
laid the foundations for how the Adivasis
came to be represented in ethnographic
museums. Through the display of mate-
rial culture, museums invoke not only
an imagined Adivasi past, but also a
fossilised vision of their cultural present.
While ethnographic museums tend to
fulfil a pedagogical function through
the display of material cultural objects,
the implicit ideology behind these
exhibits has not received the attention it
deserves in India. This article explores
the dynamics of the anthropological
gaze and how it has contributed to the
construction of the Adivasis as the exotic
cultural other.
The Saputara Tribal Museum in Guja-
rat has a diorama in which human evo-
lution is depicted through half a dozen
life-size statues of semi-primate-like
male figures representing various stages
of evolutionary progression. At the end
of the evolutionary spectrum, a human
figure with a loin-cloth is kept near a
circular hut resembling a tribal house.
Located at the northern end of the Sahy-
adri ranges, Saputara Hills are in the
Dangs District, which has nearly 90%
Adivasi population.
According to the official website of
Gujarat tourism, owned by the state
vol l no 40
government, the Saputara Tribal Muse-
um “will give you an introduction to the
lifestyle, costumes, heritage and ecology
of the tribal Dangs.” “Although the pres-
entation lacks character,” the website
goes on to tell, “it is worth visiting to
learn about many major forms of tribal
expression such as a stone funerary col-
umn, grass ornaments, stuffed birds,
woodcarving, clay ritual objects, body
tattoos, and masks used in dance-dramas,
and musical instruments.” Tourist infor-
mation has the following recommenda-
tion to the museum visitor: “Use it (mus-
eum) as an opportunity to educate your-
self about the local culture before ventu-
ring into it in a less mediated way”1 (Italic
added). Among other things, the expres-
sion “venturing” into the local culture
which has a connotation of “risky under-
taking” and “involving danger,” seems to
project, perhaps inadvertently, the Adivasi
culture as something strange and exotic.
The manner in which ethnographic
museums, many of which are specifically
named “tribal” museums, mediate know-
ledge about the Adivasis and represent
their cultural heritage raises a number
of questions: Why do ethnographic
museums choose to display predomi-
nantly select groups like the tribals and
not others, in their exhibits? Why on
earth display Adivasi women grinding
grain or cooking or tribal couples sitting
in front of a house through dioramas in
the ethnographic museums? Why not
also display upper-caste women and men
and their lifeworld through dioramas in
these ethnographic museums? How about
exhibiting urban people, let us say, fac-
tory workers and their lifeworld, or
people working in the information tech-
nology sectors, in these exhibits? Such
suggestions might look somewhat absurd
because unlike the Adivasis, the upper
castes or the urban India are not exotic
enough to be displayed in ethnographic
museums. Here is where politics of rep-
resentation becomes inextricably inter-
twined with ethnographic displays in
museums. Often, the aspects of con-
structed strangeness and otherness are
integral to the production of the exotic
in ethnographic museums.
35
PERSPECTIVES
Anthropologists have told us from the
19th century onwards that the tribal
world belongs to a different time and
different space: their time belongs to
“primitive” time and their space is con-
stituted by “remoteness.” While cultural
differences can be constituted in differ-
ent ways, when it comes to the “tribes,”
spatio-temporal distance becomes an
important ingredient in the construction
of otherness. The ethnographic display
of the Adivasi lifeworld, restructured for
the gaze of cultural consumers, is large-
ly based on an imagined perception
about the tribal traditions and their
cultural artefacts as coming from a
remote past.
In his book The Second Sin, Thomas
Stephen Szasz wrote famously that “in
the animal kingdom, the rule is, eat or
be eaten; in the human kingdom, define
or be defined” (1974: 20). As the key
repository and adjudicator of ethno-
graphic knowledge, anthropology, from
its inception as a disciplinary field, has
mediated the production of definitions,
representations and taxonomies of indi-
genous people in various parts of the
world. While anthropology has done im-
mense service in generating knowledge
about cultures around the world, it also
contributed to identity constructions
and representations of certain cultural
groups which seem questionable. Ethno-
graphic museums tend to embody many
of the anthropological assumptions
about indigenous cultures. Through
their image as purveyors of objective
truth, museums have considerable po-
tential to influence perceptions and atti-
tudes of people who visit these galleries
(MacDonald and Alsford 2007: 276).
However, museums are not neutral
places and they do not exist in a state
of political innocence but rather they
embody typical views of who hold
power and those who can make these
collections in museums happen. Since
museums are carefully and artificially
constructed repositories, we need to
examine the ideology and cultural as-
sumptions which inform these collections
(Cannizo 2005: 24).
This article suggests that the identity
constructions about the Adivasis encoded
in ethnographic museums, supported
36
often by anthropological legitimacy,
have not only gone uncontested in India,
but also not received the attention it
deserves in post-independence India.
As an investigative modality, colonial
anthropology played a crucial role in the
creation of questionable stereotypes
about the Adivasis. In the colonial as
well as in the postcolonial period, domi-
nant society’s attitudes towards the
Adivasis varied from as groups occupy-
ing the lower rungs of the evolutionary
spectrum, to as people requiring isola-
tion and safeguard. Though ethno-
graphic museums are the sites of care-
fully constructed cultural otherness, it is
not suggested here that museums are
the cause for representing the Adivasis
as exotic. Such representations in the
museum exhibits are the result of a long
historical process and without paying at-
tention to such developments it will not
be possible to recognise tribal imaginaries
reflected in ethnographic museums.
This article explores the politics of rep-
resentation of Adivasis in ethnographic
museums in the broader contexts such
as the knowledge/power encoded in
anthropology, the symbiotic relation-
ship between museums and anthropo-
logy, the production of ethnographic
objects and the cultural evolutionary
perspectives which frame the Adivasis
in museum displays.
This article has five parts. Section 1
briefly explores some of the conceptual
issues related to the idea of the anthro-
pological gaze. The focus of Section 2 is
the symbiotic relationship between
museums and anthropology which be-
gan to take shape in the 19th century in
the West. Section 3 looks at the emer-
gence of ethnographic museums in India
and their relationship to anthropology.
Section 4 focuses on some of the theo-
retical questions regarding ethnographic
objects. And Section 5 explores some of
the representations of the Adivasis in
ethnographic museums.
1 The Anthropological Gaze
I would like to locate the dynamics which
makes the Adivasis and their lifeworld as
ethnographic spectacles primarily, but
not exclusively within the conceptual
framework of the anthropological gaze.
OCTOBER 3, 2015
As Irvine and Gal (2009: 402) put it suc-
cinctly, “there is no ‘view from nowhere,’
no gaze that is not positioned.” The no-
tion of “gaze” tells us that looking is not
pure and innocent and what is made vis-
ible through gaze is not a simple pre-
existing reality “waiting to be seen” but
rather an epistemic and hermeneutic
field which is constructed. In other
words, like language, our eyes are socially
and culturally framed and there are
many ways of “seeing” and perceiving.
What we see and perceive is filtered
through the mediation of our class posi-
tion, ideas, desires, gender, nationality,
race and age. As a socially and culturally
mediated reality, gazing is a performance
that orders, shapes and classifies, rather
than merely reflects the world (Urry and
Larson 2011: 1–2). Taken together, the
act of gazing is not merely seeing what is
there, but as signifying practice, it filters
and frames representations of what is
seen through ideological mediation.
By drawing from the insights of
Michel Foucault and Johannes Fabian, I
would like to explore the broad contours
of anthropological gaze and the power/
knowledge contained in this form of
investigative modality. Foucault locates
the linkages between disciplinary know-
ledge and power in the manner in which
specific regimes of knowledge focuses
its hegemonic gaze on people who are
framed as subjects through the mediation
discourses and structures. For example,
in his The Birth of the Clinic, Foucault
speaks about the “medical gaze” in
terms of the observation of the patient,
medical diagnosis, power relation
between doctor and patients and the
hegemony contained in medical know-
ledge. When the new medical science
emerged in the 19th century, the gaze
was organised in a new way. Doctors
became the representatives of the larger
medical institution which seemed to
wield a power of its own. As Foucault
(2003: 109) noted, “it was no longer the
gaze of an observer, but that of a doctor
supported and justified by an institu-
tion, that of a doctor endowed with
power of decision and intervention.”
There are anthropologists who use the
term “anthropological gaze” (or ethno-
graphic gaze) to mean anthropological/
vol l no 40 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

ethnographic observation, scrutiny, in-
quiry and investigation. This form of
gaze is usually understood as benign
and divested of power and control. For
instance, Blasco and Wardle (2007: 1)
point out the need of “submitting ethno-
graphic texts to the anthropological gaze
and unpacking them as… any other cul-
tural product.” Perhaps anthropological
gaze involves something more than
mere fieldwork, observation and investi-
gation. Though anthropology is very dif-
ferent from the medical science in terms
of orientation and method, it does hold
certain forms of power. Anthropology,
which focuses its gaze on the cultural
body, wields the power to name, to label
and to confer identities and it derives its
power through the mediation of taxono-
mies, discourses, institutions and the
structures. The power which anthro-
pology exercises has its origins not so
much in a given discursive template, but
rather in the institutional and structural
arrangements which surround that dis-
course. Similarly, the power does not
belong to individual anthropologists as
such, but to the structures and institu-
tions which lend legitimacy to the
anthropological episteme.
I would like to indicate very briefly the
nexus between knowledge/power and
anthropology which began to crystallise
in an unprecedented way in colonial India.
By mid-19th century anthropology/
ethnography had become part and par-
cel of the colonial statecraft and it was
deeply implicated in governing, contro-
lling, disciplining and even punishing
the subject population. If there was a
unifying thread in colonial anthro-
pology, it was the construction of the
non-Europeans as the cultural other.
The colonial anthropologists of cul-
tural evolutionary persuasion employed
“scientific” methods in their ethnogra-
phic pursuits and transposed cultural
differences into cultural hierarchies. For
instance, Edgar Thurston (1855–1935),
the superintendent of ethnography for
Madras Presidency, began using anthro-
pometry and nasal index by collecting
the physical measurement of selected
casts and tribes with a view of classify-
ing and cataloguing them. Anthropome-
try included detailed measurements of
Economic & Political Weekly EPW OCTOBER 3, 2015
the shape and size of the skull, the face,
the nasal index, the relation of head size
to body size and height and weight. On
the basis of nasal index measurements
Thurston even came to the conclusion
that “intelligence is in inverse propor-
tion to the breadth of the nose” (Dirks
2003: 183–85). Given the cultural evolu-
tionist assumptions with which the colo-
nial anthropologists functioned, it is not
entirely surprising to see racist over-
tones in their ethnographic narratives.
Historical evidences testify the imm-
ense power of anthropology to impose
toxic identities on communities and
groups. During the colonial period, the
anthropological gaze often turned into a
disciplinary gaze, acting as a template of
containment. For example, at the tail-
end of the 19th century identity markers
like the “criminal tribes” were imposed
on certain groups who remained outside
the colonial control, in order to disci-
pline and to punish. It has been pointed
that in the 19th century, the emerging
disciplines of anthropometry and an-
thropology contributed to the idea of
hereditary criminality. According to
Radhakrishna (2001: 3–4), anthropo-
metry and anthropology “in India ad-
dressed themselves to the study of par-
ticular sections of the Indian population,
mostly indigenous ‘tribal’ communities
and itinerant groups, and contributed in
a very substantial way to the conceptual
outline of a criminal in the popular
mind.” Many of these groups still carry
the stigma, even long after that label
was abolished. Colonial anthropologi-
cal/ethnographic investigations were
neither disinterested nor dispassionate
pursuits, but these knowledge produc-
tions were part and parcel of the intri-
cate power structures which mediated
the governance and containment of the
subject population.
Fabian (2001: 104) has pointed out
that an anthropologist’s encounter with
other cultures “has always been deter-
mined by relations of power.” Often the
anthropological gaze entails power dis-
parity when it frames its subject, who
stands outside its episteme, through tax-
onomies, classificatory schemes and rep-
resentations. The creation of this power
differential has been explored by Fabian
vol l no 40
PERSPECTIVES
who argues that the modern anthropo-
logists, through their fieldwork and writ-
ings, create their subjects as the “other.”
According to Fabian, temporal dimen-
sion is significant in the anthropological
construction of the other. The constitu-
tion of the other begins as a synchronic
exercise in which anthropologists and
the people under study occupy a shared
historic time during fieldwork. But in
the fieldwork notes and ethnographic
analysis, the observed subject is framed
through a diachronic structure, gener-
ating a wedge between the observed
and the observer.
This temporal distance, according to
Fabian, makes the observed people as
people occupying an earlier, primal
time, which seem irreconcilable with
the time occupied by the anthropologist.
In other words, in the new time frame,
the subjects appear as “primitives,” “sav-
ages,” “static,” who inhabit a very differ-
ent time compared to that of the anthro-
pologist, who obviously belong to the
modern time. Thus, in anthropology, the
creation of the other involves an epis-
temic process in which the temporal rel-
egation of the “primitive,” to a distant
past, relative to the “civilised” society,
becomes a key distancing device which
he terms as the “denial of coevalness.”
According to Fabian, the denial of coe-
valness is “a persistent and systematic
tendency to place the referent(s) of
anthropology in a Time other than
the present of the producer of anthropo-
logical discourse” (1983: 31). By refr-
acting Time into primitive time (“their
time”) the modernist bias in anthro-
pological gaze relegates its referents into
frozen temporality and to the margins
of history.
2 Museum Anthropology
In the context of Adivasi representa-
tions, it is important to explore the sym-
biotic relationship between museums
and anthropology because ethnography
is a complex “mode of thinking that has
proven difficult to shake off and contin-
ues to influence how indigenous peoples
are represented in museums and related
cultural institutions” (Silverman 2009: 9).
The emergence of museums is very
much linked to colonial expansion by
37
PERSPECTIVES
European nations in the 18th and 19th
centuries which facilitated the tradition
of collecting materials deemed exotic.
Moreover, the “history of ethnographic
museum collections must be seen in the
context of the natural history tradition
that included the study not only of
plants, animals, rocks and minerals, but
also of exotic peoples” (Mehos 2008:
173). Early ethnographic museums and
natural history museums often com-
bined as one institution and these were
the result of colonial overseas activities
rather than purely of academic interest
(Mehos 2008). In the context of emer-
gent colonialism, “the material proper-
ties of the tribal peoples were classed
with strange flora and fauna, as objects
of wonder and delight, to be collected as
trophies, souvenirs, or amusing curiosi-
ties during one’s travels to far and dis-
tant lands” (Ames 1992: 50). In the 19th
century, the inclusion of indigenous peo-
ples who were deemed “primitive” in
museums and exhibitions were seen as
the extension as well as specimens of
“nature.” In the early years of museums,
both objects of natural history and cul-
tural artefacts were kept and displayed
together. The main objective of early
anthropological display was to present
artefacts from “primitive societies” as if
they were specimen similar to those of
natural history (Ames 1992).
Since the emergence of anthropology
as a discipline in the 19th century, muse-
ums have been important sites of rese-
arch. For Franz Boas, who is considered
as the founder of professional anthro-
pology in the United States (US), muse-
ums are not only the storehouses where
objects are preserved and scrutinised
scientifically, but
they are also the place where scientific ma-
terials from distant countries, vanishing
species, paleontological remains, and ob-
jects used by vanishing tribes, are kept and
preserved for all future time, and may thus
be made the basis of studies which, with-
out them, would be impossible (quoted by
Brown 2014: 64).
For Boas, vanishing species and ob-
jects used by vanishing tribes belong to
the same continuum of the natural
world. From the mid-19th century, mu-
seum collections provided anthropolo-
gists with artefacts that could be used to
38
support social evolutionary and diffu-
sionist theories of human development.
Museums were spaces in which anthro-
pologists could engage and educate the
general public, yet they also frequently
functioned as sites for the ideological
legitimisation of colonial enterprises
and civilising missions. Moreover, the
material cultures of “savage” societies
which exhibited graphically the cross-
cultural differences could be used to
illustrate the supposed backwardness of
non-European subjects (González et al
2001: 106–07).
In the history of anthropology, the
“period from 1840s to 1890s is known as
the ‘museum period” because museums
were the most important institutional
base for anthropologists at that point in
time. During this period, anthropology
had not yet been introduced in the West-
ern universities. Museums not only pro-
vided jobs and funding for research and
publications, but their collections also
served as data sources for research pro-
jects (González et al 2001: 108). In the
mid-19th century, since ethnology was
deeply implicated in the study and com-
parison of material cultures, museums
emerged as the key site for the visual
display of material culture (Penny 2002:
26). Anthropology started out in muse-
ums in the 19th century, but it evolved
itself into an academic discipline in the
universities in Europe and in the US only
after the fieldwork revolution at the be-
ginning of the 20th century. As anthropo-
logy moved away from museums to the
universities, starting from the 1890s into
the 1920s, the role of museums as the
source for anthropology declined.
It would be somewhat simplistic to
assume that museum anthropology
merely displays and represents cultural
objects and traditions of people. As
González et al (2001: 97) noted, anthro-
pological perceptions and cognitions
tend to function beyond their bounda-
ries and become crystallised in taxono-
mies, identity constructs and structures.
These perceptions and taxonomies also
tend to reproduce themselves through
the mediation of hierarchies and sym-
bolic structural relations. Since the
supposed “objective” anthropological
representations come from the specific
OCTOBER 3, 2015
sociocultural locations and power stru-
ctures of the ethnographic practitioners,
they are not wholly neutral. Social rep-
resentations become the “institutiona-
lised instruments for maintenance of the
symbolic order, and hence among the
mechanisms of the reproduction of the
social order whose very functioning
serves the interests of those occupying a
dominant position on the social struc-
tures” (González et al 20o1: 165). As
mediators of anthropological knowledge,
ethnographic museums can be seen as
one of the “institutionalised instru-
ments” in contributing to the tribal
identity construction in various parts of
the world.
3 Ethnographic Museums in India
Compared to the West, there are some
significant differences in the relationship
between museums and anthropology in
the Indian context. In colonial India
anthropology emerged not primarily
through museums, but out of the practi-
cal exigencies of governing Indians.
Social and cultural knowledge of Indians
was crucial for the maintenance of their
increasing territories and by the end of
the 18th century information gathering
began to be institutionalised. The British
conquest of India, as Cohn (1997: 5) has
pointed out, was a conquest of knowl-
edge through various investigative mo-
dalities, in which history-writing played
a crucial role. However, after the revolt
of 1857, anthropology supplanted history
as the principal colonial modality of
knowledge. By late 19th century the co-
lonial state in India had become what
Dirks (2003: 43–44) called an “ethno-
graphic state” and it functioned with the
belief that India could be understood,
controlled and ruled through anthropo-
logical knowledge. In the beginning,
Indian anthropologists concentrated a
great deal on the study of the “primitive”
or “tribal” communities, but before long
they expanded their range of observa-
tion and enquiry (Béteille 2010: 374).
Colonial anthropology contributed
substantially to the production of the
tribe as the cultural other. As Béteille
(1998: 187) notes the 19th century “an-
thropological view was that the tribe
represented not only a particular type of
vol l no 40 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

society, but also a particular stage of evo-
lution.” As Rycroft and Dasgupta (2011: 4)
observe, in contrast to “the close inter-
face between Hindu society and colonial
modernity, the ‘tribe’ typified geogra-
phical, cultural and economic separate-
ness, and hence, resonated with notions
of ‘the primitive’.” Moreover, in “colonial
records, ethnologies and many Indian
regional-language texts, a typical char-
acterisation was that, being ‘primitive,’ a
‘tribe’ was necessarily body-centric,
unthinking, extravagant, even violent”
(Bannerjee 2010: 126). Colonial ethno-
graphy, which was deeply rooted in cul-
tural evolutionism, provided the justifi-
cation not only to subjugate the Adiva-
sis, but also to “civilise” them, who were
deemed primitive. The views of nation-
alist politicians, most of whom belonged
to the upper caste, were quite similar to
British officials in perceiving “tribals” as
“savages” or “primitives,” people far
removed from the civilised and modern
state. The civilising mission of the
nationalist politicians “was if anything,
more urgent because the Indian nation
could not become truly modern until the
backwardness of ‘tribals’ was removed.
Adivasis had to be ‘developed,’ they had
to join the ‘mainstream,’ they were to
assimilate” (van Schendel 2011: 22).
Colonial ethnography which produced
the image of the tribals as primitive not
only influenced administrative policies
about them, but also laid the foun-
dations for how India’s Adivasis came
to be represented in the ethnographic
museums.
The emergence of museums in India
goes back to the establishment of the
Asiatic Society of Bengal in 1784 by
William Jones. In his memorandum for
an Indian museum at the East India
House (1799), Charles Wilkins, a mem-
ber of the Asiatic Society, argued that
the museum would be “very desirable to
the lovers and promoters of Eastern
learning…” (quoted by Nayar 2012: 215).
But the concrete proposal for establish-
ment of the museum came from Nathan-
iel Wallich, a Danish botanist and the
member of the Asiatic Society. The mu-
seum came into existence in 1814, which
became the first museum in British
India. Society’s museum, which was
Economic & Political Weekly EPW OCTOBER 3, 2015
known initially as the Imperial Museum,
had two main sections: archaeological–
ethnological and geological–zoological
(Sen 2011: 38). In 1865, most of the col-
lections of the Asiatic Society were
transferred to the Imperial Museum and
in 1892 it was renamed as Indian Muse-
um. Lahore Museum which came into
existence in 1856 had ethnographic
specimens in its huge collection and this
museum benefited from the contribu-
tions made by the departments of antiq-
uities, natural history and ethnography
(Bhatti 2012: 58–9).
Madras Central Museum was estab-
lished in 1851 in the College of Fort
St George and this museum began collect-
ing ethnographic objects in 1878 under
the directorship of Surgeon General Dr E
George Bidie. However, the ethnology
section of this museum got a boost un-
der Edgar Thurston, who was appointed
as the head of the government museum
in Madras in 1885 (Prakash 1999: 22). In
his capacity as the superintendent of
ethnography, Thurston conducted the
survey of castes and tribes of Madras
Presidency and during this period he
collected ethnographic materials for the
museum. Soon he set up an anthropo-
metric laboratory in the museum
(McGowan 2003: 602). Lucknow State
Museum and Nagpur Central Museum
which came into existence in 1863 and
1864, respectively, had ethnographic ob-
jects in their collections. The first muse-
um in Gujarat, the Kutch Museum, was
established in 1877 by the princely state
rulers of Kutch and it has ethnographic
exhibits. Baroda Museum which was
started in 1894 by Maharaja Sayajirao
Gaekwad has paleontology and ethno-
logy sections. The Andhra Historical Re-
search Society started a museum which
had ethnographic collection in 1928.
Since the remuneration prospects were
very limited in Indian museums, not
many were willing to take up jobs in
these institutions (Sarkar 2005: 15–16).
After Independence
The number of ethnographic museums
began increasing after Indian independ-
ence. National Museum (Delhi), which be-
gan in 1949 and inaugurated in 1960, has
a separate gallery of the ethnographic
vol l no 40
PERSPECTIVES
objects. Some of the anthropological
departments of Indian universities have
organised ethnographic museums as
part of academic pursuits. The anthro-
pology department of the Delhi Univer-
sity began an anthropological museum
in 1947 and has more than 3,000 cultur-
al objects in its collection. The Govern-
ment of India has set up 18 Tribal
Research Institutes in different states
and some of these institutes have
established ethnographic museums.
Apart from the museums owned by the
Tribal Research Institutes, the Anthro-
pological Survey of India has the central
museum located in Kolkata. The Anthro-
pological Survey of India has set up zon-
al anthropological museums at six re-
gional and one subregional centres.2
There are several ethnographic muse-
ums owned by state governments which
focus on the tribal world and their
material culture.
It would not be far from the truth
in suggesting that independent India
inherited many of the colonial anthro-
pological taxonomies and identity con-
structions. Much of anthropological re-
search regarding Indian tribes are being
carried out by major government institu-
tions like the Anthropological Survey of
India and the Tribal Research Centres
located in various Indian states. Karlsson
(2013: 27), commenting on the anthro-
pological literature produced by these
institutions, points out that “most accounts
on tribal communities are written in a
functionalist, or even evolutionist style,
not very different from that of the British
administrators.”
In the postcolonial period, constitu-
tional provisions have led to the Indian
government getting deeply involved in
framing Adivasi identity: the state has
the prerogative to decide which groups
should be included in the list of
Scheduled Tribes. In India, till recently
many tribal groups were called “primi-
tive” and they were listed in a special
government schedule. But now, the
Ministry of Tribal Affairs has changed
the name of primitive tribal groups
into “Particularly Vulnerable Tribal
Groups”.3 Some of these anthropological
perspectives seem to have percolated
into the ethnographic displays in
39
PERSPECTIVES
Indian museums in the context of
representing the Adivasis and their
material culture.
4 Construction of
Ethnographic Objects
The epistemic basis of the ethnographic
museums is anthropologically derived in
the sense that the objects displayed in
these museums are collected through
fieldwork and involve documentation
and cataloguing. Objects and artefacts
displayed in ethnographic museums be-
long chiefly to what is usually termed
the material culture of people. Ethno-
graphic objects in Indian museums
include, among other things, a large
variety of items such as agricultural im-
plements, fish traps, bird cages, bamboo
baskets, drums, musical instruments,
hairpins, combs, masks, arrows, spears,
knives, memorial-pillars, sacred objects,
objects of art, ornaments, male and
female dresses, utensils, pots, earthen
granaries, and grinding stones. In the
history of anthropology, the study of
material culture had been associated
with the cultural materials of non-
literate people and groups who func-
tioned mainly within the framework of
oral tradition (Stahl 2010: 154). In the
absence of written documents, the study
of material culture provided anthropo-
logists with evidences about how non-
literate groups lived and organised their
cultures. The study of these cultural
artefacts of the non-literate groups were
supplemented through the investigation
of myths and legends contained in their
oral traditions.
In spite of the supposed objectivity as-
sociated with museums, it is important
to pay attention to the paradox involved
in objects deemed ethnographic which
are displayed therein. Cultural objects
have a history before they enter ethno-
graphic museums. Kirschenblatt-Gimblett
(1998: 3) has argued that ethnographic
objects are made, not found, despite
claims to the contrary: “They (ethno-
graphic objects) did not begin their lives
as ethnographic objects. They became
ethnographic through process of detach-
ment and contextualisation.” In other
words, there is a paradox involved in the
museum exhibits in the sense that the
40
collected and displayed ethnographic
objects are never meant to be displayed
in the first place. Ethnographic objects
are objects of ethnography because
“they are artefacts created by ethnogra-
phers when they define, segment, detach
and carry them away. Such fragments be-
come ethnographic objects by virtue of
the manner in which, they have been deta-
ched” (Kirschenblatt-Gimblett 1998: 2).
Moreover, museums are spaces of abs-
tractions because in their fresh display
locations, the objects are invested with a
new ethnographic meaning, detached
from their original location and signifi-
cance. Thus the value and meaning of
ethnographic objects have specific con-
texts in which they originated and their
dislocated display in museums truncates
the complexity and meaning. If this is
true, then, the cultural encounter invol-
ved in the anthropological gaze becomes
necessarily fragmented.
In the context of material culture an-
thropologists like Fabian (2007: 52) have
focused on “the construction of other-
ness in objects.” The fact that most of the
cultural objects displayed in ethnographic
museums are collected from non-literate
societies may tell us something about
the perception of cultural otherness ex-
emplified in these exhibits. More or less
from the 16th century, writing had come
to be seen as a sign of “being civilised”
and until recently, there was a tendency
to mark the absence of writing as the cri-
terion to distinguish the primitive from
the civilised (van der Veer 1999: 140).
Moreover, the adoption of “evolution as
the dominant paradigm for anthropo-
logy in the late 18th and 19th centuries
transformed the theoretical basis for ex-
plaining cultural differences and, in par-
ticular, the existence of savage societies”
(Winthrop 1991: 219). In evolutionary
perspective the savages and the primi-
tives did not possess “history” and in the
absence of the textual matrix of history,
the primitives need to be studied
through their material culture. Thus, for
Edmé François Jomard, a French archaeo-
logist and cartographer of the 19th cen-
tury, “ethnography meant the collection
of artefacts of “savage” peoples which
would explain the history of race” (Rony
2001: 38).
OCTOBER 3, 2015
It would appear that a sense of cultural
otherness and strangeness that are fra-
med through the display of objects related
to the Adivasis in Indian ethnographic
museums, shares the assumptions of
cultural evolutionism propounded by
Victorian anthropologists. There are
several non-tribal groups in India who
also use the same or similar objects and
tools but their artefacts are not deemed
interesting enough to be displayed in
ethnographic museums. According to
Shelton (2006: 484), “because material
culture is usually embodied with mean-
ing retrospectively, and reanimated
through its role within particular exhibi-
tions, displays are often infused with the
‘air’ of an ‘other,’ expired time.” Because
of this reason, museums conjure up not
only an imagined Adivasi past, but also a
fossilised vision of their cultural present.
In the context of the material culture
associated with museums, it is impor-
tant to note that there is a tendency to
focus on the Adivasis as a “purely cul-
tural entity” to the exclusion of them as
historical and political subjects. Much of
the materials that are available about
“tribes” and their pasts are of the nature
of “cultural” forms, framed in oral tradi-
tions which are not quite amenable to
usual type of history-writing through
the staging of evidence and counter-
evidence about the past. Against the
backdrop of modern history, “Adivasi
self-representations, as opposed to offi-
cial and intellectual representations of
them, inevitably come across as myths,
poetry and song” (Bannerjee 2010: 134).
5 Museum Representations
In recent years, scholars have focused on
the role of museums in constructing
identities and their representational
practices. Against the backdrop of what
we have seen so far, it is fruitful to ex-
plore the visual images, representational
idioms, and the anthropological assum-
ptions about the Adivasis which circu-
late in the tribal museums and how they
encode cultural differences, making them
into spectacles. As pointed out before, in
the production of the cultural other, the
anthropological gaze is intimately linked
to the notion of the exotic. But it must be
noted that the museum representations
vol l no 40 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

of the Adivasis as exotic are present
mainly as underlying assumptions medi-
ated through the display of ethnographic
objects and dioramas. The ethnological
museum which is a part of the Kerala In-
stitute for Research, Training and Devel-
opment Studies of Scheduled Castes and
Tribes (KIRTADS), houses a large collec-
tion of objects pertaining to various
tribes of Kerala. We are informed that
the museum has been shifted to a new
building in 2000 and the “new Museum
is spacious with exotic artefacts on
display.”4 It is important to note that the
“exotic” is not an inherent property of an
object or people, but rather the result of
a particular form of perception and
interpretation (Huggan 2001: 13). People
and objects do not radiate exoticism but
rather they are made exotic through the
ideology of cultural otherness. In other
words, the exotic is not something that
exists prior to and independent of its
“discovery,” but rather, it is the very act of
discovery that produces the exotic
(Mason 1998: 1–2). It is precisely through
the process of representational ideology
that the Adivasis and their material
culture are made to appear exotic.
The presumed Adivasi cultural other-
ness frequently represented in ethno-
graphic museums through artefacts and
social structures consists in the view
that they belong to “simple” people.
Anthropologists of the late 19th century
were interested in primitive societies
because it was held that they displayed
institutions in their simplest forms
(Evans-Pritchard 1982: 8). Often, the so-
cial organisation of the Adivasis is also
represented as simple. Andhra Tribal
Museum, which exhibits Lambada,
Yanadi, Yerukula and Chenchu tribes,
has this to say: “The social organisation
and recreation of these simpler folk
societies scattered in the hills and for-
ests present a whole gamut of human
behavior.”5 The attribute of being simple
locates the Adivasis in the lower rungs of
the evolutionary hierarchy, who are
qualitatively different from the main-
stream society. As a response to the
notion that the Adivasis have only simple
needs and they lack the desires of the
middle class, C K Janu, a tribal activist
from Kerala, remarked: “Those who say
Economic & Political Weekly EPW OCTOBER 3, 2015
Adivasis have simple needs have rather
simple brains” (Steur 2010: 234).
Some Indian museologists tend to
believe that the Adivasis have not at-
tained sufficient degree of differentia-
tion in their material culture. By this
they mean that the tribal life, art, reli-
gion and artefacts constitute an undif-
ferentiated continuum of their lifeworld.
These assumptions are based on an imp-
licit comparison with the dominant soci-
ety, which is supposed to have achieved
a relatively high degree of differentia-
tion. Often the non-differentiation in the
tribal world is located in the area of art
and craft. Thus, according to Soni and
Soni (2005: 110), “virtually most tribal
art are, in a sense, a craft and it can be
said that their craft is an expression of
their art.” Similarly, the website of the
Madhya Pradesh Tribal Museum states
that “there is no such thing as art sepa-
rately in tribal life. But if looked inversely,
not even simplest of things like broom or
sil-batta (grinding stone) are not un-
touched by aesthetics.”6
To put it differently, unlike the main-
stream society, the tribals have not yet
achieved a state where art can have an
independent existence and hence, Adi-
vasi aesthetics reside in artefacts of daily
usage. In the words of Mohanti (nd: 35),
tribal art “is a manifestation of creative
genius of people in a simple communi-
cable form, by using such materials as
are available readily at hand.” For Sarkar
(nd: 40), “tribal art is not ‘art for art’s
sake’” in the modern sense because
there is hardly “any object, which is
exclusively prepared for the sake of art
appreciation.” The distinction between
art and craft which originated in Europe
was then applied globally in the context
of the European colonial expansion
(M’Closkey 2001: 113). When the tribal
world is looked through the prism of
non-tribal categories, the resulting
conclusions can be somewhat different
from the understandings of Adivasis
themselves.
The Noble Savage
Another common representation in eth-
nographic museum consists in the depic-
tion of the tribals as people close to “na-
ture,” implicitly evoking the idea of the
vol l no 40
PERSPECTIVES
“noble savage.” Several dioramas in eth-
nographic museums locate the Adivasis
and their lifeworld as embedded in
nature. For example, in the National
Museum in Kolkata, there is a long room
which has glass cabinets on either side
with life-sized dioramas of tribal groups
from the North East. Each of the major
tribal groups has a cabinet. The back-
grounds of these dioramas “are painted
with forest or mountain views, depend-
ing on the ethnic group being depicted,
suggesting an intimate connection to
nature” (McDuie-Ra 2012: 92).
This notion of “close to nature” is
linked to the idea that the tribals had
been always forest-dwellers. Historian
Archana Prasad has interrogated the no-
tion that the Adivasis have always lived
in the forests and engaged in shifting
cultivation from time immemorial. In
some parts of Chhattisgarh region, the
Gond tribals who were the cultivators in
the plains have been forced to settle in
forests because of colonial policies. Spe-
cifically, the British policy of the perma-
nent settlement of agriculture and the
introduction of the zamindari system
forced the tribals to settle in the remote
forests. The Adivasis deciding to settle in
forests, at least in some regions of the
country, has to do with the early capita-
listic formation in colonial India (Prasad
2003: 1–72). Thus, as Virginius Xaxa
points out, the idea of the Adivasis as the
“original people” has nothing to do with
living in the forest. In other words,
though forests have played an important
part in their economic and social life,
tribal identity cannot be tied exclusively
to the forests. This might explain, at
least in part, why there is a difference in
the way the tribal identity is articulated
by the Adivasis themselves and by right-
wing political discourse. The tribals call
themselves Adivasis and the right-wing
ideology who deny them this status, “de-
scribe them as vanvasis, a term which
the former take as derogatory” (Xaxa
2004: 1473). Just as anthropological gaze
relegates Adivasis to a different “time,” the
idea of the Adivasis as “forest-dwellers”
and vanvasis, tends to consign them to a
different “space,” namely, forest-space
characterised by wilderness, remote-
ness, inaccessibility and isolation.
41
PERSPECTIVES

The overwhelming presence of the
tribal material culture in ethnographic
museums is linked to the notion of the
Adivasi as the “vanishing tribe.” One of the
objectives in collecting and preserving
Adivasi material culture in India is
exemplified in the perspective known as
“salvage ethnography.” In North America,
towards the end of the 19th century “the
idea of the ‘vanishing Indian’ took hold
in anthropology—leading to a specia-
lised field known as “salvage ethno-
graphy,” which sought to save tradition-
al knowledge, life ways and material
culture” (Neptune 2011: 344).
Institutional collecting in Indian mu-
seums is stimulated, among other
things, by concerns that the Adivasis are
abandoning their cultural practices and
that soon there would be nothing left to
collect. Some feel that rapid industriali-
sation and modernisation have brought
about considerable changes in the life-
style of the tribals and as a result, their
traditional arts and artefacts are gradu-
ally disappearing. Das (nd: 47) writes:
“At the critical juncture of time, a mas-
sive salvage programme, to collect and
retrieve the vestiges and record the
already disappeared forms, is to be
launched.” Similarly, for Bhowmick
(2005: 70) the tribals who are now living
in the industrial-belts and urban areas
“show a tendency to shed off their
primeval objects and traditional mode of
living.” Thus, “to represent the real fea-
ture of tribal life and culture it is high
time to collect and to preserve the tangi-
ble objects in the ethnographic muse-
ums.” The idea behind “salvage ethnog-
raphy” consists in the view that the Adi-
vasis belong to another time and space,
and therefore, we must collect their
material culture before they “vanish.”
Conclusions
Ethnographic museums need to rethink
the representational processes involved
about tribal communities. By their very
nature, museums tend to be highly
selective in representing the past of a
given culture. As Shelton (2006: 487) has
observed, encoding memory “in museums
is always selective and necessarily acco-
mpanied by amnesia.” According to Stock-
ing (1985: 4) museums are “institutions
in which the forces of historical inertia
(or “cultural lag”) are profoundly, per-
haps inescapably, implicated.” By over-
looking historical contexts which have
contributed to the fragmentation of Adi-
vasi culture, tribal museums in India
tend to encode selective memories in
museums. There are several historical
memories of the Adivasis like the loss of
forests due to colonial policies, massive
displacement because of development
projects and numerous struggles against
domination, which find no place in the
representations of the tribal past in eth-
nographic museums. The Adivasi ethno-
graphic past cannot be reduced merely
to the display of their material culture
and this past needs to be expanded to
include a broader view of Adivasi history.
The anthropological gaze that locates
the Adivasis in a different spatio-tempo-
ral framework not only constructs them
as the cultural other, but also relegates
them to the margins of history.
Moreover, ethnographic displays entail
asymmetrical power relations between
those who have the authority to control
representations and those who do not
possess such power. From the 1960s on-
wards in some Western countries, where
museums have undergone significant
changes, new perspectives and methods
have been introduced. Museums have
sought to empower indigenous people
and have begun to introduce the display
of historical events along with material
culture (González et al 2001: 108). More
and more museums in North America
are getting the indigenous populations
involved in organising and running
these institutions. In Canada there is a
recognition that indigenous communi-
ties whose cultures are represented in
museums, ought to have their views
taken in to account. In India, where the
majority of ethnographic museums are

Review of Women’s Studies

April 25, 2015

Culture, Feminism, Globalisation – Tejaswini Niranjana

Navigating a Field of Opposition: A Rereading of Debates on ‘Caste and Gender’ – Nitya Vasudevan
In the Eye of International Feminism: Cold Sex Wars in Taiwan – Naifei Ding
Risking Feminism?: Voices from the Classroom – Shilpa Phadke
From the Streets to the Web: Looking at Feminist Activism on Social Media – Sujatha Subramanian
On Fire in Weibo: Feminist Online Activism in China – Holly Lixian Hou
The Selfie and the Slut: Bodies, Technology and Public Shame – Nishant Shah

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Circulation Manager,
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42 OCTOBER 3, 2015 vol l no 40 EPW Economic & Political Weekly


managed by central and state govern-
ments, the new notions of community
involvement and giving control of muse-
ums to the communities are yet to
evolve. Meanwhile, there is a serious
need to rethink about the representa-
tional practices of museum anthropolo-
gy which see the Adivasis merely as cul-
tural subjects to the exclusion of them as
historical agents.
Notes
1 Gujarat Tourism, viewed on 7 May 2014, http://
www.gujarattourism.com/showpage.aspx?con
tentid=297&webpartid=560
2 Anthropological Survey of India, available at:
http://www.ansi.gov.in/museum_l.htm;
viewed on 19 May 2014.
3 http://tribal.nic.in/Content/Particularly%20
Vulnerable%20Tribal%20Group.aspx; Ministry
of Tribal Affairs, viewed on 25 May 2014.
4 KIRTADS, viewed on 12 June 2014, http://
www.kirtads.kerala. gov.in/index.php? option
= com_ content&view=article&id=46&Item
id=54
5 Andhra Tribal Museum, viewed on 20 April
2014, http://aptribes.gov.in/html/tcr-musium.
htm
6 Madhya Pradesh Tribal Museum, viewed on
20 April 2014, http://mptribalmuseum.com/
tribal-esthetic.html
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43
 Colonial Construction of a
‘Criminal’ Tribe
Yerukulas of Madras Presidency
Nomadic communities have been a target of the fears and suspicions of sedentary communities.
The Yerukulas of Madras presidency were thus ‘criminalised’ in the early 20th century. This
gave the Salvation Army the job of ‘reforming’ them, and incidentally provided cheap labour
to a tobacco factory. This project was so successful that today Yerukulas believe their
ancestors to have been dangerous criminals.
MEENA RADHAKRISHNA

I
n 1911, the itinerant trading commu-
nity of Yerukulas in Madras presidency
were declared a criminal tribe. This
was under a piece of legislation called the
Criminal Tribes Act, applied to the whole
of British India. Under one of its provi-
sions, special settlements could be estab-
lished where the criminal tribe communi-
ties could be confined in order to watch
and reform them. Missionary organisations
– the Salvation Army was the main one
– were put in charge of these settlements
and were given more or less complete
autonomy as far as administration of these
settlements was concerned.
In the first part of this paper, in Sections
I to III, an attempt is made to identify some
of the strands which wove into the ideo-
logical perception, or construction of a
criminal in the early twentieth century, as
distinct from actual legislation to deal with
criminality on the ground. Attitudes to
itinerant communities are discussed in some
detail with this aspect in mind, as also the
Yerukulas’ particular relationship with
sedentary communities. In the middle part,
in Section IV, I discuss the main features
of a criminal tribe settlement called
Stuartpuram where this community lived
for decades, and still lives. This part dis-
cusses the processes by which the
Yerukulas were first sedentarised under
the Criminal Tribes Act, then made to
work on land owned by the Salvation Army,
and finally turned into regular wage workers
in a tobacco factory. In the last part,
Section V describes the way social and
cultural aspects of Yerukulas’ community
life were transformed in the Stuartpuram
settlement under the supervision of the
Salvation Army. This seems to have been
an inevitable result of the logic of work
on land, or in a factory. Section VI discusses
‘historic memory’ of the Yerukulas, and
their perception of their ancestors as dan-
gerous criminals. This is done through an
analysis of a poem that is a part of their
oral culture even today, and which is at
complete variance with the ‘official’ ver-
sion speaking of a useful, honourable past
of the earlier generations.
I carried out largely on pack bullocks or
Perception of Nomads
Nomadic communities the world over
have always been considered to be more
criminal than not, and their ‘restlessness’
or constant movement is considered a
troublesome feature by members of sed-
entary societies. The relationship between
itinerant and sedentary communities has
become more problematic in modern times.
The more the itinerant communities get
marginalised to the main sphere of society
because of transformative processes, the
more they become suspect from the point
of view of the sedentary society they interact
with. In real terms, their increasing mar-
ginality simply compounds the already
existing prejudices against them. In Eu-
rope, gypsies became gradually margin-
alised to the established system with the
processes of industrialisation.1
In India, the situation was only slightly
different: here the British administration’s
economic policies, aimed at raising rev-
enue, had made the itinerant communities
redundant and anachronistic. The itin-
erant community of Yerukulas of Madras
presidency is the focus of this paper, and
it is important to first briefly discuss the
trajectory they followed in the late 19th
century, as far as their gradual margin-
alisation to the sedentary society is
concerned.
Members of this community were chiefly
traders in grain and salt, operating between
the coastal areas of the presidency and the
interior districts.2 They were, at one time,
almost the only means of distributing salt
in far flung areas where wheel traffic could
not reach. In the 1850s, road and railway
networks were established throughout the
presidency, and this community’s trade –
donkeys – became largely if not wholly
redundant.
Further, the famine of 1877 was devas-
tating as far as their salt trade was con-
cerned. Large number of their cattle died,
which used to be crucial for carrying their
merchandise. And as they were traders in
cattle as well, they suffered huge losses
during the decade of the famine. Their
grain trade too suffered drastically during
this period, because of the way famines
were managed by the British administra-
tion, favouring the bigger grain merchants
[GoM 1867; GoI 1878; Bhattacharya 1965;
Ambirajan 1971]. Small traders like the
Yerukulas found this item totally inaccessible
at a time when their cattle, which carried
it, were dying in large numbers as well.
Forest laws of the 1880s prevented them
from collecting forest produce, an impor-
tant item of barter in their trade, and also
did not allow them now to collect bamboos
and leaves, which they used for making
mats, baskets and brooms, etc. Common
pasture land and grazing areas were cor-
doned off, and not available any more to
their cattle.3
They were also crucially affected by the
new salt policy of the government in the
1880s, which allowed large trading com-
panies to enter the salt trade. A large number
of retail outlets were established by the
government all over the presidency on

Economic and Political Weekly July 8-15, 2000 2553

railway routes, where salt was now sold
through the agents of large company
traders.4
As a result of the above factors, Yerukulas
suffered a massive economic setback as far
as the period between the 1850s and 1860s
is concerned.
As they become marginalised to the main
system, prejudices and myths which al-
ready exist about nomads are renewed, or
come to the surface more explicitly. David
Mayall has pointed out some of these in
his discussion of gypsy travellers in 19th
century England. Some of these apply to
itinerant communities in general, and are
discussed below.
Most importantly, the nomads’ lack of
property, and supposed lack of due regard
for others’ property, is seen to be a threat
to the established order.5 Their indepen-
dence from rigid norms and constraints of
sedentary societies is found equally objec-
tionable. In fact, itineracy is seen as a
possible escape route for the so-called
outcasts and refuse of sedentary societies
– if one is an itinerant, it is probably
because he or she was not acceptable to
the sedentary society.
There have been other charges against
gypsies, or migrants or nomadic people:
they are escaping from the law, or simply
fleeing from hard work of any kind. In
agriculture-based societies, the men resent
their escaping the hard work of ploughing
and tilling, and the women that, or the
harder labour of housekeeping and child
rearing. In short, itineracy is not seen as
a chosen way of life, but as an aberration
of some sort. In fact, their very marginality
to the established system is suspected to
stem from a deliberate rejection of that
system, and this offends the established
members of sedentary societies. Accusa-
tions of vagrancy, lust for wandering, lack
of stability and general purpose in life,
restlessness and aimlessness plague all
itinerant communities.
In addition, their superior knowledge of
the world, acquired during extensive trav-
els, is possibly seen to endow them with
greater mental resources and a potential
for greater manipulation of others. It is
worth emphasising here that many of the
above prejudices are not held so much by
the local people, but by the local authori-
ties.6 In the Indian case, these would mean
the British administration, the police es-
tablishment, the high caste sections and
the village landlords.
More grievances were added to the stan-
dard list of charges against itinerants by
2554
the Indian authorities: their lack of predict-
ability of movements implied a potential
lack of control; their shifting abodes meant
shifting loyalties to different patrons, and
so they were seen to be perennially dis-
loyal; the impossibility of taxing them, or
raising any kind of revenue out of them,
unlike their sedentary counterparts was
probably a major irritant to the adminis-
tration.7 In addition, for the keepers of
social morality, their lack of visible social
institutions implied complete disorder in
their community life. Their lack of written
codes of conduct, and absence of loudly
articulated norms of morality implied
absolute licentiousness.
At another level, there were more prob-
lems. This community had amongst its
members acrobats, singers, dancers, tight
rope walkers and fortune tellers. More and
more, like their counterparts all over the
world, street entertainment provided by
them was seen to be a threat to public order.
Since they always collected a large inter-
ested crowd around themselves – and were
quite a large crowd by themselves – their
presence made the local authorities ner-
vous. The British administration was in-
creasingly inclined to favour forms of
recreation which could be supervised by
themselves, and would not precipitate what
they called ‘disorderly and riotous
behaviour’ on part of the spectators.
It is worth mentioning here that in
England, all laws relating to the gypsies
were to protect the settled communities
from itinerant ones and never the other
way around [Mayall 1988:180]. Large-
scale harassment of these communities by
members of settled communities was a
common feature in Europe, and there is
evidence of this happening in Madras presi-
dency as well.
It is worth pointing out at this juncture
the ambivalences and contradictions in the
attitude of sedentary communities to itin-
erant ones. These are symptomatic of the
latter’s simultaneous usefulness and mar-
ginality to the established systems they
have to interact with.
It was, for instance, felt that these com-
munities must be settled somewhere, but
‘not near us, not here’. This is reminiscent
of a similar ambivalence: ‘they should
visit our village, but should not stay too
long’. Further, they were expected to
become a part of the mainstream, but were
expected also to be segregated from the
main society while this was being done,
so as not to corrupt it. They were, in fact,
romanticised in imagination, especially in
Economic and Political Weekly
English fiction and poetry in the case of
the gypsies (ibid:87). This was for their
independent spirit, their dark attractive
looks (or bright clothes and jewellery as
in the case of the Indian ‘banjaras’), their
supposed healthy outdoor life. In general,
there was a lot of romance and adventure
associated with their travels. However,
when confronted in reality, there was fear
and dread and they were shunned if not
despised. In fact, a number of English
ladies in their leisure time in India drew
banjara men and women in a romanticised
light while their law-making menfolk made
them out to be ferocious criminals.
(Banjaras were also declared criminal tribes
by the British administration).8
So the important point is that the very
nature of the relationship between these
two different systems, and the gaps in
knowledge of each others’ real ways of
living will lead to myth-making on both
sides. Unfortunately, we know little about
the myths that the itinerant people have
about sedentary societies. At any rate, as
far as sedentary societies are concerned,
there is an overarching discomfort, a
suspicion regarding itinerants which de-
generates into seeing them as established
criminals.
II
Yerukulas and the British
In the earlier section, some of the general
prejudices about itinerant communities
were discussed. This section looks into
some specific additional charges against
Yerukulas which existed in the minds of
the British administrators, and which
contributed substantially to their being
labelled a criminal tribe. Interestingly,
scattered in the official records themselves,
there is information collected by the ad-
ministration for other purposes, which
contradicts these very charges. However,
since the Yerukulas were an itinerant
community, the administrators found it
difficult to shake off some of the preju-
dices they carried with them regarding
European gypsies, and seem to have sim-
ply superimposed some of these on the
Indian counterparts. Moreover, the bulk of
their own prejudices were shared by the
high caste, landlord sections, on whom the
administration relied for first hand know-
ledge of Indian society.
The most important of the accusations
was that the Yerukulas as itinerants had
an ‘insatiable lust for wandering aimlessly’.
It is important here to point out that their
July 8-15, 2000
wandering could not have been aimless –
they always had fixed trade routes, de-
pending on the demand for their wares; on
the cycle of annual festivals and fairs; on
availability of raw material for making
mats or baskets; and on the season in
which the forest produce would be avail-
able, or stocks of grain, which they used
for barter. Their movements also depended
on the salt manufacturing cycle, an impor-
tant item of their trade, or simply on
availability of casual work which they did
from time to time. Their routes and sched-
ules of stopping and moving were fixed
and cyclic.9
The second of the significant charges
was that they were idle, lazy and not keen
on hard work. Booth Tucker, the head of
the Salvation Army in India wrote of them:
“When we asked them to till the land, or
work in a factory, they were shocked. Work?
they said, we never work, we just sing and
dance” [Tucker nd].
Now, if they did not work, neither they
nor their trade , nor their crafts would have
survived for so long. What was being
discussed was not whether or not they
worked, but the nature of their work. Their
work was independent, not time bound and
most important, was not wage work.
The third prejudice which had a long
life was that of their lack of any social
norms, especially regarding their women.
Charges of looseness of character, and
even prostitution were frequent, stemming
from their polygamous practices. Buying
and selling of females was another charge,
with origins in brideprice which they paid
at the time of marriages. The myth of their
licentiousness had its roots in their un-
familiar social organisation (unfamiliar to
the high caste sections) which included
freedom in choosing of spouses, easy
divorce, widow remarriage, and a marked
absence of marriage of girls before pu-
berty. Interestingly, however, this particu-
lar view about their immoral women pre-
vailed with the British administrators as
well, possibly because of the polygamy
component. Ironically, one of the high
caste commentators in 1948 held the
Yerukulas up as the vision of Indian re-
formers. He stated that since their social
norms were what the civilised Hindu society
was aiming at through legislation, they
should, in fact, “have been left alone”
[Aiyyappan 1948] (as far as attempts to
civilise them were concerned).
The final and major charge that plagued
the Yerukulas was that of their ostensible
criminality. This had two aspects: one was
Economic and Political Weekly July 8-15, 2000
that they had always been criminals – all
gypsies supposedly are – and secondly,
that they had become dangerous criminals
once they lost their earlier means of live-
lihood [Radhakrishna 1989:271-75].
As far as proof of the first aspect was
concerned, their own alleged folklore was
used. It was claimed that “when they asked
their god Subramanya what profession they
should follow, he handed them a house
breaking implement!” [GoM 1926]. This
was supposed to be convincing evidence
of their committing thefts and robberies
as a profession. In actual fact, crimes
attributed to them by the police were seldom
proven – this generated another minor
myth of their slipperiness and nimble-
fingeredness (ibid).
In the annual crime figures of Madras
presidency, their proportion in the crimi-
nal population was always lower than their
proportion in the total population. (In fact,
sometimes a high caste category would
account for a much higher proportion of
total crime in relation to their proportion
in the total population in the region) (ibid).
And lastly, the districts through which
they regularly passed, or where they stopped
for relatively longer periods, did not have
a higher proportion of crime than other
districts with which they had little con-
tact.10 Incidentally, when there were genu-
ine crimes committed in areas where they
stopped, it was admitted by the police
themselves that it was the handiwork of
local elements, who got more active when-
ever an itinerant community was around
– these elements were merely using an
existing view of itinerants to their advan-
tage, knowing that the crime would be
blamed on the itinerants.
However, the second part of this accusa-
tion – their becoming criminals because
they lost their means of livelihood – is
more important. This is because part of this
assertion was true: they had lost their chief
means of livelihood over a period of time.
As mentioned earlier, they used to be salt
and grain traders, taking salt from the
coastal areas of the presidency into inland
areas where wheel traffic could not reach,
and bartering it for grain or forest produce.
The loss of means of livelihood was
correctly attributed to a network of roads
and railways which had made their trading
activities redundant.11
However, it is important to point out
that salt was a very important source of
revenue for the British administration in
the 19th century, and the Yerukulas were
at one time the only means of distributing
it in remote areas, where only ‘pack bul-
locks’ could reach [Radhakrishna 1989].
This is the reason why the British ad-
ministrtation officially recognised this
important aspcet of their existence, viz,
their salt trading activities. Similarly, they
helped in averting famines in far flung
areas, and that is why their grain trade was
acknowledged.
The point, however, is that they were
never only salt and grain traders. In fact,
they did a number of other things apart
from these two major activities. They were
cattle breeders and traders; dealers in all
kinds of forest and agricultural produce;
were casual workers; made baskets, mats,
brooms and brushes, and as mentioned
earlier, were also acrobats, dancers, sing-
ers and fortune tellers. They certainly got
marginalised drastically as a result of British
policies, but they probably did not become
criminals, certainly not as a community.
They had too many other resources they
could still fall back upon. In the Tamil
speaking region, where they were called
koravars, they continued to be called ‘inji’,
‘kal’ or ‘dabbai koravars’, depending on
the work they still did.12
The point that is being made is that
prejudices against itinerants formed a
major strand that fed into the Criminal
Tribes Act.
III
‘Hereditary’ Criminal
The concept of crime and its causes had
been changing all through the late 19th
century, perhaps even earlier in Europe
[Emsley 1987; Yang 1985; Jones 1982].
There was a strong school of thought, put
forward by criminologists and scientists at
one point, which held that crime was
inherited over generations in a family
through a set of genes [Stepan 1982].
In the Indian context, the concept of a
‘hereditary criminal class’ remained im-
portant and attractive for a long time. This
was probably for the reason that this view
allowed deflection of enquiries into the
causes of crime, and allowed for stringent,
arbitrary measures of control. The impor-
tant point to emphasise here is that the
investing of some sections with hereditary
criminality was different in the case of
India and England. In India it was based
not on the notion of genetically transmitted
crime, but on crime as a profession prac-
tised by a ‘hereditary criminal caste’. Like
a carpenter would pass on his trade to the
next generation, hereditary criminal caste
2555
members would pass on this profession to
their offspring [quoted in Nigam 1990].
In England, a hereditary criminal implied
one who had inherited criminality through
the genes of a parent or an ancestor.
In India, then, the concept of hereditary
crime never really got linked to biological
determinism. This happened not because
of genuine advance in the field of genetics,
but because the Indian caste system seemed
to adequately explain to the British admin-
istrator the phenomenon of daunting crimi-
nality of at least a section of Indians.
By the end of the 19th century, however,
it was not the hereditary criminal that the
British Indian administrators were looking
for any more. Now they were looking for
a criminal with more ‘scientific’ reasons
for being one. Clearly, there was a genuine
need in these circles to find an explanation
for criminality of such large numbers of
people in society. By calling the trait here-
ditary, the problem was rendered not
amenable to resolution or intervention. A
genuine social cause had to be identified
and dealt with efficiently.
It was in the context of this search that
in the first decade of this century, policies
followed by the British Indian administra-
tion 50 years ago were blamed for destroy-
ing the traditional means of livelihood of
a number of communities [Radhakrishna
1989:271-75]. Commission of crime was
now directly related to lack of means of
livelihood, and non-availability of work.
(Even in England, lack of ‘ostensible means
of livelihood’ made a person qualify as a
potential criminal by now.) This further
implied that if honest (wage) work could
be found for such communities, they could
be weaned away from crime.13
And this is how the concept of crimi-
nality got linked to a secular cause like loss
of livelihood by certain communities due
to a set of colonial policies, discussed in
the last section.
It is worth pointing out here that there
was the additional input into notions of
criminality by the then developing disci-
pline of Indian anthropology as well. This
discipline addressed itself to the study of
particular sections of the Indian popula-
tion, mostly indigenous ‘tribal’ communi-
ties and itinerant groups, and contributed
in a very substantial way to the conceptual
outline of a criminal in the popular mind.
By focusing on bizarre or exotic ritual
aspects of the social lives of such com-
munities, and at the same time also on their
differential anthropometric measurements,
the discipline managed to draw the fine
2556
line between a civilised and barbaric in-
dividual. In the popular ethnographic lit-
erature of the period, a sketch was drawn
of a criminal who possessed not just bi-
zarre social customs, but a strange body
and psyche as well, ‘which had criminality
written all over’.14
It is important to mention that the Sal-
vation Army also considerably helped
public perception of the criminality of
groups with which they worked. In fact
over a period of time they were able to
define with some authority, for adminis-
trations all over the world what constituted
criminality, and in different social con-
texts, even pointed out who these crimi-
nals were – paupers in England, tribals or
gypsies in India, aborigines in Australia,
New Zealand or North America and so on.
Salvation Army had been working with
released prisoners in India a few years
before the Criminal Tribes Act was insti-
tuted, and this organisation was taken very
seriously by the government – its officials
had evolved categories of criminals like
incorrigible, habitual, hereditary, ordinary,
worst character, would be good, won’t be
good, badmash, nekmash and so on in
what they called ‘crimdom’, and differen-
tial treatment was suggested for varying
degrees of Indian criminality in a potential
‘curedom’. The treatement had to be
punitive, deterrent, preventative (sic) or
curative [Tucker nd:4].
In any case, the general point to emphasise
here is that the category of a criminal tribe
was not a sudden development – different
stands of social and political opinions and
considerations had been shaping the gen-
eral category of an Indian ‘criminal’ for
several decades. The complexity of these
converging currents has not been explored
here. A criminal could, for instance, be
anyone who resisted the British, or even
resisted a local oppressive landlord or
high caste member. In addition, the
plethora of new legislations that the British
introduced created new ‘criminals’ all the
time. These were either people ignorant of
the new laws, or those wilfully defiant of
the ones which encroached on their tradi-
tional rights – for instance, forest laws. To
give an example of the broadness and
flexibility of the term ‘criminal’, and the
open ended uses to which the Criminal
Tribes Act could be put, it was suggested
that the act could be used profitably “for
combating secret societies, political preach-
ers who might create unrest and so on” –
in other words to combat the newly
emerging nationalist movement.15
Economic and Political Weekly
IV
‘Criminal’ Tribes
Yerukulas were declared a criminal
community under the Criminal Tribes Act,
1911. Before going into the substantive
part of this section, which discusses a
criminal tribe settlement called Stuartpuram,
it is important to briefly point out a few
salient features of the Criminal Tribes Act,
and the way it operated in general.
Firstly, before a community was declared
a criminal tribe, ‘respectable members’ of
a village were consulted, who were invari-
ably either headmen, or high caste sec-
tions, or landlords; often these categories
overlapped. The notified criminal tribe
members had to take the permission of the
headman before they could enter or leave
a village. There is evidence that these
headmen-cum-landlords used the act to
extract free labour from the criminal tribe
members before they allowed an itinerant
community to pass through the village.16
Secondly, one of the provisions required
the notified criminal tribe members to report
to the nearest police station to register their
attendance twice a night. These powers
were used by the subordinate police for
extortions and harassment so widely that
it caused some administrative concern
[Baird nd].
Thirdly, criminal tribe members were
forced to work in mills, factories, mines,
quarries and plantations by the police
administration as a part of relieving their
own vigilance duties, and handing over to
the employers extraordinary powers of
control under the Criminal Tribes Act.
Under this, even ordinary workers could
be declared criminal tribes in case their
work performance was not satisfactory,
and in fact in crucial ways this act also
effectively replaced the Workmen’s Breach
of Contract Act, especially on the planta-
tions. As far as this particular use of the
Criminal Tribes Act was concerned, any
low caste, vulnerable section of the people
could be declared a criminal tribe and
forced to work in an enterprise; any per-
sons including a manager of an enterprise
could be made responsible for their con-
trol, and any site, including an enterprise
could be declared a criminal tribe settle-
ment [Radhakrishna 1989].
And lastly, a section of those declared
criminal could be interned into special
settlements set up under one of the pro-
visions of the Criminal Tribes Act.
Stuartpuram settlement in Guntur district
was one such settlement, and it is here that
July 8-15, 2000
about 6,000 Yerukulas lived for several
decades from 1913 onwards. The settle-
ment was named after Harold Stuart, the
moving force behind settlements in gen-
eral, and a senior government official at
that time, in charge of the police. The spirit
behind these settlements, thus, can be
imagined to be punitive, rather than refor-
mative, contrary to the claims by the
administration till much later.
In the 1910s, when the criminal tribe
settlements were established in Madras
presidency, itinerant communities were
singled out for settling by policy. The
official directive was that “worst charac-
ters, especially wandering gangs” must be
settled.17 The Salvation Army was en-
trusted with itinerant communities, and
sedentary criminals were to be the respon-
sibility of the police.18 Stuartpuram settle-
ment, then, became the literal ‘site’ where
the British administration and the Salva-
tion Army together decided to have what
they called an ‘experiment in crimino-
curology’. Since the Salvation Army was
responsible for a number of settlements
and was, in fact, the main organisation
working with the supposed criminal com-
munities in India, it is appropriate to
mention a few details about this organi-
sation, and why it would be attractive to
the British administration.
Salvation Army identified itself aggres-
sively with the imperial aims of England
of the time. Born in the 1870s, the heyday
of British imperialism, it not only called
itself the Salvation Army, it cashed on the
popular image of romanticised imperial-
ism by adopting marches, flags, brass bands
and uniforms for its employees. Their head
was called ‘General’ Booth, they had
officers who signed ‘articles of war’, their
newspaper was called The War Cry. They
had open air ‘bombardments’, not meet-
ings. They would not say that they were
going to start work in a new region, but
‘occupy a new territory’, and ‘declare war’
(on ungodliness or whatever) [Parsons
1988]. In short, the Salvation Army was
a shadow imperial body – self-consciously
so – and absolutely identified itself with
the aims and projects of England of the time.
General Booth had envisaged for the
English poor, what he called city colonies
and farm colonies.19 For the Indian crimi-
nal, however, he decided on ‘settlements’.
Of course, in this case, this imperial term
took on a new meaning – the itinerant
communities were to be settled down as
opposed to being allowed to wander
aimlessly.
Economic and Political Weekly July 8-15, 2000
Stuartpuram settlement was meant to be
a settlement for well behaved, reformed
and non-criminal members drawn from
another criminal settlement, Sitanagaram,
also located in Guntur.20 However, when
the Salvation Army was given land in
Guntur to set up this settlement, there were
a number of protests, posed in different
ways. The landlord sections were particu-
larly infuriated, and charged that CT
members escaped at night from the settle-
ment and committed crime. Thus, this
settlement was also declared to be a crimi-
nal settlement, and a substantial increase
in the police force was sanctioned in the
area, to intensify patrolling.21
Stuartpuram settlement was initially
planned as an agricultural settlement: 500
acres of sandy land and 1,000 acres of
swamp land were handed over to the
Salvation Army by the government, free
of assessment. However, for a number of
reasons, the plans failed. Essentially, the
land was of very poor quality, and the
implements of agriculture primitive.
Moreover, the Yerukulas were not keen
on tilling the land, and made unenthusi-
astic agriculturists.
Following is an excerpt from a settle-
ment manager’s poetic account of his ex-
periences with making unwilling settlers
work on land:
The Salvation Army found it very tedious
to convert them into good cultivators
industrious
To work on land they were forced and
could not be induced
Though driven like a flock of sheep, the
first crop failed... No crowbars, no proper
spade and no physical strength
So work turned out did not reach the
desired length.22
Again,
In the beginning, I had recourse to a
stick,
I was glad, as it brought the desired
result quick [Achariar 1926].
Most important, there was fierce oppo-
sition by the landlords in the area, who
objected to the very concept of low caste
communities being given land, in addition
to their fear that paddy land, when suitably
irrigated, was very valuable.23 It was re-
vealed that “the monied folk of Bapatla
[had] counted...on buying the swamp land
at cheap rates and rack renting the actual
cultivator whenever a crop could be
raised”.24 This plan was unwittingly foiled
by the administration by parcelling out
large tracts of land to the Salvation Army.
The protest by the landlords was also in
a large measure due to their anxiety about
losing the services of Yerukulas as agri-
cultural workers on their own land.25
All this opposition took place in the era
when landlords were important political
allies of the British administration, and on
balance, the administration decided not to
alienate the landlord/headmen sections any
further. Irrigation facilities – plans to make
available water from the Krishna river to
the settlement – were withheld, and alter-
native means of supporting the settlement
had to be now seriously considered.
It was at this juncture, that the Indian
Leaf Tobacco Company (ILTD), (a later
branch of the Indian Tobacco Company
(ITC)) began to be discussed within the
administration and the Salvation Army
circles, as possible alternative employers.
The ILTD had existed in Guntur district
since 1908 in order to procure local tobacco,
as the leaf wing of British American
Tobacco Company and Peninsular Com-
pany. By 1925, the factory was said to have
employed half of the total adult population
of the settlement.26 Essentially, according
to government policy, once infrastructure
for the settlement had been provided by
the government, the settlements were to
be self-supporting. Once income from land
was found to be not enough, gradually the
settlement became dependent on the fac-
tory for the employment of the settlers.27
The Salvation Army had no other means
of finding employment for their charges.
The company’s initial contact with the
Stuartpuram settlers seems to have been
through the mats made by the Yerukula
women. The mats and baskets were, in
fact, an essential part of the manufacturing
process at the factory, and the Salvation
Army was the medium through which the
sales took place to the ILTD. Slowly,
women came to be employed in the factory
as regular wage workers, while the men
continued to work fruitlessly on land. The
financial situation of the settlement was
quite stable for a few years after the women
settlers from Stuartpuram began work in
the ILTD factory. The ILTD management,
the Salvation Army and the administration
seemed optimistic about the future progress
of the settlement.
In the late 1920s, a process set itself in
motion which changed the balance of forces
further in favour of the ILTD and the
Salvation Army. This was in the form of
availability of more men workers from the
settlement for factory work, and more
powers of control for the Salvation Army
on settlement land.
2557
 In 1928, ‘natural flow’ – fresh water –
under the sandy soil was discovered and
found to be effective to raise paddy. Water
beneath the surface of the sandy soil of
the settlement’s agricultural land was not
brackish as had been believed all along.
This revived the interest of the settlers in
cultivation.28 In the same year, the settlers
petitioned the government about being
given permanent ‘pattas’ as had been prom-
ised.29 Salvation Army was firmly op-
posed to the plan of transferring land to
the settlers, and wrote to the officials to
this effect.30 What had happened was that
the land had risen enormously in price.
“The place prospered so much that it had
its own railway station and villages sprang
up like a wild west town after a gold strike”
[Watson 1964:145].
The petition by the settlers had been
pending for five years before it was turned
down on a number of administrative
grounds (resurvey of land will have to be
done, more village officers will have to be
recruited and so on). The most important
official argument, however, was that the
concept of permanent pattas was inconsis-
tent with the running of the place as a
reformatory settlement.31 (Settlers were
supposed to leave the settlement after their
reformation had been achieved, to make
place for new criminals.)
Essentially, there had been ominous signs
shown by the settlers. There was an indi-
cation that the settlers had been found to
be not totally without resistance to the
policies of the Salvation Army, and had
in fact organised themselves into a coop-
erative society.32 Members of this society
were now preparing to invest their own
funds in digging an irrigation channel to
improve the land, so that the fruit of the
land would then legitimately be theirs, and
not appropriated by the Salvation Army.33
The response of the Salvation Army was
to discharge a large number of settlers
from the provisions of the Criminal Tribes
Act, and thus from the settlement itself,
and transfer them to a new area called the
New Colony near the ILTD factory pre-
mises. The official requirement of a means
of livelihood, before a settler could be
discharged from the settlement, was met
by finding them employment in this factory.
This plan was fully supported and, in
fact, financed by the government. Build-
ing a new colony involved digging wells,
building huts, and providing other infra-
structure, and this was done in great hurry
just before the start of the tobacco process-
ing season in 1935, so that the discharged
2558
settlers could be immediately employed in
the factory. Taking advantage of the situ-
ation at this juncture, the ILTD manage-
ment decided to expand its operations at
Chirala.
The problem of men, hitherto tenants of
the Salvation Army, had to be sorted out:
these men had to be found work in a factory
where work processes had been designed
to employ mainly women. But there had
been a strike by the 3,000 seasonal workers
in 1932,34 and the ILTD had since then been
looking out for a more pliable workforce.
In 1933, the manager of the ILTD,
Chirala, wrote to the chief inspector of
factories, requesting him to exempt the
workers in the factory from the provisions
of the Factories Act, as the factory needed
to work for 12 hours a day, and 66 hours
a week.35 The case made out was on the
basis of the nature of the processes them-
selves. The fact which convinced the
administration, however, in favour of the
exemption of ILTD from crucial sections
of the Factories Act was that “machine
room operatives were drawn mostly from
Stuartpuram settlement,...maintained by
public funds” (ibid). The manager of the
settlement, a Salvation Army official, had
written to the ILTD management, urging
that the provisions of the Act should be
relaxed to enable the men settlers to work
as long hours as possible. The “conces-
sion”, according to him, if granted, would
benefit the administration of the settle-
ment and indirectly make the task of control
of criminal tribe settlers easier and cheaper
for the government (ibid).
This plea to the ILTD company, in fact,
was not inconsistent with the fact that the
Salvation Army wanted to discharge as
many settlers from the Stuartpuram land
as possible and work had to be found for
them in order to make out a case with the
government for discharging them. These
settlers were soon after, in 1935, discharged
and transferred to the new colony near the
factory on the grounds that “to walk 3½
miles in the morning for work is not
conducive to efficiency”.36
The exemption applied for was to
section 21 (rest periods in factories),
section 22 (weekly holidays), section 27
(limiting of working hours per week), and
section 28 (limiting of working hours per
day). The exemption which was granted
was to sections 27 and 28. It applied to
all machine operatives in all tobacco
handling and redrying factories.37 In this
way, Yerukulas were used as an instru-
ment in a major modification of the law,
Economic and Political Weekly
which was to now cover not just machine
room workers from this community in the
ILTD factory, but all machine room workers
in all tobacco factories in the presidency.
By the beginning of 1935, every avail-
able man and woman from Stuartpuram
was in the employment of ILTD. ILTD,
as a result of the new exemptions, was now
working double shifts, from 5 am to 1 am
the next morning, except on Sundays.38
The factory manager was reported to have
given the government very good accounts
of the Yerukula workers. On the whole,
these workers were found to be thoroughly
satisfactory by the ILTD.39 They found
regular work in the factory for ten months
in a year – a pattern which was to continue
for many years.
V
Rewriting a Culture
Stuartpuram became a large settlement
in terms of numbers as whole communities
– not individuals – were put in at a time.
After all, the Criminal Tribes Act was
meant to work with the concept of whole
communities. In fact, even the Salvation
Army said they were embarrassed by what
they called “this rain of riches”. (They
explained this phrase to an intrigued
government official : “To others, these
criminals may hardly appear in the light
of riches, but to us each bears the image
and supersubscription of the Divine Mint”.)
This large settlement needed extensive
police presence outside to prevent escapes,
and inside, the Salvation Army took an
attendance up to five times a day, includ-
ing nights [Radhakrishna 1992]. There was
strict punctuality and discipline for both
children and adults and a system of fines
and even corporal punishment to deter
disorderly behaviour. There were, inci-
dentally, virtually no outsiders allowed
into the settlement for scrutiny, and en-
quiry committees could enter it only in the
1940s, when the nationalists took up this
issue seriously.
Stuartpuram settlement, as described
earlier, was meant to be an agricultural
settlement. Though the official rationale
was that it should be so because “agricul-
ture was the natural profession of all
Indians”, what comes through clearly in
the records is the deep anxiety the British
administration had for reclamation of waste
land, forest land and swamp land. In fact,
land reclamation was synonymous with
reclamation of criminal souls. Once culti-
vable, the land could start paying revenue.
July 8-15, 2000
A large tract of waste land was given to
the Salvation Army for cultivation by the
Yerukulas. This needed some reorganising
of the community’s social and cultural
priorities.
Drastic transformation in the lives of the
Yerukulas followed. Most important, of
course, was the fact that the itinerant mode
of existence was suddenly replaced by a
forced settled life. The Salvation Army
divided the community into families, which
were now the new operational social and
economic unit – each family was given a
small piece of land, which it was respon-
sible for cultivating, or else punishment
followed.40 The family was further broken
up by removing the children to another part
of the settlement. The Salvation Army felt
that the ‘rising generation’ should be kept
away from their wicked parents, and
brought up in a more wholesome atmo-
sphere. Separate schools and dormitories
were established for these children, and
they were allowed to meet their parents
only on Sundays during church activities.
The two components of criminals’ refor-
mation were moral education, and work.
The Salvation Army concentrated on the
children for moral education, and on the
adult men for work.
Here it is important to emphasise that
the Salvation Army did not normally pre-
pare women for wage work in any of its
settlements – ideally, they were to be trained
in feminine virtues and were expected to
sew, embroider and cook for their families.
Recent work on Africa shows that mis-
sions in general expected women to re-
main in domestic surroundings and men
to earn a wage outside. In fact, in the mid-
19th century, regarding women, a general
mission slogan was “improve the wives of
the poor and servants of the rich” [Gaitskell
1994:121]. Meaning that if at all women
must work outside, they must again be
domestic workers and continue to cook,
sew and mind children in their employers’
homes.
Coming back to the Stuartpuram settle-
ment, a new division of labour within the
family was devised and appropriate gender
roles defined. In fact, mat making, which
was a traditional activity of both men and
women of the Yerukula community, was
now handed over exclusively to women,
to be combined with other indoor activi-
ties.41 Men now ploughed and tilled the
waste land, albeit unsuccessfully.
There were myriad ways in which true
women were fashioned out of what the
Salvation Army called “thievish raw
Economic and Political Weekly July 8-15, 2000
material”. For instance, they were taught
to pay attention to their appearances. The
Salvation Army even held periodic pa-
rades of the “most neatly dressed women”
(and gave the winners a prize of one rupee
each).42 The women would also not be
allowed to go outside the settlement on
a pass if they looked like “so many va-
grants”. The ‘before’ and ‘after’ photo-
graphs of women in the Salvation Army
records show the ‘after’ version with a
completely changed Hinduised appearance,
complete with neatly tied saris, oiled hair
with flowers and vermillion marks on their
foreheads.
Anyway, after more than a decade of
such remoulding, something happened:
these newly domesticated women were
required to work outside their homes for
a wage as the land was found unable to
support the families. As already mentioned
earlier, the government expected the Sal-
vation Army to make the settlements under
their care completely self-supporting once
the initial infrastructure had been paid for.
Now that there was a severe financial crisis,
these women were persuaded or forced in
hundreds to go and work in the newly
established tobacco factory several miles
away.
The Salvation Army had so far been
systematically inculcating in them an in-
door culture of house keeping and child
rearing. Now they were expected to walk
a distance of seven miles every day, spend
a total of 12 hours outside their homes,
earning a wage. In fact, the Salvation Army
even asked the government to provide
creches for the infants and toddlers in the
settlement, so that young mothers could
go as well. For the next 10-12 years, the
women alone earned as much as 80 per
cent of the entire settlement income.43
Ironically, while women were the prin-
cipal earners in their families, the Salva-
tion Army consolidated the new moral
code for them. Unable any more to scru-
tinise their activities, unable also to adhere
to the notion of them as dependent wives,
the Salvation Army began to take on a
more active role in their personal, marital
affairs. This was done in order partly to
keep their own control and partly to make
sure that economic independence did
not confound gender identities, as it had
gender roles.
Women used to have the freedom to
choose their spouses – the Salvation Army
now granted permissions for marrying.
The Salvation Army officials had always
been votaries of proper match-making in
the settlements, now they became urgently
active on the issue. They wrote to the
government wanting “a voice in the choice
of spouses”44 and got it. They were finding
to their alarm that bride price, something
they had been trying to suppress as it meant
mere selling of females, now rose steeply
(sometimes as much as Rs 500).45 The
Salvation Army substituted it with dowry,
which they gave themselves. It always
consisted of saris and vessels for the bride
– true symbols of lost domesticity. (Inci-
dentally, in other settlements in the north,
the Salvation Army used to insist that the
man be able to support his wife before
letting them marry – they had to give up
that condition here, which they did quite
cheerfully.) They also forbade completely
what they called “desertions” by women
of their husbands. So ironically, the women
lost their autonomy in marital affairs at a
time when they were the principal con-
tributors to the family income.
It is important to mention here that the
ILTD Company where the women worked
supported the Salvation Army on the severe
discipline in the settlement, and their active
role in the women’s family affairs. In fact,
at a later point in time, the ILTD manage-
ment became quite active itself on the
second issue. The discipline – strict punc-
tuality, orderly behaviour and a system of
harsh punishments – resonated well with
factory life. On the whole, the ILTD
management found that these workers were
“less troublesome” than others, and much
more pliable.46 The Salvation Army’s
insistence on an irrevocable form of
marriage worked in the company’s favour
as well because they could continue to pay
a family wage which was much lower than
the sum paid to an individual man and
woman.
As a result of the special exemption from
the Factories Act that the government
granted to the ILTD, whole families from
the settlement had come to be employed
in the factory from the 1930s. The men
were now working up to 20 hours a day
in different shifts.
The ILTD, then, had a new interest in
keeping families together at the settle-
ment. I came across at least three petitions
by Yerukula men in the company records,
where the management was requested to
intervene and help them in getting their
wives to stay with them. The ILTD obliged
in all three cases by threatening the women
with loss of their jobs in case they divorced
their husbands. Interestingly, I did not see
any similar petitions by women.
2559
 VI
‘Historic Memory’
So far, the earlier sections have, in effect,
dealt with colonial construction of the
Yerukulas’ criminality, and the later ones
with some of the ways in which their real
daily lives were lived out decades ago. It
is within this dual context that I am going
to try and locate this community’s current
perception of its own past history.
About 10 years ago, I met the descen-
dents of the Yerukulas in question, still
living in Stuartpuram settlement and
working with the very same tobacco fac-
tory, the ILTD. When I met them, they
were about to be retrenched in thousands,
because the factory was going to have a
mechanised plant to do the work that these
workers had been doing manually.
Stuartpuram, of course, was officially not
called a criminal tribes settlement any more,
and the community, Yerukulas, were not
criminal tribes anymore – after indepen-
dence, the Criminal Tribes Act, under which
they had been notified by the colonial
administration, had been repealed. Salva-
tion Army, now a much depleted
organisation both as far as its authority and
number of personnel were concerned, was
still operating there with a hospital, a school
and other welfare activities.
I spent a long time with the community,
both men and women talking about their
work in the tobacco factory, the various
strikes they had conducted to protest against
the mechanisation and so on. The workers
were articulate, and talked a great deal
about their experience with ILTD and were
quite emphatic about the unfavourable
partisan role of the Salvation Army in their
struggle with the company. They also freely
expressed their views on the factory
management’s mechanisation plans which
would now make them redundant.
During my stay at the settlement, I noticed
that in their leisure time the children and
the adults would sing. Sometimes after the
day’s work, they would gather together
and tell each other long tales with much
enthusiasm. Slowly I learnt that the stories
they told so often were different sagas of
how their forefathers were dangerous
criminals; how the Salvation Army had
worked tirelessly and selflessly for them
for decades; how the tobacco factory had
weaned their forefathers away from an
earlier life of crime, by giving them employ-
ment and so on. Their songs, I found, were
those taught by the Salvation Army in
praise of Christ.
2560
I wondered how this had happened. When
they were so clear about their present
destiny, and relationship vis-a-vis the
Salvation Army and the ILTD, why were
their narratives and songs in such a dif-
ferent tone as far as their past was con-
cerned? I knew by then from official records
that this community had been an itinerant
one for generations before they were in-
terned in this settlement – in fact, the
village community around the settlement
remembered their salt and grain trade, and
other activities. However, there were no
traces of this relatively recent past etched
on their memories in any form. There were
no songs or folklore, which in any way
reflected links with their earlier itinerant
life, or their earlier work. Their stout denial
of an itinerant past intrigued me as much
as their assertions of an earlier dangerous
criminality – and I could not understand
this phenomenon till quite recently, when
I stumbled upon some official publica-
tions of the Salvation Army.
Since I am discussing a community here
which was unlettered, and has not left
behind any written records, its own folk-
lore (as also folklore about it) becomes an
extremely important source of data to
understand a whole range of issues. It also
becomes very crucial to pose some of the
following questions: whether the compo-
nents of this folklore originated from inside
the community, by and large, or from
outside; if the latter, then was it an invol-
untary, ‘natural’ or gradual transforma-
tion/assimilation of versions of their past,
or were some of these consciously or
‘artificially’ introduced; whether the folk-
lore of the community, in however small
a way, is a positive reading of its own past,
or does the new version/s undermine its
confidence or resources to fight its dis-
abilities of the present; have stories or tales
about a community, which pass off as its
history with outsiders, become a part of
the community’s own historic memory?
And equally, whether subsequent genera-
tions of that community keep these nar-
ratives alive by making such versions a
part of their own oral tradition.
Reproduced here is a poem, which
appeared in the Salvation Army news-
paper, The War Cry (February 1916). It
was called – ‘The Crim as we find him
in the Telegu country’. It appeared in 1916,
a few years after Stuartpuram settlement
had been established. It stands by itself,
has no explanation or prose narrative to
go with it, and is written by a Major
Anandham, a non-Indian Salvation Army
Economic and Political Weekly
officer. (The Salvation Army officials
always took local names, but never from
the ‘criminal’ communities with which
they worked.) Parts of this poem are re-
produced here:
Come listen to me for a moment or more,
For I am a ‘crim’, yes, I am a ‘crim’;
There are records against me, yes, more
than a score,
I belong to the criminal kind.
I live most by plundering other men’s
goods,
For I am a ‘crim’, yes I am a ‘crim’;
My home is in the jungle way off in the
woods,
Oh, I am of the criminal kind.
I watch out for travellers ‘long lonely
bye roads,
Oh, I am a ‘crim’, yes I am a ‘crim’;
And many a ‘hold up’ I’ve done on the
road,
That’s the life of the criminal kind...
Away to the jungle and off to the fair,
I’m only a ‘crim’, I’m only a ‘crim’,
There is booty and plenty awaiting me
there,
I belong to the criminal kind.
The reader would have noticed that there
is first person address used here – the ‘I’
dominating the narrative. The Salvation
Army muse here is putting forward the
supposed point of view of the Yerukulas,
but from the point of view of an individual.
Coming to the second edition of the
poem which is written about a decade later,
it is found to be much edited, changed and
added to. It appears in a book of over 300
pages, written for an international audi-
ence by Booth Tucker, now the head of
Salvation Army. The book in which it
appears is called Mukti Fauj or Forty Years
with the Salvation Army in India.47 It is
a part of a chapter called ‘Criminocurology’,
and has a long prose narrative before and
after. The content of this narrative is al-
most entirely the unfolding of a success
story that Booth Tucker has to tell.
The interesting point about the location
of this poem is that it is surrounded with
prose which has important details. Here
there is discussion of the tremendous
resistance that the Yerukulas offered to
their sedentarisation, to conversion to
Christianity, or work on land or in facto-
ries. The poem, however, is quite beatific
and ecstatic in tone, as if the Salvation
Army just came and conquered. Perhaps
the problems could now be talked about,
once it is a success story, a story with a
July 8-15, 2000
happy ending. But still, lack of any resis-
tances in the poem is interesting as this
poem, in all essential particulars, represented
the myth which the Yerukulas accepted;
the resistance which actually took place on
the ground was never a part of the myth.
Reproduced here are parts of the poem
which are newly added to the earlier version,
most likely not by the original author but
some more senior bard in the Salvation Army.
I’ve oft been to prison and tasted their
fare,
For I am a Crim, yes, I am a Crim!
Learned more of my business profession
while there,
Seeing mine is a criminal mind.
And when I get out into freedom again,
I, who am a Crim, I, who am a Crim!
I fool the police, with their cleverest men,
Oh, I’m of the criminal kind!
The longer I follow, the more I delight,
In this life of a Crim, this life of a Crim!
To rob and to plunder, by day and by night,
This life of a criminal kind.
Here the criminal is shown to be a worse
one than in the original version – he fools
the police with his cleverness, he even
learns new tricks of the trade in prison, and
in fact is also sadistic about his pursuit of
crime – “the longer I follow, the more I
delight”.
This is an important development – the
criminal is now shown to be much more
dangerous in retrospect, though he has in
fact been steadily reforming for the last
decade in the settlement. At one level it
is understandable – the Salvation Army
has to show its international audience how
unpromising the initial raw material was,
to heighten the fact of their success with
them. Alternatively, may be the settlers
seemed more criminal as they were ac-
tively resisting the Salvation Army when
this poem was being rewritten. But in real
terms, the new version was an improve-
ment on the earlier one.
In the second edition of the poem, there
is an actual break in the narrative when
the Salvation Army enters the picture, both
symbolically and literally. This break, sepa-
rating the earlier and later lives of the
criminals, is achieved on paper by the
device of having the old and the new
sections separated by astericks and it is the
newly added section which heralds the
new man. It is interesting that this break,
symbolic and literal, was absent in the
earlier poem written a decade ago and in
some ways shows that even the Salvation
Army was aware of the rupture that took
Economic and Political Weekly July 8-15, 2000
place in the interim period, as far as the
Yerukulas’ past and present was concerned.
Thus goes the new section:
The Salvation Army now comes to our
aid;
With work for the Crim – yes,work for
the Crim!
And for us a pathway to Heaven has made,
For Tribes of the criminal kind...
They give us an offer of work we accept
’Tis work for the Crim – yes, work for
the Crim;
And soon at our task we become quite
adept,
We tribes of the criminal kind...
At last we wake up to the fact, and the
thought,
“I’m no longer a Crim! I’m no longer
a Crim!!
I’m living by industry, honestly wrought,
And have changed from the criminal
mind!”
The reader will note here that the ‘I’ of
the earlier poem has changed to ‘we’: there
has been great progress made in the inter-
vening years. In fact, the ‘we’ now in-
cludes not only the whole community of
say, the Telegu country, but “we, tribes of
the criminal kind”. (There were at least
3-4 million criminal tribe members in
India.) The poem, in fact, is no longer
called The Crim as we find him in the
Telegu country, but simply, The Crim.
Moreover, the ‘we’ of the poem now
includes not just those who have been
reformed but includes the Salvation Army
as well:
So all hands to work, through the storm,
or the calm –
We will rescue the Crim, we will rescue
the Crim –
And rid this fair land from a menace and
harm,
The tribes of the criminal kind.
There is not only distancing of the re-
formed ones from the unreformed ones,
there is now total identification the re-
formed members feel with the projects and
plans of the Salvation Army for all Indian
criminal tribe members. The newly re-
formed man is grateful that the Salvation
Army has given him an opportunity to
work honestly, and give up a life of crime.
This is quite interesting, as when I had
spoken to the Yerukulas in the 1980s, I found
that the content of the two poems is exactly
that they also believed: We were danger-
ous criminals, the Salvation Army came
along, gave us work, and we were reformed.
One can speculate on what happened.
Did they really mean what they said? Were
their own stories believed by them? Where
were their earlier tales? Why is their present
memory devoid of their past? There are
several possibilities.
Firstly, the Yerukulas of 1980s do not
have any stakes in their past, so they are
not going to intervene in versions of that
past; their energies are better deployed in
fighting for their present, which they were
doing. (As mentioned in an earlier section,
they were actively engaged in fighting
their retrenchment from the ILTD factory
in thousands.) Perhaps their emphasis on
past criminality is to bring to others’ notice
their present non-criminality – a sign that
they are still not free of the stigma of
criminality by communities around them.
It is also possible that talking about their
past dangerous criminality, their ability
once to ‘hold up’ those in power and
terrorise them, gives them a sense of power
today: ‘We were also powerful once’ – a
sign of their powerlessness in the present.
Another possibility is that this is myth-
making of their own. Belief in their earlier
criminality rationalises their current situ-
ation of vulnerability and poverty: ‘Be-
cause we were criminals in the past, we
deserve our present miserable fate’. There
is also a touch of both defiance and relief
in their loud assertions of past criminality:
‘No one can harm us at least today’. And
finally, may be by resigning themselves to
this version of their history they will be
left in peace by the Salvation Army, or the
ILTD, or whoever might challenge an
alternative memory of their history.
These were some possible explanations
as far as their assertions of past criminality
are concerned. About their inability or
refusal to remember their itinerant past, it
is probably an expression of their discon-
tent with that way of life. As discussed
earlier in the paper, they were becoming
increasingly marginalised, and begun to be
dispensable to the local communities. Even
before the Criminal Tribes Act was for-
mally instituted, at least two or three
decades before that, they had become
vulnerable to police harassment and extor-
tions. Perhaps they finally found peace
once they were sedentarised, though it was
not in a criminal tribe settlement they would
have liked to become sedentary.
These are mere speculations. The expla-
nation for this collective denial of a col-
lective history, and blanking out of col-
lective memory of their folklore reflecting
an earlier life, is probably a combination
of all these but around one major fact: there
2561
was a severe rupture in the continuity of
their lives once they came to the settlement.
Folklore and songs and tales can only
survive in a lived community life, and one
with some continuity, however flimsy, with
an earlier life. Under the Salvation Army,
in a criminal tribe settlement, the community
life was totally broken up and their forced
transformation into disciplined wage
workers took a toll of their cultural resources.
To repeat here some of what was dis-
cussed in an earlier section, firstly and
most importantly, from being considered
useful if not honourable people, they were
officially declared predators on the larger
society. Then, their itinerant mode of
existence was replaced by settled life. The
community as a unit was broken into
families, which were now the operational
social and economic units. The men’s
trading activities were replaced by forced
work on land and later in the tobacco
factory, and the women first forcibly
confined to the home, and then forced to
become factory workers. Their earlier social
practises were considered barbaric and
substituted with ones more acceptable to
Victorian and brahminical notions of re-
spectability; the women lost their relative
egalitarian position in the community, and
became increasingly subordinated to men.
Moreover, their children were taken away
from them – who could they tell tales to, or
sing songs to? It was a fractured commu-
nity life, with broken bonds and ties. The
settlement discipline allowed no meetings
larger than six people at a time, except under
the Salvation Army eyes. In any case, there
could not be the leisure for telling of tales
or singing of songs – both the men and
the women worked up to 16 hours a day.
In other words, there were several con-
vulsions of engineered and sudden change
in the continuity of their lives, and breaches
with the immediate past. What remained
of a community was more a confederacy,
created by the punitive discipline and the
application of the Criminal Tribes Act.
The social and cultural resources, gathered
over generations were probably irrepairably
destroyed with the violence of change that
each of the breaches implied. The system
of relationships and other social balances
that communities evolve to sustain them-
selves seem to have been wiped out in this
particular case because of a lack of con-
tinuity between the present and the past.
Ironically, it was not until both men and
women began work in the tobacco factory
that some semblance of a collective or
community identity began to emerge again,
2562
because of a shared environment, however
restrictive. By then, however, it appears
that their past history had already been
rewritten in their memories.
There is a clue to the gradual way in
which a rupture from their past took place.
Their real lived experience, once they were
beginning to be labelled criminals, was at
complete variance with their earlier exist-
ence as legitimate traders. There was the
Salvation Army inside the settlement, and
if they managed to escape, the police
outside. In fact, the police were a major
constituent of their new psyche, as the
possibility of a life outside the settlement,
if they managed to escape, was clouded
with their ubiquitous presence.
They hunted me, haunted me, hounded
me ever,
I was a ‘crim’, they said I was a ‘crim’;
And my honest intentions were scorned
all the more,
I was branded the criminal kind.
So I gave up my struggle and thought
it my lot,
For I was a ‘crim’, yes, I was a crim,
With the rest of my fellows, the Sircar
I fought,
Being marked as the criminal tribe.
The rupture is also expressed in a telling
manner in the following two instances that
Booth Tucker told his international audi-
ence in an amused manner, fully aware that
absconding from the settlement spelt ter-
ror for the settlers: “One of our women
officers was conducting a meeting amongst
a number of tribesmen. She had been
speaking to them...about the necessity of
resisting the temptations of Satan. “Who
is your greatest enemy?” she asked. “The
Police”. “But, I mean, your spiritual enemy,
the enemy of your souls.” They persisted,
however, in repeating the answer. The
officer was forced to change the subject
and had to give them a chorus to sing
instead [Tucker nd:13].
Recounting another instance, he recalled
that a Salvation Army officer asked his
Yerukula pupils, “I have a friend that’s
ever near – never fear. What does that mean?”
“Don’t be afraid of the police, god will look
after you”, came the prompt reply (ibid).
But the most poignant is the way, before
the rupture became complete, their prayers
changed which used to be for the peace of
their dead and the health of their children:
“Spirits of our fathers, help us. Save us
from the government and shut the mouths
of the police” (ibid:12).
So this was the mental soil on which so
Economic and Political Weekly
powerful a myth, so convincing a version
of another history could be sown. The
important point to emphasise here is that
the Salvation Army had consciously spun
it, improved upon it, and intended to plant
it years before it was actually made their
own by members of the Yerukula commu-
nity. As indicated earlier, there was resis-
tance on the ground to the components of
this version while it was being spun.48
Now being passed on to new generations,
this new history faces no such resistance.
Ironically, the official records of the
British administration, the ILTD factory,
and the Salvation Army contradict much
of what the Yerukulas believe today. These
sources not only grant the Yerukulas an
‘honourable’ past, they speak of the resis-
tance that the community offered to forces
which challenged the legitimacy of its
existence at various stages. Equally ironi-
cally, it is the official sources which ac-
knowledge the lack of any real basis for
branding the community a criminal one.
The oral traditions of the community, which
are supposed to ‘recover’ an ‘authentic’ past,
reconstruct over and over again the criminal
that the larger society had once invented,
by passing on a constructed version of their
history to their children and grandchildren.
This version, as the paper attempts to show,
did not originate out of the way their actual
lives were lived, but was purposefully
introduced into the oral culture of the
community about seven decades ago.
It will be appropriate to end with what
the ‘Crims’ in the 1920s were meant to be
thinking of themselves and their situation
from the point of view of the Salvation
Army:
Now (work) is our watchword, from day
unto day,
There is hope for the Crim; there is hope
for the Crim,
We wipe from our minds our sad record
away,
We tribes of the criminal kind, (emphasis
added). EPW
Notes
[Earlier versions of this paper were presented at
Nehru Memorial Museum and Library, School of
Oriental and African Studies, Oxford and
Cambridge. I am grateful to the participants of
these seminars for very useful discussions and
comments. Issues raised in this paper have been
discussed with a large number of other scholars
and friends, some of whom have decisively
moulded the final shape. I thank all of them.
All the Government Orders (GOs) were consulted
at Tamil Nadu Archives and Andhra Pradesh
Archives. The Salvation Army documents were
consulted at the organisation’s archives at the
International Heritage Centre, London.]
July 8-15, 2000
 1 For an excellent account of gypsies in England,
see Mayall (1988).
2 For an account of their trading activities, see
Radhakrishna (1989).
3 Government of Madras, Administration Report
of the Forest Department (Southern and
Northern Circles), Madras Presidency for
1889-90, Madras, p 27. Revenue for grazing
went up from Rs 40,138 in 1883-84 to
Rs 1,43,845 in 1889-90, (Government of
Madras, Report of the Forest Committee,
Madras, 1912, Vol II, pp 7, 32).
4 A detailed analysis of the Report of the Salt
Commission, 1876, Madras, makes this fact clear.
5 This and the next para which follows draw
largely from Mayall (1988).
6 The local people must find the nomads quite
useful for the unusual wares they bring
periodically. Their various skills of weaving
mats or making baskets or playing musical
instruments, and more dramatically in the case
of acrobats and dancers make them a colourful
and interesting presence, in all probability
providing relief and diversion from the tedium
of daily routine.
7 I am grateful to David Washbrook for bringing
to my notice the point about taxing.
8 Banjaras were a community much more in
evidence all over India, unlike the Yerukulas
who operated only in the limited Telegu regions
of Madras presidency. In fact, Banjaras were
called the ‘exporters’ of grain and salt to
distant provinces and regions by the Madras
administration, and Yerukulas termed ‘local’
traders. Essentially, Banjaras were a
numerically larger community, operating on
a much larger scale, traversing a much larger
geographic area. For the same reason, they
escaped the Criminal Tribes Act for a longer
period compared to the Yerukulas, being
relatively less vulnerable.
9 Judl 239, September 24, 1918.
10 Judl GO 1071, Back nos 51-53, dt August 10,
1870. IGP to chief secretary to government,
Fort St George, Madras, May 19, 1870, No 3016.
11 For a detailed discussion of the process by
which the Yerukulas lost their varied means
of livelihood, because of a set of colonial
economic policies, see Radhakrishna (1989).
12 PWL GO 225L, February 26, 1929.
13 This essentially meant that the CT members,
as government policy, were to be parcelled out
to owners of mills, factories, mines, quarries
as workers, as also to plantation owners
[Radhakrishna 1989].
14 For a detailed discussion of some of the currents
which went into the making of the discipline
of Anthropology, see Radhakrishna (1997).
15 Home (Judl) 2764, dt November 23, 1916.
16 For a general discussion of this issue, see
Radhakrishna (1989).
17 For an account of the criminal tribe settlements,
see Meena Radhakrishna (1992).
18 The War Cry, London, June, 1913. The War Cry
was the official organ of the Salvation Army.
19 General Booth had spelt out his plans to salvage
the English poor in his detailed work In Darkest
England and the Way Out, (Salvation Army,
London, 1890). The criminal settlements in
India were inspired by those ideas
[Radhakrishna 1989:Appendix].
20 Salvation Army called Sitanagaram a sieve
through which the criminals had to pass and
be tested, and “only those who responded to
the treatment could find their Cannan in
Stuartpuram” (Judl GO 3219 (Mis), December
21, 1915).
21 Note on Stuartpuram settlement, Note, 1925.
22 Though the above was said of another section
of the Yerukula community in another Salvation
Army managed settlement, the same could be
Economic and Political Weekly July 8-15, 2000
said of Yerukulas in Stuartpuram as well.
23 According to the Salvation Army sources, it was
Rs 1,000 per acre (F Booth Tucker, Mukti Fauj
or 40 years with the Salvation Army in India and
Ceylon, Marshall Brothers, London, nd, p 232.)
24 Demi official letter from Guntur collector to
Stuart, Mermber of Council, March 20, 1915
in Judl GO 2509, October 14, 1915.
25 Notes to Judl GO 2509, October 14, 1915,
comments by inspector general of police.
26 Government of Madras, Administration Report
of the Labour Department, 1925-26, Madras.
27 PWL GO 2394L, August 23, 1929; PWL GO
2338L, August 19, 1930; PWL GO 1313L,
June 17, 1932.
28 The acreage under paddy almost doubled in
1928. Government of Madras, Administration
Report of the Labour Department, 1928-29,
Madras.
29 PWL GO 1147L, May 26, 1933.
30 Salvation Army records at Stuartpuram settle-
ment, Bapatla. Letter from manager to deputy
tahsildar, Chirala dated August 26, 1930. The
policy so far had been that the tenancy of the
family was taken away if its members were
found to be resorting to crime. This could not
be done if the family owned the land.
31 PWL GO 1147, May 26, 1933.
32 This society, called the Stuartpuram Yerukula
and Staff Tenants’ Cooperative Society came
into existence in 1926 and was free of
patronage, unlike other such societies, of the
labour department or christian organisations.
33 Government of Madras, Administration Report
of the Labour Department, 1934-35, Madras.
34 Government of Madras, Administration Report
of the Labour Department, 1932-33, Madras.
35 Devt GO 1315, October 27, 1933.
Commissioner of labour to secretary to the
government of Madras, Devt Department dt
October 1, 1933, enclosing lettter from the
ILTD manager to chief inspector of factories
dt July 22, 1933.
36 PWL GO 2671L, December 6, 1934.
37 Devt GO 1315, October 27, 1933.
38 PWL GO 2726L, December 17, 1935.
39 Government of Madras, Administration Report
of the Labour Department for 1934-35, Madras.
40 Judl GO 2308, September 22, 1916; Note, 1925.
41 The notion that this was primarily a woman’s
job seems to have not been confined to the
Salvation Army. It is interesting to note that
Yerukulas under a Roman Catholic priest
underwent a similar division of labour. Home
(Judl) GO 1534, June 14, 1916.
42 Booth Tucker, Mukti Fauj, nd, op cit, p 234.
43 PWD GO 1313L, June 17, 1932.
44 Home Judl GO 1759, August 5, 1918, Booth
Tucker to member of council, July 12, 1918.
45 Ibid. As the Salvation Army official put it, girls
who had been straightened out and cured of
drinking habits were sold to the highest bidder.
46 PWL GO 1654 L, July 6, 1928.
47 F Booth Tucker, Mukti Fauj, nd op cit, p 229.
48 Even according to the Salvation Army, “We
encountered many difficulties. The tribe was
nomadic and resented internment, nor did they
like the work in the quarries...In fact, they
objected to everything. Even the six hundred
donkeys which they brought with them entered
into the spirit of their non-cooperating masters”
(Mukti Fauj, nd, p 228). Another account
speaks of their ‘resentful mood’, ‘arguments
and scuffles’, ‘protestation and threats of
violence’ towards the Salvation Army officials
[Baird nd:131]. The records at the ILTD factory,
Guntur, and the official documents record the
assertion and resistance of the Yerukulas as
workers in the factory, especially after they
got organised as the ILTD Workers’ Union
[Radhakrishna 1989].
References
Achariar, M C Tiruvenkata (1926): History of the
Aziznagar Settlement, Dass Press, Virinddha-
chalam, p 2, 13.
Aiyyappan, A (1948): Report on the Socio-
economic Conditions of the Aboriginal Tribes
of the Province of Madras, Government Press,
Madras, p 47.
Ambirajan, S (1971): ‘Political Economy and
Indian Famines’, South Asian Studies, No 1,
August.
Baird, W Bramwell (nd): The Call of the Jackals,
Salvation Army Archives, London, p 281.
Bhattacharya, Sabyasachi (1965): ‘Laissez Faire
in India’, Indian Economic and Social History
Review, Vol II, No 1, January.
Deborah, Gaitskell (1994): ‘At Home with
Hegemony? Coercion and Consent in the
Education of African Girls for Domesticity in
South Africa before 1910’ in Dagmar Engels
and Shula Marks (eds), Contesting Colonial
Hegemony: State and Society in Africa and
India, British Academy Press, London.
Emsley, Clive (1987): Crime and Society in
England 1750-1800, Longman, London and
New York.
Government of India (GoI) (1878): Report of the
Indian Famine Commission, Parts I, II and III,
Vol I, p 49.
Government of Madras (GoM): A Memorandum
on the Madras Famine of 1866, Madras,
various years.
– (1926): ‘Note Showing the Progress Made
in the Settlement of Criminal Tribes in the
Madras Presidency up to January, 1925’,
Madras, p 63.
Jones, David (1982): Crime, Protest, Community
and Police in Nineteenth Century Britain,
Routledge and Kegan Paul, London.
Mayall, David (1988): Gypsy Travellers in
Nineteenth Century, Cambridge University
Press, Cambridge.
Nigam, Sanjay (1990): ‘Disciplining and Policing
the Criminals by Birth, Part I: The Making
of a Colonial Stereotype – The Criminal Tribe
and Castes of North India’, Indian Economic
and Social History Review, vol XXVII, no 2.
Parsons, Gerald (1988): Religion in Victorian
Britain, Vol I (Traditions), Vol II (Contro-
versies), Manchester University Press,
Manchester and New York, vol I, p 22.
Radhakrishna, Meena (1989): ‘The Criminal Tribes
Act in Madras Presidency: Implications for
Itinerant Communities’, The Indian Economic
and Social History Review, 26, 3.
– (1989): ‘From Tribal Community to Working
Class Consciousness: Case of Yerukula
Women’, Review of Women’s Studies,
Economic and Political Weekly, April 29.
– (1992): ‘Surveillance and Settlements Under the
Criminal Tribes Act in Madras’, The Indian
Economic and Social History Review, 29, 2.
– (1997): ‘Colonialism, Evolutionism and
Anthropology: A Critique of the History of
Ideas 1850-1930’, Research in Progress Papers,
History and Society, Nehru Memorial Museum
and Library, New Delhi, June.
Stepan, Nancy (1982): Idea of Race in Science:
Great Britain, 1800-1960, Oxford, Macmillan.
Tucker, F Booth (nd): ‘Criminocurology or the
Indian Crim and What to Do with Him: A
Report of the Work of the Salvation Army
among the Criminal Tribes, Habituals and
Released Prisoners in India’, Salvation Army,
London, p 43.
Watson, Bernard (1964): A Hundred Years’ War,
Hodder and Stoughton, London, p 145.
Yang, Anand A (ed) (1985): Crime and Criminality
in British India, University of Arizona Press,
Arizona.
2563

Adivasi Identity and Livelihoods in
Contemporary India
Budhaditya Das
E
very once in a while, news of sim-
mering anger and discontent travels
to metropolitan India from regions
that are otherwise only known for their
abundant natural resources, the absence
of vikas and the poverty of their resi-
dents. Most recently, there was the Path-
algadi movement in Jharkhand, where
Adivasi villagers declared self-rule by
erecting stone monuments and insisting
on self-governance as per the Fifth
Schedule provisions of the Constitution.
There are also ongoing agitations by
Adivasi students and youth in Telangana,
demanding the exclusion of one commu-
nity (the Lambadas) from the official list
of Scheduled Tribes (STs) in the state.
These are periodic reminders that despite
constitutional protections and affirma-
tive action, all is not well with the 100
million people in the country who are
variously known as tribes, indigenous
communities or Adivasis. Indeed, there
is considerable evidence to suggest that
Adivasis remain at the lowest rungs of
the social hierarchy and fare even worse
than Dalits (Scheduled Castes) and other
marginalised groups in terms of human
development.
There is a continuing need for policy-
makers, academics and civil society
organisations to engage with the “Adivasi
question,” that is, the cross-cutting themes
of land and forest, economy and culture,
identity and collective action that shape
the lives of more than 700 communities.
The two volumes under review are recent
additions to a rich body of academic work
on the Adivasi question, most notably
from the disciplines of anthropology,
sociology and history. Scholarship on
Adivasi communities has been historically
intertwined with state-making projects;
the first tribal ethnologies were produced
by administrators and military officials
when the colonial state was seeking to
expand its rule over frontier areas of
central and north-eastern India. The work
Economic & Political Weekly EPW JUly 28, 2018
Rethinking Tribe in Indian Context: Realities,
Issues and Challenges edited by Bidhan Kanti Das
and Rajat Kanti Das, Jaipur: Rawat Publications;
pp xiv + 230, `895.
Adivasis in India: Resources, Livelihoods
and Institutions edited by Kailash Sarap and
Venkatanarayana Motkuri, New Delhi: Bloomsbury;
pp xviii + 279, `999.
of nationalist anthropologists like Verrier
Elwin, G S Ghurye and Nirmal Kumar
Bose in the 1940s and 1950s, shaped the
contours of the “integration-or-isolation”
debate and influenced the state’s “tribal
policy”. The fracturing of the “Nehruvian
consensus” in the 1980s and new social
movements around dams, displacement,
and resource rights, forced scholars to
critically re-examine the long history of
tribal rebellions and insurgencies. With
interventions like the Subaltern Studies
Group, the Adivasi emerged as the quin-
tessential “primordial rebel,” resisting
the depredations of state and capitalist
modernity. It is in this vein that much
of the scholarship on Adivasis has
focused on their status as “victims” of
state developmental policies or as “agents”
participating in social change through
movements and collective action. There
is emerging evidence that different
groups within Adivasi communities—
youth, women, farmers, migrant labour-
ers, forest produce collectors—are engag-
ing with the state and with a rapidly
transforming rural and urban economy
with heterogeneous outcomes (Chandra
2016). Contributions to the literature
must be judged in terms of their engage-
ment with theory as well as their ability
to draw connections with changing em-
pirical realities.
Overview and Contents
The two edited volumes, Rethinking
Tribe in Indian Context (RTIC) and Adivasis
in India (AI), are both products of national-
level conferences held in Kolkata and
vol lIiI no 30
BOOK REVIEW
Hyderabad respectively. Contributors in-
clude senior scholars who have been
studying Adivasi societies for many years,
and early career academics and doctoral
candidates who have brought in insights
from their recent empirical studies. RTIC
is divided into six parts with 14 chapters,
apart from the introductory chapter.
Contributions to the volume focus on
issues of identity and indigeneity (five
chapters), inequality and development
(five chapters), forest rights and policies
(two chapters), and tribal politics and the
politics of autonomy (two chapters). Five
chapters are about specific tribes (Lepcha,
Nat, Paniyan, Santhal and Lodha), three
are located in geographical regions (North
Bengal, Tripura, Darjeeling hills), while
the remaining six are theoretical in
nature, drawing upon examples from
different cultures and contexts. The em-
pirical focus of RTIC is on Adivasi groups
in West Bengal, Sikkim and Tripura (with
only one chapter focusing on the Paniyan
tribe in Kerala). Methodologically, six
chapters are based on case studies, field
surveys and ethnographic studies carried
out by their authors, while four are based
on information from secondary sources,
and the remaining four chapters are
theoretical reflections. Several contribu-
tors in RTIC examine the concept of
“tribe” and the articulations of indigene-
ity in particular historical moments, that
is, the expressions of indigenous identity
in the context of anti-dam movements,
political demands for autonomy, and
electoral politics.
The second volume, AI, too has 14
chapters (excluding the introductory
chapter) but covers more ground in
terms of states and regions of India. Nine
of the 14 chapters are state-level or
regional-level studies (Madhya Pradesh,
Jharkhand, Odisha, Telangana and Andhra
Pradesh, tea gardens of Assam, Malabar
region in Kerala and the Dangs region in
Gujarat). Two chapters deal with interstate
comparisons (north-eastern states, Odisha
and Jharkhand), two focus on particular
tribes (Chenchu and Adiyan) and one is
a theoretical overview. In terms of issues,
half the chapters of AI (seven chapters)
are concerned with Adivasi labour, em-
ployment and livelihoods, while others
are devoted to mining-related issues
31
BOOK REVIEW
(two chapters), forest-based livelihoods
(two chapters), and development and
public policy (three chapters). There is
an emphasis on quantitative methods
and primary surveys in AI; nine out of 14
chapters are studies based on analysis
of data elicited from primary field-based
surveys. Three chapters are based on
analysis of secondary data (National Sam-
ple Surveys [NSS], and others) and the
other two chapters are based on second-
ary and historical sources. Collectively,
the chapters in AI emphasise the struc-
tural factors responsible for the poverty,
insecure employment and deprivation of
Adivasis in central and eastern India.
Through case studies, they point to pub-
lic policy failures and the processes by
which Adivasi communities lose their
access to land and forests.
The Authentic Adivasi
Indigenous communities, who share his-
tories of colonial rule and economic sub-
jugation, have asserted their presence in
global culture and politics in the 21st
century. The United Nations Declaration
on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples
(2007) is an important example of how
communities have sought to protect
their cultural identity and advance their
economic and political interests through
transnational mobilisations. At the same
time, there has been a long and vigorous
debate on the definitions of “indigeneity,”
with states, scholars and indigenous rights
activists seldom agreeing on a common
definition, or which communities can be
considered to be indigenous within the
framework of nation states. For instance,
the Indian government does not consider
the ST communities to be indigenous;
instead it argues on multilateral forums
that all Indians are indigenous and hence
rejects the applicability of international
frameworks of protection for ST commu-
nities. Since the idea of “indigenous” was
originally in reference to “first peoples”
in settler societies like North America and
Australia, the use of the concept in non-
settler societies of Asia and Africa has
been contested (Kingsbury 1998; Bowen
2000). Others have argued that shared
histories of subjugation and marginali-
sation in the colonial and contemporary
era are more integral to indigenous
32
identities than the bare fact of
autochthony (Hodgson 2002). The expe-
rience of being as well as becoming indig-
enous in the postcolonial world and under
conditions of neo-liberalism has been
extensively written about in diverse cul-
tural contexts (see, for example, de La
Cadena and Starn 2007; Hodgson 2011).
Contributors and editors of the RTIC
volume have not engaged with this liter-
ature, even though at least six chapters
have directly dealt with the challenges
of defining “tribe” and indigeneity in
India, and growing assertions of tribal
identity. Even though the authors express
their intent to go beyond narrow framings
of indigenous identity, the volume is
replete with arguments which suggest
otherwise. For example, “[a tribe] can no
longer keep aloft its ideal character”
(RTIC, p 1), or “[tribes in India] … differ
widely among themselves in terms of …
stages of social formation and level of
acculturation and levels of development
in which they are placed. This is not due
to the forces operating from within but
rather from outside” (RTIC, p 11). One of
the editors, who has also authored two
chapters in the book, compares the con-
cept of indigeneity in Africa, Australia
and India (in Chapter 4), without any
reference to existing debates on this
theme (for example, Hodgson 2002;
Pelican 2009; Trigger and Dalley 2010).
As a result, he argues,
equating tribes with indigenous societies
… gives scope for manipulation, twisting of
facts, claims and counter-claims, and ques-
tioning the very ground of authenticity based
on history and traditional continuity. (p 46)1
Contributors thus focus their ener-
gies on the absence of “authentic” tribal
societies in contemporary India, that is,
societies unmediated by politics and
entanglement with the non-tribal world.
However, most scholars of indigeneity
agree that the search for authenticity is
theoretically unproductive, even when
they sharply disagree on the usefulness of
the concept (indigeneity) itself (Kuper
2003; Kenrick and Lewis 2004). Similarly,
other authors too do not engage with
recent debates on the politics of indige-
neity in India and the varied conditions
under which marginalised communities
articulate their indigenous identities
JUly 28, 2018
(see, for example, the edited volumes,
Rycroft and Dasgupta 2011 and Karlsson
and Subba 2006). Historians and anthro-
pologists have commented upon the
colonial origins of the concept of “tribe” in
central and eastern India, and the histori-
cal construction of differences between
egalitarian “forest-dwelling tribes” and
hierarchical “peasant castes” (Guha 1999;
Damodaran 2006; Shah 2007; Banerjee
2016). It is surprising that none of these
well-known scholars find a mention in a
volume that seeks to rethink the category
of tribe in the Indian context.
The other theme running through
RTIC is a discussion of the performative
aspects of indigenous identity (myths,
folktales, traditional styles of dressing)
and in some cases, criticism of the “inau-
thentic” nature of such displays. For in-
stance, in a chapter on the autonomy
movement in Darjeeling (Chapter 6), the
author criticises the “growing tribalism”
in the Darjeeling hills for depending
upon “romanticised imaginations that …
reify the cultural characteristics of com-
munities” (RTIC, p 67) and refers to such
tribalism as a “self-defeating project of
identity politics” (p 68). Such criticism
misses the cultural politics of represen-
tation and recognition that has marked
the efforts of communities to gain a
foothold in the postcolonial Indian polity
and economy (Kapila 2008). Anthropo-
logists have long recognised that indige-
nous identity politics often assumes essen-
tialist positions; communities occupy the
“indigenous slot” or present themselves as
“native inhabitants” or “environmentalists”
in order to negotiate their claims upon re-
sources (Li 2000; Tsing 2007). Scholars
have debated the ethical and political
implications of indigenous essentialism,
and their own role in upholding or decon-
structing essentialist discourses of indi-
geneity (Bowen 2000; Li 2000; Sylvain
2014). Contributors to RTIC do not refer to
these debates, and therefore succumb to
measuring the complex realities of contem-
porary tribal politics against notions of
the “ideal” and “authentic” Adivasi.
Continuities and Change
As mentioned earlier, the second volume,
AI, focuses on livelihood struggles and
employment issues, and reiterates the
vol lIiI no 30 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

significance of labour, land and forests
in Adivasi economies. The introduction
by the editors is an overview of the pro-
cesses that have contributed to economic
marginalisation and their effects on Adi-
vasi society: casualisation of labour, low
returns from agriculture and poor levels
of human development. Different con-
tributors then go on to focus on individu-
al states or regions and the well-being of
Adivasi communities therein, through
studying indicators such as seasonal
migration (Chapter 2), participation in
the labour market (Chapters 3, 4, 8 and
13) or participation in trade union activi-
ties (Chapter 6). The picture that emerg-
es is a dismal one, where tribal commu-
nities pursue precarious livelihoods and
are incorporated in the capitalist econo-
my on adverse terms (plantation, mining
economy, wage labour). Public policies
like land distribution schemes (Chapter
14), Mahatma Gandhi National Rural
Employment Guarantee Act (Chapter 13)
and the Forest Rights Act (FRA) (Chapters
11 and 12) are of some consolation as they
act as safety nets and safeguard resource
rights, even as significant gaps remain in
implementation.
There can be no disagreement with
the inferences drawn by contributors
and editors of AI. Several expert com-
mittees appointed by the government
(including one chaired by one of the con-
tributors, Virginius Xaxa) have arrived at
similar conclusions with respect to the
social and economic status of Adivasi
communities, and the implementation
of laws like the Panchayats (Extension
to Scheduled Areas) Act and FRA (GoI
2008, 2010, 2014). However, Adivasi
households respond to the structural
constraints of their lives by exhibiting a
degree of mobility and flexibility with
regard to occupational choices and intra-
household allocation of labour. Given their
marginal landholdings, men and women
of a family pursue diverse activities round
the year, in order to minimise risks (from
morbidity, climactic and market variations)
and maximise household consumption.
These include self-cultivation, share-
cropping or tenant farming, agricultural
and manual labour, collection and sale of
forest produce, forestry and plantation
labour, and temporary migration to the
Economic & Political Weekly EPW JUly 28, 2018
urban informal economy. Ethnographic
accounts suggest that there is great sea-
sonal and annual variation depending
upon the access to resources (forests, land,
farm equipment, irrigation), availability
of economic opportunities (in different
markets) and labour composition of the
household (Shah 2010, 2013; Wadhawan
2013; Steur 2014).
Chapters in AI have been unable to
capture the dynamics of this inter- and
intra-household diversity, either because
they have focused only on one occupation
(tea plantation workers, coal miners,
agricultural labourers) or because the use
of national-level data sets (census, NSS)
does not yield an appropriately fine-
grained analysis. As a result, Adivasis
have been represented only as victims or
beneficiaries of particular development
policies without considering the ways in
which they exercise agency and make a
living through mobility and occupational
multiplicity. The NSS data suggests that
the rate of temporary and seasonal mi-
gration is highest among rural ST house-
holds in the country (Keshri and Bhagat
2012).2 Like other communities, Adivasi
youth across central and eastern India
are migrating to urban areas seasonally
to work at construction sites or as indus-
trial labour and domestic workers (Shah
and Harriss-White 2011). They are moti-
vated to do so not only because of the
absence of economic opportunities at
home,3 but also due to the possibility of
cash incomes and freedoms in the city
(Shah 2010).
Editors of the volume perhaps need to
rethink assertions such as “about 90%
(of tribal population) live in the coun-
tryside, very often in inaccessible re-
mote areas” (AI, p 4) and “for a majority
(around 70%) of the tribals living in
rural areas, agriculture and allied activi-
ties or primary sector are the prime
source of livelihood, and only a small
section depends on non-agricultural
activities” (AI, p 5).
Rethinking Adivasi Societies
The other dilemma that the AI volume
raises is a resurrection of the integra-
tion-vs-isolation debate. Most contribu-
tors seem to agree that, historically,
Adivasis have not benefited from their
vol lIiI no 30
BOOK REVIEW
engagements with the capitalist economy
and non-tribal society.4 However, the rea-
son for Adivasi poverty seems to also lie
in insufficient integration with modern
society—“poor or inadequate human
capital formation” (AI, p 15) or “agricul-
tural techniques and practices followed
in tribal areas remain primitive. Main-
stream technology and practices have
not reached tribal areas” (p 9). Similar-
ly, the state is blamed for “eroding the
livelihood base” of Adivasi societies (p 17)
and at the same time, policy prescrip-
tions for tribal development in the volume
rely upon effective state institutions and
efficient market and technological inter-
ventions (high-yielding variety seeds,
credit, irrigation infrastructure). Perhaps
a more nuanced account of Adivasi
encounters with the state is required
for the contemporary period, one that goes
beyond the narratives of a well-meaning
yet ineffective welfare state or an exploita-
tive, resource-grabbing state.
Recently, scholars have inaugurated
the field of “Adivasi studies,” that seeks
to reimagine Adivasi societies and their
relationships with state, modernity and
capitalism in new ways (Chandra 2015).
There is fresh thinking about Adivasi
subjectivity, regarding the distinctive ways
in which Adivasis exercise agency, inhabit
land and ecologies and how tribal autoch-
thony is historically produced (Demmer
2008; Banerjee 2016; Kar 2016). Histori-
cal as well as anthropological evidence
suggests that Adivasi groups have not
always confirmed to the image of “state-
avoiding” rebels. They have negotiated
with colonial and postcolonial states
over autonomy within the nation state,
affirmative action, land and forest rights.
As one scholar has argued, “Adivasi com-
munities across India are deeply entangled
within the logics of modern state power”
(Chandra 2016: 299). The Adivasi is sell-
ing her labour in the fields and in the
factory, availing state subsidies and mar-
ket opportunities, in order to increase
yields, send her children to school and
lead a better life (Deshingkar et al 2008).
Smallholders are working hard to over-
come structural constraints and grow
commercial crops in order to fulfil house-
hold and community aspirations (Finnis
2006). And even as private property,
33
BOOK REVIEW
contractual labour arrangements and
commercial agriculture gain currency in
places where they did not exist earlier,
non-market institutional forms and cus-
tomary relations of exchange continue
to exist in the transition to capitalist pro-
duction (Harriss-White et al 2009).
It is important that students of Adivasi
society move beyond binaries (tradition
vs modernity, isolation vs integration,
tribe vs caste), and analyse the cultural
and economic transformations occurring
in these societies through new lenses. It
is also essential that we turn a critical
eye towards the language we employ: for
example, “some knowledgeable tribals”
(RTIC, p 26), “the plight of slothful Adivasi
workforce” (AI, p 18) and the repeated
use of the word “primitive” when descri-
bing indigenous communities and their
way of life.5 Scholars need to interrogate
primitivist discourses that pervade dis-
cussions on tribal development, the belief
that Adivasis need to be “improved” and
“protected” under the paternalistic hand
of the government (Chandra 2013).6 The
volumes under review do this only to
a limited extent. However, the contri-
butors provide a very useful panoramic
view of tribal India and suggest numer-
ous lines of inquiry that can be taken up
by researchers in the future. Together,
the two volumes demonstrate that there
is a long way to go before the Adivasis
redeem their “tryst with destiny” and
are able to live a life of dignity, freedom
and security.
Budhaditya Das (das.budhaditya@gmail.com)
is with the School of Human Ecology at
Ambedkar University Delhi.
Notes
1 There are other statements that are vague and
simplistic: “That ‘indigeneity’ like ethnicity has
been reduced to a political concept is almost
a known fact” (RTIC, p 47); “The cultural
integrity of indigenous peoples holds little
meaning in the present situation unless it could
improve their political economy” (RTIC: 48).
2 Chapter 2 in AI also highlights the significance
of internal labour migration in the lives of
Adivasis in Madhya Pradesh.
3 For instance, in Chapter 4 (AI, p 86), the author
writes, “Today, there is lack of work in such occu-
pational fields [primary sector], which, in turn
has led to acute unemployment and livelihood
problems in tribal areas. Hence, there has been
unprecedented migration of tribes, especially
of youth, to cities in search of employment.”
4 For example, in Chapter 1 (AI, p 3), the editors
write, “In the integration process, tribals—an
otherwise self-governed and self-sufficient
34
subsistence tribal society/economy—have lost
control over and access to their customary land
and forest and other resources.”
5 Chapter 10 of AI repeatedly uses the word
“primitive” in the sense of being deficient and
pre-modern. “[T]here are certain tribal groups
in Odisha that are techno-economic backward
and relatively less acculturated.”
6 For example, “special endeavour on the part of
tribals is needed so that they could self-locate
themselves” (RTIC, p 3). “there is a need to moti-
vate the heterogenous tribal communities
through innovative educational strategies, gov-
ernment and civil society activism, and building
role models to bring them into the mainstream
and instilling confidence and self-respect in
them” (AI, p 22).
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pp 297–309.
Damodaran, Vinita (2006): “Colonial Constructions
of the ‘Tribe’ in India: The Case of Chotanagpur,”
Indian Historical Review, Vol XXXIII, No 1,
pp 44–75.
De La Cadena, Marisol and Orin Starn (2007):
Indigenous Experience Today, Oxford: Berg.
Demmer, Ulrich (2008): “Contested Modernities in
the ‘Tribal Zone’: The Postcolonial State, Adi-
vasi Politics and the Making of Local Moderni-
ty in the Northern Nilgiris (South India),”
Zeitschrift für Ethnologie, Bd 133, H 2, pp 257–
82.
Deshingkar, Priya, P Sharma, S Kumar, S Akter
and J Farrington (2008): “Circular Migration
in Madhya Pradesh: Changing Patterns and
Social Protection Needs,” The European Jour-
nal of Development Research, Vol 20, No 4,
pp 612–28.
Finnis, Elizabeth (2006): “Why Grow Cash Crops?
Subsistence Farming and Crop Commercializa-
tion the Koli Hills, South India,” American
Anthropologist, Vol 108, No 2, pp 363–69.
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Affected Areas, Report of an Expert Group to
Planning Commission, Government of India,
New Delhi.
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on Forest Rights Act, A Joint Committee of
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India, New Delhi.
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Socio-Economic, Health and Educational Status
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Affairs, Government of India, New Delhi.
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India, 1200–1991, Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
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dana Upadhyay (2009): “Institutional Diversity
and Capitalist Transition: The Political Economy
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of Agrarian Change in Arunachal Pradesh,
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parative Perspectives on the Indigenous Rights
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vol lIiI no 30 EPW Economic & Political Weekly
COMMENTARY
Access to Education
in Tribal Areas
Rethinking the Traditional Approach
Ashutosh Jindal
What are the challenges in
providing quality education
in hilly and tribal areas? This
article argues that the current
educational structures, even
when properly implemented, may
not meet the needs of students in
such areas. Based on a field study
in Tripura, it suggests a different
approach: the residential school
model in the inaccessible areas.
The views expressed are strictly personal and
not those of the government.
Ashutosh Jindal (a.jindal95@gmail.com) is an
IAS officer currently based in New Delhi.
24
A
s per the latest Annual Status of
Education Report (ASER) for
India, “2014 is the sixth year in a
row that enrolment levels are 96% or
higher for the 6–14 age group” (ASER
Centre 2015). While this is a satisfying
development at the national level, de-
spite the serious “quality” concerns
pointed out by the ASERs, this article
looks at the special needs of difficult
areas where even the “quantity” needs
of schoolgoing children have not been
met. It appears from the key findings of
the ASERs that the real challenge in the
future for public policy in the education
sector is how to address “quality” issues;
a slow but sure evolution from the earli-
er concerns about “quantity” issues and
the enrolment levels. But those concerns
remain for some parts of the country.
In Tripura—a state which I focused on
in an attempt at a more detailed analysis
of the problem—many schools have been
set up in difficult areas, school buildings
have been constructed and adequate
number of teachers have been posted in
those schools.1 But the schools do not ap-
pear to be functioning properly, particu-
larly in the villages in remote hilly areas.
A casual observer may dismiss this issue
as one of dereliction of responsibility by
individual teachers, but a careful analy-
sis suggests that the problems are more
systemic in nature.
Schools in Remote Areas
These schools meet both the criteria of
“supplywallahs” and “demandwallahs,”
to borrow the phrase from Abhijit Baner-
jee and Esther Duflo (2011). An analysis
of seven schools in Khowai District (all
located at a distance of more than 15 km
from the nearest state or district high-
way were selected for the analysis, to
obviate selection bias) reveals that each
of these schools has at least seven teachers
OCTOBER 10, 2015
and the number of students does not
exceed 200 in any of these schools. The
average student to teacher ratio is 10:1,
which looks good. When I visited one of
the remotest schools in Nonacherra vil-
lage,2 the only grievance of the local
tribal community was that the school
does not function properly. To a question
as to whether there were any other prob-
lems in this area, the village headman
responded, rather poignantly, that proper
functioning of schools was the only de-
mand of people in the village. This, when
the village has an acute drinking water
problem, not to mention the problem of
connectivity to the electricity grid.
If the supply issues seem to be ad-
dressed well and there is a strong de-
mand from the community for quality
primary and middle education, where
does the problem lie?
Geography and the landscape explain
part of the problem. Most of these schools
have only limited connectivity with a
motorable road up to a particular point.
After that, one has to walk to reach the
school. Hilly areas generally have a
large number of sparsely populated
hamlets spread across hills. It is not fea-
sible to set up school in each habitation
and a school is normally set up for five to
six habitations in a central location. For
the students, reaching the school involves
crossing hill ridges and local streams.
Given the inhospitable climate and
terrain, it is not uncommon, therefore, to
find only 20–30 students turning up on a
particular day. Low attendance levels lead
teachers, who in any case may be reluc-
tant to undertake the difficult journey
every day, to resort to a shift system.
Should we, therefore, set up a school
in each habitation? Absolutely not. A
school in each habitation is not viable,
nor is it a desirable proposition to spread
the resources too thin by setting up so
many schools.
Residential Schools: A Solution?
What is the way out, then? The commu-
nity itself provides an answer to the vexed
question. During the visit to Nonacherra
village, and curious to know how the
current educational needs of the villages
were being met, I found that most fami-
lies send their children to a nearby town
vol l no 41 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

for education. Hiring a room next to a
relatively well-established educational
institution is a common practice. The
relatively better-off families send their
wards to residential schools (very few in
number, set up by either the government
or the missionaries). Here lies the answer
to the question on ensuring access to qual-
ity education in tribal and hilly areas:
setting up residential schools. These
would not be very expensive as well.
For example, instead of setting up
three or four schools covering about 15
tribal habitations, if one were to set up a
residential school, the cost of a building
would be only slightly more than sepa-
rate buildings of the individual schools,
and the already available teachers in the
system would suffice for a residential
school with a minimum of 500 students.
There are other well-known advantages
of a residential school: inculcating sense
of discipline among the students, great-
er emphasis on co-curricular and extra-
curricular activities, and weaning away
Economic & Political Weekly EPW OCTOBER 10, 2015
students from the practice of private
tutors. The residential schools would
also ensure a critical mass of teachers,
for ensuring specialisation among the
teaching faculty in the sciences, social
sciences, psychology and economics, etc.3
It is not my intent to suggest “setting up
a residential school” as an innovative prac-
tice for this country. Residential schools
are already being set up under various
government schemes/programmes. Some
prominent examples are Eklavya schools
set up by the Ministry of Tribal Affairs in
tribal areas, and Navodaya Vidyalayas set
up at the rate of one per district. All these
schools, with some rare exceptions, are
immensely popular and have done well in
providing quality education to students
from inaccessible areas. What is required,
perhaps, is to institutionalise this practice
by setting up more such schools (rather
than through supply-side interventions
such as one school per district) by slowly
supplanting traditional schools in difficult
and hilly areas, in particular.
vol l no 41
COMMENTARY
To summarise, the traditional approach
of setting up a school on the basis of popu-
lation and covering identified habitations
has not worked well in rural areas with
hilly and difficult terrain. Instead, residen-
tial schools for a group of villages may not
just ensure full enrolment of students, but
also good learning and performance
levels in tribal students.
Notes
1 The data was collected in March 2014 with the
help of district administration. This exercise was
done in the Khowai District of the state of Tripu-
ra. The data was collected for seven elementary
schools located in the interior tribal areas (and
also the hilly tracts) of the district.
2 Nonacherra is one of the remotest villages not
only in District Khowai, but also in the state.
3 These inferences are based on interactions with
the villagers, the parents of many children and
the students themselves—over a period of time.
References
ASER Centre (2015): “Annual Status of Education
Report 2014,” 13 January, Pratham Network,
New Delhi.
Banerjee, Abhijit and Esther Duflo (2011): Poor
Economics: Rethinking Poverty and the Ways to
End It, Noida: Random House.
25
COMMENTARY
Adivasis and the Anatomy
of a Conflict Zone
Bastar 2016
Archana Prasad
Based on the field report of a
fact-finding team that visited
Bastar during 12–16 May 2016,
this article highlights the impact
of the long-standing armed
conflict between the state and the
Maoists on the Adivasi villagers
of Bastar and points out that
both are responsible for their
current vulnerable state. After the
visit the Bastar police has been
harassing and intimidating the
team members and their
local supporters.
The web version of this article
corrects a few errors that appeared in
the print edition.
This article is written on behalf of the study
team and has received valuable inputs from
members Nandini Sundar, Vineet Tiwari and
Sanjay Parate.
Archana Prasad (archieprasad11@gmail.
com) is Director at the Centre for Informal
Sector and Labour Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru
University, New Delhi.
12
O
n 21 June 2016, the Chhattisgarh
High Court ordered that the
body of Madkam Hidme be ex-
humed and a post-mortem conducted
which would be videoed. Hidme’s family
has alleged that she was raped and
killed in a fake encounter by police per-
sonnel on 13 June 2016 in Gompad vil-
lage, Sukma district. The police say that
she was a Naxalite and a member of the
“Kistaram Platoon Number 8.” The court’s
order was the result of a public interest
litigation petition demanding a judicial
probe into the incident (Ghose 2016),
which has yet again exposed the repres-
sion faced by local residents in this part
of the country and is the latest in a long
and continuing series of such incidents.
The high court order clearly shows that
the state government has not been follow-
ing the directives of the Supreme Court,
which in its order in Nandini Sundar and
Others v State of Chhattisgarh (2011; Salwa
Judum case) held that the Government
of Chhattisgarh and the union govern-
ment should cease to use all forms of
civilian counter-insurgency forces like
the Special Police Officers (SPOs) or Koya
Commandos to combat the Maoists and
“Naxalites” in Bastar. This judgment has
been considered a landmark in the history
of the conflict between the state and the
Maoists. It argues that (1) Naxalism,
Maoism and other forms of “Left Wing
Extremism” cannot be fought through
only a military strategy, but there is a
need to address the question of depriva-
tion and rights too; and (2) the human
rights of the Adivasis of the region were
being violated by both the Maoists as
well as the state.
Following this judgment, the Govern-
ment of Chhattisgarh intensified its mili-
tary offensive by using security agencies
june 25, 2016
like the Central Reserve Police Force
(CRPF) and the Border Security Force
(BSF). These agencies have not only
opened camps in the vast interiors of the
Maoist-dominated territories, but have
also been following a policy of compel-
ling villagers to surrender to the police
and then inducting them into the police
force both as informers and as members
of the auxiliary police force, which was
formed under the Chhattisgarh Auxiliary
Armed Police Force Act, 2011 (enacted to
circumvent the Court’s order). At the
same time, the Chhattisgarh government
also claimed that it had started several
developmental programmes and Jan
Jagran Abhiyans to win the trust of the
villagers, and that they were well on
course to winning the war against Naxa-
lism. But, our visit to Sukma’s Chintagufa
area in January 2016 showed that this is
far from the truth and that the atrocities
of the security forces were only increas-
ing day by day in the area. At the same
time, the Maoists have also accelerated
their coercion. The government’s strategy
of using the “surrendered Adivasi youth”
auxiliary force and the informers (doing
the work of erstwhile SPOs) as the first
line of defence has led to repression by
the Maoists of ordinary villagers. In this
situation, the villagers, caught between
the state and the Maoists, are at the rec-
eiving end of atrocities from both sides.
Given this background, a study team
comprising Archana Prasad (Jawaharlal
Nehru University), Nandini Sundar (Uni-
versity of Delhi), Vineet Tiwari (Joshi–
Adhikari Institute of Social Sciences) and
Sanjay Parate (Communist Party of India
[Marxist] Secretary, Chhattisgarh State)
visited four districts of Bastar division
during 12–16 May 2016. The main objec-
tive of the visit was to assess the impact
of the ongoing conflict between the state
and the Maoists on the Adivasi villagers
of the region, as also to investigate
reports of atrocities by the security forces
and the Maoists. The team visited villages
in Sukma, Bijapur, Bastar and Kanker
districts and found that the level of Maoist
presence and scale of state repression
varies somewhat across the districts. The
worst affected at the moment appear to
vol lI nos 26 & 27 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

be Sukma district, portions of Bijapur
district and the Darbha/Tongpal areas of
Bastar/Sukma district. But, irrespective
of the scale of Maoist presence, fake en-
counters, rapes and arrests by police and
security forces, beatings of villagers by
police and Maoists, and IED blasts and
killing of informers by Maoists are seri-
ous problems everywhere. All the pre-
liminary findings and conclusions of the
team should be seen in this context.
Material Context of Conflict
The historical underdevelopment and ex-
ploitation of Bastar has laid the founda-
tion of the growing conflict in the region.
During its visit, the study team tried to
ascertain whether the villagers were rec-
eiving the benefits of the schemes run by
the state government for areas affected
by left-wing extremism, and the general
conditions of survival in remote areas. It
ascertained information about the main
livelihood strategies, namely, agriculture,
collection of tendu patta (tendu leaf),
the public distribution system (for which
the state is famous), and the work gene-
rated through the Mahatma Gandhi
National Rural Employment Guarantee
Act (MgNREGA). Almost all the blocks
visited revealed one common feature: the
villages near the camps of the security
forces or where these camps were located
had better facilities than the ones that
were in the remote areas. This is largely
because the government is using develop-
ment as an incentive to get villagers to
cooperate with security agencies.
For example, in Somanpalli village,
the panchayat headquarters near the
road, all villagers have ration cards, get
about 45 days of MgNREGA work (at `160
per day), and have 15 days of tendu patta
work (getting `200 for 100 bundles).
They also sell about 50% of their rice
produced and make a profit of `2,500
per acre. The average size of land is
three acres. Overall, the family makes
about `1,300– `1,500 per month. In
another remote village, Tadmendri, of
the same panchayat (at a distance of 14
km on the forest road), the villagers
have not got any MgNREGA work since
2014. They also have to walk 14 km
for their rations and were not able
to produce anything on their land in
Economic & Political Weekly EPW june 25, 2016
2016 because of the drought. The house-
holds of this village barely make about
`1,000 per month.
There are other villages in the Koleng
panchayat, where villagers have not re-
ceived wages for MgNREGA work for sev-
eral years. The villagers informed us that
they completed work for making a road
six–seven years ago under the MgNREGA,
but have not been paid for it yet. There-
fore, when the contractor contacted
them to do the MgNREGA work recently,
they refused to work for him. A similar
story is seen in other villages too, where
villagers have not been paid under the
scheme for a long time. A look at the
MgNREGA website yields the following
data about the amount of work generated
for villagers in 2015–16 for selected pan-
chayats visited by the study team (Table 1).
Table 1: Work Generated for Villagers by
MGNREGA, 2015–16
Panchayat Person Days Number of Average Number of
of Work Active Workers, Days of Work
Generated, 2015–16
2015–16
Koleng 1,579 371
Soutnar 4,305 603
Sagmeta 10,810 318
Tongpal 2,539 235
Source: Ministry of Rural Affairs (nd).
The lack of work in the MgNREGA is
accompanied by machine-driven con-
struction of roads in the entire area.
However, the lack of MgNREGA work is
not only a function of the state govern-
ment’s inability to provide work and make
regular payments. The pressure from the
Maoists to stop this form of work also
creates fear in undertaking it. This year,
in one case, the Maoists detained villagers
for up to 12 days as punishment for coop-
erating with the district administration,
including demanding MgNREGA work.
The story of schools is similar. Since
the schools were earlier used as police
camps, their buildings have been de-
stroyed by Maoists in several villages.
During the Salwa Judum, the adminis-
tration moved all schools to camps and
has not restored them even when people
have gone back to their homes. One such
village is Mukabeli, whose ashram school
is now housed in Farsegarh, opposite the
security camp, more than 20 km away
from the actual village. Hence, develop-
mental work has suffered because of the
ongoing conflict between the Maoists and
vol lI nos 26 & 27
COMMENTARY
the state. The villagers are beaten up if
they cooperate with state schemes for
their own sur vival, and face the ire of
the security forces if they refuse to coop-
erate. In both cases, the victim is the or-
dinary Adivasi whose survival needs are
compromised in the current situation,
and whose lands are under threat of be-
ing taken away, especially in mining ar-
eas such as Raoghat of Kanker district.
Recording Instances of Violence
As mentioned earlier, the study team en-
countered several instances of Maoist
violence in the villages. In one village in
Kanker district there has been a history
of Maoist targeted killings since the mid-
1990s, and this has escalated in the last
few years. In Kumakoleng and Nama vil-
lages of Sukma district, the villagers nar-
rate how they face the harassment of the
Maoists. They agree that this harassment
has escalated in recent years. Though the
Per Person
conflict and tension in the area prevents
4.12
villagers from freely speaking about the
7.13 Maoists, it is clear that the Maoists’ target-
33.99 ing of “police informers” has increased in
10.80 the last few years.
On being repeatedly questioned about
the frequency of Maoist visits to the vil-
lages, at many places villagers said that
the Maoists have stopped coming regu-
larly to the villages since security forces
started patrolling. But, the visit and pre-
liminary findings make it clear that the
increase in tension in the region is a re-
sult of the heightened militaristic ap-
proach of the government. The more the
government intensifies its militaristic
offensive and civilian counter-insurgen-
cy strategy, the worse will be the vio-
lence of the Maoists. This evidence is
provided by the villagers, who even
demonstrated the medieval methods
used by the Maoists to beat them up.
Dimensions of State Repression
Perhaps the most revealing facet of our
Bastar visit has been the extent to which
the region has got fortified. As men-
tioned earlier, reports of fake encounters
and surrenders continued to pour in and
were investigated. A week before the
study team arrived in Sukma, two boys
from Marjum village were killed by
the security forces. The sarpanch of
13
COMMENTARY
Marjum, the anganwadi worker, family
members and other villagers confirmed
that the boys had nothing to do with the
Maoists, and that this was murder of
two innocent tribal boys by the police/
security forces.
There were several instances of forced
surrenders of people who had nothing to
do with either the local sanghams (village-
level units) or the dalams (armed squads)
of the Maoists. One such case is in Kanker
district near Amabeda, where two
brothers from the same family were
arrested for being Maoists. One of them
has since died. He had borrowed
`20,000 from other villagers to pay the
police the bribe they had demanded.
The villagers allege that a tiffin bomb
was planted in his house to prove that he
was a Maoist. The brother was picked up
three months ago. His wife died and his
three small children, two of them girls,
have been left helpless. The villagers
claim that both brothers had nothing to
do with the Maoists. The story of forced
surrenders is a curious one because some
villagers report that unemployed youth
declare themselves as Maoists, and then
surrender to get jobs. In a situation of
extreme unemployment and depriva-
tion, the security personnel use the
option of “fake” surrenders to lure the
unemployed youth.
Another aspect of repression is the
sexual exploitation of women by mem-
bers of the security forces. Before the
study team undertook its trip, it had re-
ceived several reports of rapes in Kanker
district. However, a visit to these villag-
es did not yield any details. In one vil-
lage, it appeared as if the villagers had
collectively taken a decision not to say
anything about the security forces out of
fear. Only one clear incident was report-
ed where a girl was repeatedly raped by
a BSF SPO and became pregnant. Her
pregnancy was discovered after she got
married to a third person. She was then
sent home and it was decided that the
SPO would pay `51,000, but even this
promise was not fulfilled. She even
wrote to the collector regarding her
case but no cognisance was taken of the
complaint. In fact, the SPO boasted
that “this was the reward for being
a police informer,” and that he had
14
been given the licence to commit these
types of crimes.
New Style of Salwa Judum
While the aspects of state repression de-
scribed above have been recorded by sev-
eral other visiting teams, this study team
also found an additional dimension in
the state strategy. It discovered that vil-
lages like Kumakoleng and Nama of Suk-
ma district were seeing the rise of a new
form of Salwa Judum. It was observed in
and around the Kanger Ghati National
Park—in Tongpal and Darbha blocks—
that the police were holding Jan Jagran
Abhiyans (the original name of Salwa
Judum), threatening villagers as well as
distributing all kinds of goodies to them,
including mobile phones, to have them
give information about the Maoists. This
is very similar to the origins of Salwa
Judum. In Kumakoleng village, 50 per-
sons were forced to “surrender” in March,
and are now living in different police and
CRPF camps. On 15 April, the police/CRPF
held a Jan Jagran Abhiyan in Kumako-
leng. On 17 April, the Maoists beat up vil-
lagers, including women, for asking for a
CRPF camp to come up near their village.
Two-thirds of the entire village of Kuma-
koleng has now fled and is living outside
the village for fear of Maoists.
In neighbouring Soutnar panchayat,
the villagers have resolved to keep the
Maoists out and have been patrolling the
villages with bows, arrows and axes for
the last three months. In the past, the
Maoists have beaten and killed people in
the village on the charge of being in-
formers. The villagers say that the police
have refused to set up camp, telling
them the Maoists will go away if they
patrol, thus making them vulnerable in
the first place and then leaving them to
their own devices. Given this situation,
the study team is extremely concerned
that such developments will lead to large-
scale divisions and displacement as had
happened during Salwa Judum, and urges
all parties to work in the best interests of
the Adivasi population.
Harassment of Study Team
The study team returned from Bastar to
Raipur on 17 May 2016. In the course
of its visit, it was continuously stopped,
june 25, 2016
followed, and questioned by the police.
As soon as the study team left Bastar, a
fabricated complaint was filed in the
name of villagers from Kumakoleng and
Nama, alleging that the team had gone
to these villages and threatened the
villagers that if they did not cooperate
with the Maoists, their villages would be
burnt and they would be killed. The
complaint also alleged that the study
team had gone to instigate the villagers
against the government. This unverified
complaint was posted by the district
collector on his personal Facebook page
and canards were spread through social
and electronic media about the “Maoist”
orientation of the study team.
The entire episode was even linked to
the fact that one of the professors was
from Jawaharlal Nehru University and
that it is natural that teachers and stu-
dents from this premier university
would be “anti-national” and “Maoist.”
Zee News went to town with a biased
and defamatory story. In fact, the villag-
ers have told reporters that they know
nothing of these complaints. A demon-
stration of “villagers” was organised by
the police outside Darbha police station,
followed by a letter dated 23 May 2016 to
the President, again in the name of these
so-called villagers, asking that the mem-
bers of the study team be arrested and
sacked from their jobs. On 27 May, mem-
bers of the Samajik Ekta Manch, a vigi-
lante group, organised a protest with
pictures of Archana Prasad and Nandini
Sundar, in Jagdalpur. The so-called vil-
lagers are actually SPOs or the people
who have already surrendered, and are
all under the control of the police.
The preliminary findings and the press
release (Factfinding May 2016 Bastar
2016) of the study team made its position
clear that both the Maoists and the state
were responsible for the existing situa-
tion. But the intimidation and witch-hunt-
ing has continued with serious consequ-
ences for the members of the study team.
What is worse is that all the local peo-
ple who accompanied the team are being
harassed beyond measure. Manju Kawa-
si, a member of the CPI, who accompanied
the team, was visited by the police at
midnight and asked to appear before the
Sukma and Kukanar police. Mangla, the
vol lI nos 26 & 27 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

local contact from Nama has been inac-
cessible since the incident took place, and
the car driver hired from Raipur has been
continuously hounded. These incidents
only show that the state government is
wary of any independent study groups
and does not want the voices of Adivasi
villagers to reach the outside world.
Way Forward
As already mentioned earlier, the study
team found that the state and the Mao-
ists are both responsible for the current
state of affairs in Chhattisgarh. This sit-
uation can only be remedied if demo-
cratic and transparent processes are
restored in the region. Hence, the study
team suggests that an all-party delega-
tion visit the region to hear the villagers
Economic & Political Weekly EPW june 25, 2016
and put pressure on the administration
and the Maoists to engage in a ceasefire
and come to the table for peace talks. A
monitoring committee should be set up
under the watchful direction of the
courts to take stock of fake encounters,
rapes, forced surrenders, and other state
atrocities. All fake encounters, forced sur-
renders and Salwa Judum-like counter-
insurgency programmes should be sto-
pped. The state must punish the guilty
officers and stop its military offensive in
order to facilitate peaceful development
of the region. On their part, the Maoists
should be pressurised to stop their re-
pressive tactics and should allow the vil-
lagers to undertake MgNREGA and other
work for their own survival. Political
pressure must be applied to make the
vol lI nos 26 & 27
COMMENTARY
Maoists realise that the only way
forward is to have peace talks. If this
does not happen, the Adivasis will
continue to be oppressed by both sides.
References
“Factfinding May 2016 Bastar” (2016): press rel-
ease, 20 May, viewed on 22 May 2016, https://
sabrangindia.in/sites/default/files/files/
factfinding%20may%202016%20bastar.pdf.
Ghose, Dipankar (2016): “Exhume Body of Sukma
Woman Killed in Encounter for Autopsy, Or-
ders Chhattisgarh HC,” Indian Express, viewed
on 22 June 2016, http://indianexpress.com/ar-
ticle/india/india-news-india/chhattisgarh-
naxal-woman-death-bastar-sukma-encoun-
ter-2867875/.
Ministry of Rural Affairs (nd): “Gram Panchayat
Module, Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Em-
ployment Guarantee Act,” Government of In-
dia, viewed on 22 May 2016, http://164.100.
129.4/netnrega/loginframegp.aspx?salogin
=Y&state_code=33.
Nandini Sundar and Others v State of Chhattisgarh
(2011): AIR, SC, p 2839.
15
 Special articles
Adivasis, Naxalites and Indian Democracy
This essay argues that adivasis as a whole have gained least and lost most from
six decades of democracy and development in India. It presents evidence that they are even
more deprived than the dalits. However, unlike the dalits, they have been unable to
effectively articulate their grievances through the democratic and electoral process.
The failures of the state and of the formal political system have provided a space
for Maoist revolutionaries to move into. After analysing the reasons for the rise of
“Naxalite” influence, the essay concludes that there is a double tragedy at work in tribal
India. The first tragedy is that the state has treated its adivasi citizens with
contempt and condescension. The second tragedy is that their presumed
protectors, the Naxalites, offer no long-term solution either.
RAMACHANDRA GUHA

O
n December 13, 1946, Jawaharlal Nehru moved the
Objectives Resolution in the Constituent Assembly of
India. This proclaimed that the soon-to-be-free nation
would be an “Independent Sovereign Republic”. Its Constitution
would guarantee citizens “justice, social, economic and political;
equality of status; of opportunity, and before the law; freedom
of thought, expression, belief, faith, worship, vocation, associa-
tion and action, subject to law and public morality”.
The resolution went on to say that “adequate safeguards shall
be provided for minorities, backward and tribal areas, and depressed
and other backward classes…”. In moving the resolution, Nehru
invoked the spirit of Gandhi and the “great past of India”, as
well as modern precedents such as the French, American and
Russian Revolutions.
The debate on the Objectives Resolution went on for a whole
week. Among the speakers were the conservative Hindu
Purushuttomdas Tandon, the right wing Hindu Shyama Prasad
Mukherjee, the scheduled caste leader B R Ambedkar, the liberal
lawyer M R Jayakar, the socialist M R Masani, a leading woman
activist, Hansa Mehta, and the communist Somnath Lahiri. After
all these stalwarts had their say, a former hockey player and lapsed
Christian named Jaipal Singh rose to speak. “As a jungli, as an
Adibasi”, said Jaipal,
I am not expected to understand the legal intricacies of the Resolution.
But my common sense tells me that every one of us should march
in that road to freedom and fight together. Sir, if there is any group
of Indian people that has been shabbily treated it is my people.
They have been disgracefully treated, neglected for the last 6,000
years. The history of the Indus Valley civilisation, a child of which
I am, shows quite clearly that it is the newcomers – most of you
here are intruders as far as I am concerned – it is the newcomers
who have driven away my people from the Indus Valley to the
jungle fastness…The whole history of my people is one of con-
tinuous exploitation and dispossession by the non-aboriginals of
India punctuated by rebellions and disorder, and yet I take Pandit
Jawahar Lal Nehru at his word. I take you all at your word that
now we are going to start a new chapter, a new chapter of
independent India where there is equality of opportunity, where
no one would be neglected.1
Sixty years have passed since Jaipal took Nehru and all the
others at their word. What has been the fate of his people, the
adivasis, in this time? This essay will argue that, in many ways,
the tribals of peninsular India are the unacknowledged victims
of six decades of democratic development. In this period they
have continued to be exploited and dispossessed by the
wider economy and polity. (At the same time, the process of
dispossession has been punctuated by rebellions and disorder.)
Their relative and oftentimes absolute deprivation is the more
striking when compared with that of other disadvantaged
groups such as dalits and Muslims. While dalits and Muslims
have had some impact in shaping the national discourse on
democracy and governance, the tribals remain not just marginal
but invisible.
I
There are some 85 million Indians who are officially classified
as “scheduled tribes”. Of these, about 16 million live in the states
of north-eastern India. This essay, however, focuses on the
roughly 70 million tribals who live in the heart of India, in a
more-or-less contiguous hill and forest belt that extends across
the states of Gujarat, Rajasthan, Maharashtra, Madhya Pradesh,
Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand, Andhra Pradesh, Orissa, Bihar and
West Bengal.
The tribes of the north-east differ from their counterparts in
other parts of India in several crucial ways. First, they have, until
the recent past, been more or less untouched by Hindu influence.
Second, they have, in the recent past, been exposed rather
substantially to modern (and especially English) education; as
a consequence, their literary rates, and hence their chances of
being advantageously absorbed in the modern economy, are much
higher than that of their counterparts elsewhere in India. Third,
unlike the tribals of the mainland they have been largely exempt

Economic and Political Weekly August 11, 2007 3305

from the trauma caused by dispossession; till recently, their
location in a corner of the country has inhibited dam builders
and mine owners from venturing near them.
There are, of course, many different endogamous communities
– more than 500, at last count – that come under the label
“scheduled tribes”. However, despite this internal differentiation,
taken as a whole the tribes of central and eastern India share
certain attributes – cultural, social, economic and political – that
allow us to treat them as a single segment, distinct not only from
north-eastern tribals but also from all other Indians. In everyday
language, this commonality is conveyed in the term “adivasi”.
It is not a word that can be – or is – used to describe a Naga
or a Mizo. However, it comes easily to one’s lips when speaking
of a Gond or a Korku or a Bhil or an Oraon. For these (and other)
individual tribes are nevertheless unified, in the Indian imagi-
nation, by some common characteristics. Usually, what they share
is denoted in cultural or ecological terms – namely, that these
“adivasis” generally inhabit upland or wooded areas, that they
generally treat their women better than caste Hindus, that they
have rich traditions of music and dance, and that while they might
occasionally worship some manifestation of Visnu or Siva, their
rituals and religion centre around village gods and spirits.
The basis for these everyday understandings of the adivasi lie
in a series of ethnographic monographs written over the years.2
From the perspective of Indian democracy, however, what unites
the adivasis is not their cultural or ecological distinctivenness,
but their economic and social disadvantage. As a recent book
by the demographer Arup Maharatna demonstrates, when as-
sessed by the conventional indicators of development, the adivasis
are even worse off than the dalits. For example, the literacy rate
of adivasis is, at 23.8 per cent, considerably lower than that of
the dalits, which stands at 30.1 per cent. As many as 62.5 per
cent of adivasi children who enter school dropout before they
matriculate; whereas this happens only with 49.4 per cent of dalit
children. While a shocking 41.5 per cent of dalits live under the
official poverty line, the proportion of adivasis who do so is even
higher – 49.5 per cent.
With respect to health facilities, too, the adivasis are even more
poorly served than the dalits. Among the tribals 28.9 per cent
have no access whatsoever to doctors and clinics; for dalits the
percentage is 15.6 per cent. Among tribal children 42.2 per cent
have been immunised; as compared to 57.6 per cent of dalit
children. Again, 63.6 per cent of dalits have access to safe
drinking water, as against 43.2 per cent of tribals.3
On the one hand, by not providing them with decent education
and healthcare, the government of India has dishonoured its
constitutional guarantee to provide the adivasis equal opportu-
nities for social and economic development. On the other hand,
the policies of the government have more actively dispossessed
very many adivasis of their traditional means of life and live-
lihood. For the tribals of the mainland live amidst India’s best
forests, alongside many of its fastest-flowing rivers, and on top
of its richest mineral resources. Once, this closeness to nature’s
bounty provided them the means for subsistence and survival.
However, as the pace of economic and industrial develop-
ment picked up after Independence, the adivasis have increas-
ingly had to make way for commercial forestry, dams, and
mines. Often, the adivasis are displaced because of the
pressures and imperatives of what passes as “development”;
sometimes, they are displaced because of the pressures and
imperatives of development’s equally modern Other: namely,
3306
“conservation”. Thus, apart from large dams and industrial
townships, tribals have also been rendered homeless by national
parks and sanctuaries.4
How many adivasis have lost their homes and lands as a result
of conscious state policy? The estimates vary – they range from
a few million to as many as 20 million. Even if we cannot come
up with a precise, reliable number, to the question “How many
tribals have been involuntarily displaced by the policies of the
government of India”, the answer must be: “Too many”. The
sociologist Walter Fernandes estimates that about 40 per cent
of all those displaced by government projects are of tribal origin.
Since adivasis constitute roughly 8 per cent of India’s population,
this means that a tribal is five times as likely as a non-tribal to
be forced to sacrifice his home and hearth by the claims and
demands of development and/or conservation.5
Adivasis were displaced from their lands and villages when
the state occupied the commanding heights of the economy. And
they continue to be displaced under the auspices of liberalisation
and globalisation. The opening of the Indian economy has had
benign outcomes in parts of the country where the availability
of an educated workforce allows for the export of high-end
products such as software. On the other hand, where it has led
to an increasing exploitation of unprocessed raw materials,
globalisation has presented a more brutal face. Such is the case
with the tribal districts of Orissa, where the largely non-tribal
leadership of the state has signed a series of leases with mining
companies, both Indian and foreign. These leases permit, in fact
encourage, these companies to dispossess tribals of the land
they own or cultivate, but under which lie rich veins of iron ore
or bauxite.
II
The sufferings of the adivasis as a consequence of deliberate
state policy have been underlined in a series of official reports
down the decades. A decade after Independence, the home
ministry constituted a committee headed by the anthropologist
Verrier Elwin to enquire into the functioning of government
schemes in tribal areas. It found that the officials in charge of
these schemes “were lacking in any intimate knowledge of
their people [and] had very little idea of general policies for
tribal development”. Worse, there was “a tendency for officials
to regard themselves as superior, as heaven-born missionaries
of a higher culture. They boss the people about; their chaprasis
abuse them; in order to ‘get things done’ they do not hesitate
to threaten and bully. Any failure is invariably placed at the
tribal door;… the Block officials blaming everything on the
laziness, the improvidence, the suspiciousness, the superstitions
of the people”.
After studying 20 blocks spread across the country, the com-
mittee concluded that “of the many tribal problems the greatest
of all is poverty”. Much of the poverty and degradation they saw,
said the committee, was
the fault of us, the “civilised” people. We have driven [the tribals]
into the hills because we wanted their land and now we blame
them for cultivating it in the only way we left to them. We have
robbed them of their arts by sending them the cheap and tawdry
products of a commercial economy. We have even taken away
their food by stopping their hunting or by introducing new taboos
which deprive them of the valuable protein elements in meat and
fish. We sell them spirits which are far more injurious than the
Economic and Political Weekly August 11, 2007
 home-made beers and wines which are nourishing and familiar
to them, and use the proceeds to uplift them with ideals. We look
down on them and rob them of their self-confidence, and take away
their freedom by laws which they do not understand.6
Not long afterwards, the senior congressman (and former
Congress president) U N Dhebar was asked to chair a high-
powered committee to look into the situation in tribal areas. Its
members included six members of Parliament (among them
Jaipal Singh), and some senior social workers. The committee
identified land alienation, the denial of forest rights, and the
displacement by development projects as among the major
problems facing the adivasis.7 Sometimes, state policy had failed
to come to the rescue of the tribals; at other times, it had only
worked to impoverish them further. The state machinery had been
unable to prevent the loss of land to outsiders, or to check the
exploitative activities of moneylenders. Meanwhile, the major
power projects and steel plants set in motion by the Five-Year
Plans had “resulted in a substantial displacement of the tribal
people”. The committee was concerned that this form of
industrial development would “sweep [the tribals] off their
feet…We have to see that the foundations of tribal life are not
shaken and the house does not crash”. Because of the dams and
mills already built,
The tribals were dislodged from their traditional sources of liveli-
hood and places of habitation. Not conversant with the details of
acquisition proceedings they accepted whatever cash compen-
sation was given to them and became emigrants. With cash in hand
and many attractions in the nearby industrial towns, their funds
were rapidly depleted and in course of time they were without
money as well as without land. They joined the ranks of landless
labourers but without any training, equipment or aptitude for any
skilled or semi-skilled job.
The Dhebar Committee’s most eloquent passages concerned
the suppression of tribal rights in the forest. As a consequence
of the forest laws introduced by the British, and continued by
the governments of independent India, “the tribal who formerly
regarded himself as the lord of the forest, was through a deliberate
process turned into a subject and placed under the forest depart-
ment”. The officials and their urban conservationist supporters
claimed that in order to protect the forests the adivasis had to
be kept out. The Dhebar Committee commented:
There is constant propaganda that the tribal people are destroying
the forest. We put this complaint to some unsophisticated tribals.
They countered the complaint by asking how they could destroy
the forest. They owned no trucks; they hardly had even a bullock-
cart. The utmost that they could carry away was some wood to
keep them warm in the winter months, to reconstruct or repair
their huts and carry on their little cottage industries. Their fuel-
needs for cooking, they said, were not much, because they had
not much to cook. Having explained their own position they
invariably turned to the amount of destruction that was taking place
all around them. They reiterated how the ex-zamindars, in violation
of their agreements, and the forest rules and laws, devastated vast
areas of forest land right in front of officials. They also related
how the contractors stray outside the contracted coupes, carry loads
in excess of their authorised capacity and otherwise exploit both
the forests and the tribals.
There is a feeling amongst the tribals that all the arguments in
favour of preservation and development of forests are intended
to refuse them their demands. They argue that when it is a question
of industry, township, development work or projects of rehabili-
tation, all these plausible arguments are forgotten and vast tracts
Economic and Political Weekly August 11, 2007
are placed at the disposal of outsiders who mercilessly destroy
the forest wealth with or without neccesity.
Already, by the 1960s, reports commissioned by the govern-
ment of India were demonstrating the utter failure of the state
in providing a life of dignity and honour to its tribal citizens.
Nor was this a generalised critique; rather, the specific problems
faced by the adivasis were identified – namely, callous and
corrupt officials, the loss of land, indebtedness, restrictions on
the use of the forest, and large-scale displacement. The evidence
offered in these (and other reports) should have called for a course
correction, for the formation and implementation of policies that
ensured that India’s industrial and economic development was
not to be at the cost of its adivasi citizens.
That these reports and their recommendations would be met
with a deafening silence had not been unanticipated. As the Elwin
Committee noted, past reports on tribal problems had been
“ignored in practice”. It “is extraordinary”, it commented, “how
often…a recommendation sinks into the soulless obscurity of an
official file and is heard of no more”.8 Or at least not for another
20 or 30 years. For in the 1980s another series of official reports
commented strongly on the continuing deprivation of the adivasis.
These were written by the then commissioner for scheduled castes
and scheduled tribes, B D Sharma, a civil servant with wide
experience of working with and alongside tribals. As documented
by Sharma, the major problems faced by tribals were still land
alienation, restrictions on their use of forests, and displacement
by dams and other large projects. He pointed out that “the tribal
people are at a critical point in their history...”. They were “losing
command over resources at a very fast rate but are also facing
social disorganisation which is unprecedented in their history”.
And yet the “tales of woes from tribal areas are hardly heard
outside. And when they come they are not taken seriously...”.
What was worse, “the State itself sometimes tends to adopt
a partisan role and become a privy even for actions not
quite legal simply because the matter concerns voiceless small
communities”.9
This time, the government’s response to these well documented
and soberly worded indictments was to refuse to table the reports
in Parliament.
III
Those are some facts about the neglect and exploitation of the
adivasis in independent India. Let me turn now to the history
of rebellion and disorder. In the colonial period there were major
rebellions in tribal areas, as for example the Kol and Bhumj
revolts of the early 19th century, the Santhal ‘hool’ of 1855, the
Birsa Munda-led ‘ulugulan’ in the 1890s, the uprising in Bastar
in 1911, the protests in Gudem-Rampa in the 1920s, and the Warli
revolt of 1945-46. Most often, these protests had to do with the
alienation of land or the expropriation of forests. They were
quelled only with the use of force, often very substantial force.10
The first two decades after Independence were, comparatively
speaking, a time of peace in tribal India. Perhaps, like Jaipal
Singh, most adivasis took the government at its word that with
freedom a new chapter would begin, where “there is equality
of opportunity, where no one would be neglected”. However,
as the evidence mounted that the benefits of development were
unevenly distributed, and that the costs were borne dispropor-
tionately by tribal communities, discontent began to grow. Thus,
for example, there was a major uprising of adivasis in Bastar
3307
in 1966, led by their recently deposed maharaja, Pravir Chandra
Bhanj Deo. Then, in the 1970s, a militant movement took shape
in the tribal districts of Bihar, demanding an end to exploitation
by moneylenders and the forest department, and asking also for
the creation of a separate state to be named “Jharkhand”. In the
same decade, tribals in Maharashtra were organised in defence
of their land and forest rights by groups such as the Bhoomi Sena
and the Kashtakari Sanghatana. Also in the 1970s, there were
the protests against the Koel-Karo projects in Bihar. Then,
beginning in the 1980s, and coming down to the present day,
the plight of tribals ousted by development projects (and by large
dams in particular) has been highlighted by the Narmada Bachao
Andolan. Most recently, adivasis threatened by mining projects
in Orissa have organised a series of processions and boycotts
to reassert their rights over land handed over by the state govern-
ment to mining companies.11
Above and beyond these various protests, Maoist revolution-
aries have been active in tribal areas. The village Naxalbari, which
gave the “Naxalites” their name, itself lies in a part of West Bengal
which has a substantial tribal population. Another major centre
of Naxalite activity in the late 1960s was the tribal districts of
Andhra Pradesh. In the 1970s, the Maoists spread their influence
in two main areas – the caste-ridden districts of central Bihar,
and the tribal districts of the southern parts of the state. In recent
decades, as the Maoist insurgency has spread, its major gains
have been in tribal districts – in Maharashtra, in Orissa, in
Jharkhand, but above all in Chhattisgarh.12
Over the past four decades, the adivasis of central India have
often expressed their public and collective discontent with the
policies and programmes of the state. Their protests have some-
times (as in Bastar in 1966 or in Jharkhand in the late 1970s)
taken recourse to traditional means and traditional leaders. At
other times (as in Maharashtra in the 1970s, or in the Narmada
Andolan), adivasis have been mobilised by social activists from an
urban, middle class, background. More recently, however, tribal
disafffection has been largely expressed under the leadership of
armed Maoist revolutionaries.13
IV
Section I briefly compared the economic and social situation
of the dalits to that of adivasis. When the comparison is extended
to the domain of politics, one finds that adivasis appear to
be even more disadvantaged. The weakness and vulnerability of
adivasis is made even more manifest when one further extends
the comparison to include a third marginalised minority – namely,
the Muslims.
Consider, for example, the Constitution of various union cabinets
from 1947 to 2007. In this time, there have often been dalits
and Muslims who have held important portfolios. Dalits and/
or Muslims have served, sometimes for long periods, as home
minister, defence minister, agriculture minister and external
affairs minister in the government of India. On the other hand,
no major portfolio in the union cabinet has ever been assigned
to an adivasi politician.
Likewise, both dalits and Muslims have held high constitu-
tional posts. One dalit and three Muslims have held the highest
office of all – that of president of the Republic. One dalit and
three Muslims have served as chief justice of India. No tribal
has ever been made president or vice president or chief justice.
So far as I know, no adivasi has been appointed a judge of the
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Supreme Court. And many more dalits and Muslims have served
as governors of states than have tribals.
These facts are manifestations of the much wider invisibility
of tribals from the political process. Muslims and dalits have been
able to constitute themselves as an interest group on the national
stage – they are treated in popular discourse as communities that
are pan-Indian. On the other hand, tribal claims remain confined
to the states and districts in which they live. Unlike the dalits
and the Muslims, the adivasis continue to be seen only in discrete,
broken-up, fragments.
The dalits, in particular, have effectively channelised their
grievances through constitutional means. They have successful
political parties, such as the Bahujan Samaj Party, which is now
in power in Uttar Pradesh, and which is rapidly extending its
influence and appeal in other states. Dalits also have nationally
known leaders, such as the Uttar Pradesh chief minister, Mayawati,
who is now being spoken of as a possible future prime minister
of India. On the other hand, the adivasis have neither a successful
political party nor a well known political leader. Back in the
1940s, a Jharkhand Party was formed under Jaipal Singh’s
leadership. While it did reasonably well in the first general
elections, in 1952, it remained a regional party. It fought 60 years
for a separate state, but its effectiveness was undermined by a
series of splits. In any case, when the state of Jharkhand was
created in 1998, it consisted only of the tribal districts of Bihar,
rather than being, as Jaipal had hoped, a much larger province
consisting of the contiguous tribal districts of Bengal, Orissa,
Madhya Pradesh and Andhra Pradesh as well as Bihar. As finally
constituted, this “moth-eaten” Jharkhand has an overwhelming
majority of non-tribals.
If, as is commonly (and justly) acknowledged, dalits and tribals
are the two most disadvantaged sections of Indian society, why
have the former been more effective in making their claims heard
by the formal political system? This contrast is, I believe, largely
explained by aspects of geography and demography. The tribals
of central India usually live in tribal villages, in hills and valleys
where they outnumber the non-tribals among them. However,
in no single state of peninsular India are they in a majority. In
Andhra Pradesh, for example, adivasis constitute 6 per cent of
the state’s population. In Maharashtra, the proportion is 9 per
cent; in Rajasthan, 12 per cent. Even in states professedly formed
to protect the tribal interest, such as Jharkhand and Chhattisgarh,
roughly two-thirds of the population is non-tribal.
The dalits too are a minority in every state, but unlike tribals
they live in mixed villages, alongside other castes and commu-
nities. This means that when election time comes, they can have
a decisive impact even in constituencies not reserved for them.
In most states of the union, and in most districts in these states,
they command between 10 per cent and 20 per cent of the vote.
Therefore, political parties have to address the dalit interest in
a majority of Lok Sabha and assembly constituencies. Tribals,
on the other hand, can influence elections only in the few, isolated
districts where they are concentrated. In a general election, for
example, the tribal vote may matter only in 50 or 60 constitu-
encies, whereas the dalit vote matters in perhaps as many as 300.14
Dalit mobilisation on a provincial and national scale is also
enabled by the structural similarities in the ways they experience
oppression. For the caste system operates in much the same
manner across India. In villages in Tamil Nadu as in Uttar
Pradesh, dalits are alloted the most degrading jobs, made to live
away from upper-caste hamlets, allowed access only to inferior
Economic and Political Weekly August 11, 2007
water sources, and prohibited from entering temples. It is there-
fore possible for them to build links and forge solidarities
horizontally, across villages and districts and states. On the other
hand, there are many variations in the forms in which tribals
experience oppression. In one place, their main persecutors are
forest officials; in another place, moneylenders; in a third,
development projects conducted under the aegis of the state; in
a fourth, a mining project promoted by a private firm. In the
circumstances, it is much harder to build a broad coalition of
tribals fighting for a common goal under a single banner.
The dalits have also been helped by the posthumous presence
of B R Ambedkar. He has been for them both example and
inspiration, a man of towering intellect who successfully breached
the upper-caste citadel and who, long after he is gone, encourages
his fellows to do likewise. Indeed, the figure of Ambedkar is
a rallying point for dalits across the land.
The tribals, on the other hand, have never had a leader who
could inspire admiration, or even affection, across the boundaries
of state and language. Birsa Munda, for example, is revered in
parts of Jharkhand; but he is scarcely known or remembered in
the adivasi areas of Andhra Pradesh or Maharashtra. One advantage
that Ambedkar enjoys over tribal icons is that he was a builder
of modern institutions as well as a social activist. He burnt copies
of the Manu Smrti and formed labour unions; but he also founded
schools and political parties and, above all, directed the drafting
of the Indian Constitution. Ambedkar has become an all-India
figure in part because of the similarities in the way his followers
experience oppression; but also because they can follow him both
in protesting injustice and in building a better future.
One might say that the weak literacy rates among adivasis have
been accompanied by a weak “articulation ratio”. They do not
have national leaders; while such men as do represent them are
not conversant enough with the languages and discourses of
modern democratic politics. On the other hand, in the case of
the dalits the presence of Ambedkar, in the past, and of Mayawati,
in the present, has been complemented by an articulate second
rung of activists, who know how to build political networks and
lobby within and across parties.
As argued above, at a national level another minority that has
had an significant political impact is the Muslims. Outside the
Kashmir valley, Muslims, like dalits, live in villages and towns
alongside Indians of other creeds. As their depressed economic
situation shows, the state has not been especially attentive to their
material interest. However, politicians have necessarily to be
attentive to their votes. In the last Bihar elections, one leader
promised to appoint a Muslim chief minister if his party won.
No such promise has ever been made by politicians to tribals,
even in states such as Madhya Pradesh where they form as much
as one-fifth of the population.
Also relevant to this discussion is the history of Indian nation-
alism, and in particular the history of the Indian National Congress.
Even before Gandhi assumed its leadership, the Congress had
to face the charge that it was essentially an upper caste, Hindu
party. To combat this criticism it had to reach out to Muslims and
low castes. This imperative became even more pronounced in
the Gandhian era, when the Mahatma’s claim that the Congress
represented all of India was strongly challenged by M A Jinnah,
presuming to speak on behalf of the Muslims, and by
B R Ambedkar, who sought to represent the lowest castes. The
rhetoric of Congress nationalism, before and after independence,
always had space within it for the special interests of Muslims
Economic and Political Weekly August 11, 2007
and dalits. (The operative word here is “rhetoric”: what happened
in practice was another matter.) On the other hand, the Congress
has never really understood the distinctive nature of the tribal
predicament. Down the decades, matters concerning adivasis
have rarely been given prominence in meetings of the All-India
Congress Committee or the Congress Working Committee.
The contrast between a relative dalit and Muslim visibility on
the one hand, and tribal invisibility on the other, can also be illus-
trated with reference to the mainstream media. Both newspapers
and television give a fair amount of coverage to the continuing
victimisation of dalits and the continuing marginalisation of the
Muslims. It is sometimes argued that the coverage of dalit and
Muslim issues in the media is not nearly as nuanced, nor as
substantial, as it should be. These criticisms are not without merit.
However, in comparison with their adivasi compatriots dalits and
Muslims are actually quite well served by the media. In real life,
the tribals are unquestionably as victimised and as marginal; yet
they rarely have their concerns discussed or highlighted in talk
shows, editorials, reports, or feature articles.
V
The increasing presence of Naxalites in areas dominated by
adivasis has a geographical reason – namely, that the hills and
forests of central India are well suited to the methods of roaming
guerilla warfare. But it also has a historical reason – namely,
that the adivasis have gained least and lost most from 60 years
of political independence.15
In fact, the two are connected. For the state’s neglect of the
adivasis is in many respects a product of the terrain in which
they live. In these remote upland areas, public officials are
unwilling to work hard, and often unwilling to work at all. Doctors
do not attend the clinics assigned to them; schoolteachers stay
away from school; magistrates spend their time lobbying for a
transfer back to the plains. On the other hand, the Maoists are
prepared to walk miles to hold a village meeting, and listen
sympathetically to tribal grievances. As a senior forest official
was recently constrained to admit: “In the absence of any govern-
ment support and the apathetic attitude of the forest management
departments towards the livelihood of forest-dependent commu-
nities, the Naxalites have found fertile ground to proliferate…”.16
That the Maoists live among, and in the same state of penury
as, the tribals, is unquestionable. That some of their actions have
sometimes helped the adivasis can also be conceded. This is
especially the case with rates for the collection of non-timber
forest produce, such as tendu patta, which have gone up by as
much as 200 per cent in areas where the Naxalites are active
and the contractors fearful of their wrath. However, the principal
aim of the Maoists is not the social or economic advancement
of the adivasis, but the capture of power in Delhi through a process
of armed struggle. In this larger endeavour the tribals are a
stepping stone – or, as some would say, merely cannon fodder.
From its origins, the Naxalite movement was riven by internal
discord, by sharp and often bloody rivalries between different
factions, each claiming itself to be the only true Indian intepreter
of Mao Zedong’s thought. However, by the end of the last century
the Peoples War Group (PWG) and the Maoist Communist Centre
(MCC) had emerged as the two groups which still had a func-
tioning organisation and a devoted cadre of revolutionary workers.
The PWG was very active in Andhra Pradesh, whereas the MCC’s
base was principally in Bihar.
3309
 The Naxalite movement gathered force after the merger in 2004
of the PWG and the MCC. The new party called itself the
Communist Party of India (Maoist). That its abbreviation (CPI(M))
mimicked that of a party that had fought and won elections under
the Indian Constitution was surely not accidental. We are the
real inheritors of the legacy of revolutionary Marxism, the new
party was saying, whereas the power-holders in Kerala and West
Bengal are merely a bunch of bourgeois reformists.
The new, unified party has been a mere three years in existence,
but in that time it has rapidly expanded its influence. The erstwhile
MCC cadres have moved southwards into Jharkhand and east
into West Bengal. Those who were once with the PWG have
travelled into Orissa and Chhattisgarh. This last state is where
the Maoists have made the most dramatic gains. Large parts of
the district of Dantewada, in particular, are under their sway. On
one side of the river Indravati, the Indian state exercises an
uncertain control by day and no control at night. On the other
side, in what is known as Abujmarh, the state has no presence
by day or by night.
Dantewada forms part of a forest belt which spills over from
Chhattisgarh into Andhra Pradesh and Maharashtra. The region
was known in mythical times as ‘Dandakaranya’, a name the
Maoists have now adopted as their own. Under the Special Zonal
Committee for Dandakaranya operate several divisional commit-
tees. These in turn have Range committees reporting to them.
The lowest level of organisation is at the village, where a com-
mittee of committed workers is known as a ‘Sangam’.
According to a senior functionary of the party, the Sangams
in Dantewada seek to protect people’s rights in ‘jal, jangal,
zameen’ (water, forest, and land). At the same time, the Maoists
make targeted attacks on state officials, especially the police.
Raids on police stations are intended to stop them harassing
ordinary folk. They are also necessary to augment the weaponry
of the guerrilla army. Through popular mobilisation and the
intimidation of state officials, the Maoists hope to expand their
authority over Dandakaranya. Once the region is made a “lib-
erated zone”, it is intended to be used as a launching pad for
the capture of state power in India as a whole.17
How many Maoists are there in India? The estimates are
imprecise, and widely varying. There are perhaps between
10,000 and 20,000 full-time guerrillas, many of them armed with
an AK-47. These revolutionaries are also conversant with the
use of grenades, landmines, and rocket-launchers. They maintain
links with guerrilla movements in other parts of south Asia,
exchanging information and technology with the Liberation Tigers
of Tamil Eelam and, at least before their recent conversion to
multiparty democracy, with the Nepali Maoists.
What we know of the leaders and cadres suggests that most
Maoists come from a lower middle class background. They
usually have a smattering of education, and were often radicalised
in college. Like other communist movements, the leadership of
this one too is overwhelmingly male. No tribals are represented
in the upper levels of the party hierarchy.
The general secretary of the now unified party, the Communist
Party of India (Maoist), calls himself “Ganapathi”. He is believed
to be from Andhra Pradesh, although the name he uses is almost
certainly a pseudonym. Statements carrying his name occasion-
ally circulate on the internet – one, issued in February 2007,
reported the “successful completion” of a party Congress “held
deep in the forests of one of the several Guerrilla Zones in the
country…”. The party Congress “reaffirmed the general line
3310
of the new democratic revolution with agrarian revolution as
its axis and protracted people’s war as the path of the Indian
revolution…”. The meeting “was completed amongst great
euphoria with a call to the world people: Rise up as a tide to
smash Imperialism and its running dogs! Advance the Revolu-
tionary war throughout the world!”
In pursuit of this “protracted people’s war”, the Maoists have
conducted daring attacks on artefacts and symbols of the state.
In November 2005, they stormed the district town of Jehanabad
in Bihar, firebombing offices and freeing several hundred pris-
oners from jail. In March 2007, they attacked a police camp in
Chhattisgarh, killing 55 policemen and making off with a huge
cache of weapons. At other times, they have bombed and set
fire to railway stations and transmission towers.
However, the violence promoted by the revolutionaries is not
always aimed at the state. A landmine they set off in Gadchiroli
in May 2006 killed many members of a wedding party. The
Maoists have also maimed and murdered those they suspect of
being “informers”.
VI
How can a democratic state fight the rise of Maoist extremism
in the tribal areas? It might do so, on the one hand, by bringing
the fruits of development to the adivasi, and on the other hand by
prompt and effective police action. However, the policies currently
being followed by the government of India are the antithesis of
what one would prescribe. Instead of making tribals partners in
economic development, they marginalise them further. State
governments, themselves run and dominated by non-tribals, are
signing away tribal land for mining, manufacturing, and energy
generation projects. And instead of efficient police action we have
the outsourcing of law and order, as in the Salwa Judum campaign
in Chhattisgarh, where the state government has set up a vigilante
army that runs a parallel administration in the region.
In the most peaceful of times the state has often failed to uphold
the law in tribal areas. Schedules V and VI of the Constitution
provide for a substantial degree of self-governance in districts
where adivasis are in a majority. Yet their clauses protecting tribal
rights in land and forests, curbing the activities of moneylenders,
and mandating the formation of village and district councils have
been honoured only in the breach. These schedules provide for
local councils to share in the royalties from minerals found on
tribal land; what happens in practice is that the adivasis do not
get to see or spend a paisa from mining, whose proceeds are
shared between the contractors and the state-level (and usually
non-tribal) politicians. Meanwhile, the criminal justice system
is in a state of near collapse; as witness the murder of Shankar
Guha Niyogi, that selfless striver for the rights and dignity of
adivasi workers in Chhattisgarh. It was widely believed that Guha
Niyogi was killed by assassins hired by capitalists; yet those who
planned and executed the murder have gone scot-free.
Even with this kind of record, Salwa Judum marks a new low.
In the past, the state failed to sincerely uphold the law of the
land in tribal areas; but now it has gone so far as to actively
promote disorder and lawlessness. The impact of Salwa Judum
in the Dantewada district of Chhattisgarh has been studied by
several fact-finding committees composed of activists, acade-
mics, journalists, and retired civil servants. Their reports have
demonstrated that the campaign has led to an escalation of
violence. On the one side, Salwa Judum cadres have burnt villages
Economic and Political Weekly August 11, 2007
and abused women; on the other, Naxalites have attacked and
killed those they see as working in the service of the state. An
atmosphere of fear and insecurity pervades the district. Families
and villages are divided, some living with or in fear of the Maoists,
others in fear of or in roadside camps controlled by the Salwa
Judum. As many as 50,000 people have been displaced from their
homes. These tribal refugees live in a pitiable condition, in tents
exposed to the elements, and with no access to healthcare or
gainful employment. Thousands of others have fled across the
border into Andhra Pradesh.18
In the district of Dantewada a civil conflict is under way, which
threatens to turn into a civil war. With a veil of secrecy surround-
ing the operations of the state and the revolutionaries, and with
the adivasis too scared to file First Information Reports, there
are no reliable estimates of the casualties in this war. Perhaps
between 500 and 1,000 people have died of unnatural deaths
in Dantewada in the past year alone. Among those killed or
murdered, some are security personnel and others are Naxalites.
However, the vast majority are tribals caught in the crossfire.
Ironically, by arming civilians, the state has merely reproduced
the methods of the other side. For tribal boys in their teens have
joined Salwa Judum for much the same reason as other boys had
previously joined the Naxalites. Educated just enough to harbour
a certain disenchantment for labouring in field and forest, but
not enough to be absorbed with honour in the modern economy,
these boys were enticed by the state into a job which paid them
a salary (albeit a meagre one – Rs 1,500 a month), and gave them
a certain status in society. Gun in hand, they now strut around
the countryside, forcing those without weapons to fall in line.
In this manner, the machismo of revolution is being answered
by the machismo of counter-revolution. Call them Sangam
Organiser or Special Police Officer, the young men of Danda-
karanya have been seduced by their new-found – and essentially
unearned – authority. In the Dantewada district alone, there are
now several thousand young males punch-drunk with the power
which, as Mao said, flows from the barrel of a gun.
There is thus a double tragedy at work in tribal India. The first
tragedy is that the state has treated its adivasi citizens with con-
tempt and condescension. The second tragedy is that their presumed
protectors, the Naxalites, offer no long-term solution either.
Can the Communist Party of India (Maoist) come to power
in New Delhi through armed struggle? I think the answer to this
question must be in the negative. Corrupt and corroded though
it is, the Indian state, c 2007, cannot be compared to the Chinese
state, c 1940s. It is highly unlikely that a revolution based on
Maoist principles will succeed in India. In fact I would say it
is impossible. In dense jungle, the Maoists can easily elude a
police force that is poorly trained, poorly equipped, and running
scared to boot. It is not inconceivable that they will, at some
stage, manage to establish a “liberated zone” in some part of
Dandakaranya. But once they seek to expand their revolution
into more open country, they will be mowed down by the
Indian army.
Of the commitment of the Maoists to their cause there should
be no doubt. These are young men (and occasionally women)
who have lived for years on end in the most difficult circum-
stances, in pursuit of their dream of a successful revolution. I
believe that, in military terms, this dream is a fantasy. The Maoists
will never be able to plant the Red Flag on the Red Fort. The
tragedy is that it might take them years to come to this conclusion.
While the Maoists will find it difficult to expand outside their
Economic and Political Weekly August 11, 2007
current areas of operation, the Indian state will not be able to
easily restore order and legitimacy in the tribal areas that have
passed out of its grasp. A war of attrition lies ahead of us, which
will take a heavy toll of human life – lives of policemen, of
Maoists, and of unaffiliated civilians.
Such is the prospect in the short term. From the longer-term
perspective of the historian, however, the Maoist dream might
be seen not as fantasy but as nightmare. For the signal lesson
of the 20th century is that regimes based on one-party rule grossly
violate human dignity and human welfare. By common consent,
the most evil man of the modern age was Adolf Hitler. The
holocaust he unleashed and the wars he provoked cost some
30 million lives. But in the mass murder stakes, Stalin and Mao
are not far behind. In fact, some estimates suggest that revolu-
tionary communism has claimed even more human lives than
fascism and the extremist ideologies of the right.19
That multiparty democracy is, if not the best, certainly the least
harmful political system devised by humans is appreciated by
some adivasis themselves. On a visit to Dantewada in the summer
of 2006, I had a long conversation with a Muria tribal. He was
a first generation literate, who had been sent to study in an ashram
school across the river. After graduation he returned to his native
village, to teach in the school there. At the same time he obtained
a BA degree through correspondence. A teacher, if he does his
job well, is among the most respected men in rural India. This
Muria teacher was that, but when the Maoists came to his village
he experienced an abrupt fall in status and authority. For in their
eyes he was an official of the Indian state, and thus subject to
harassment and extortion.
Last year, at the age of 25, the Muria teacher fled the village
of his forefathers and crossed the Indravati into the sarkari side
of the district. His qualifications allowed him to get a job in a
still functioning school. He lived near where he worked, at first
in a tent, and then in a house built by himself on government
land. In fact, I first came across the Muria teacher while he was
painting the walls of his home, pail in one hand, brush in the other.
A slim, dark man with a moustache, clad in a simple lungi,
the Muria teacher talked to me while his two little children played
around him. He told me that when the Maoists had first come
to the district, they were full of idealism and good intentions.
Over time, however, they had been corrupted, turning from
defenders of the tribals to their tormentors. I answered that we
could say the same of the Salwa Judum. It may have once been
a people’s movement, but it had since been taken over by
contractors and criminals, these mostly non-tribal. We argued
the point, back and forth, while a crowd of interested parties
gathered. Finally, the Muria teacher said that while he could
contest what I was saying in public, and in front of other people,
among the Maoists such free exchange of views was simply
impermissible. As he put it: ‘Naxalion ko hathiyar chhodné aur
janta ké samné baath-cheeth karné ki himmat nahin hai”. Indeed,
the Indian Maoists do not have the courage to put down their
arms and state their case openly before the people.
How then might the Maoist insurgency be ended or at least
contained? On the government side, this might take the shape
of a sensitively conceived and sincerely implemented plan to
make adivasis true partners in the development process: by
assuring them the title over lands cultivated by them, by allowing
them the right to manage forests sustainably, by giving them a
solid stake in industrial or mining projects that come up where
they live and at the cost of their homes.
3311
 On the Maoist side, this might take the shape of a compact
with bourgeois democracy. They could emulate the CPI and the
CPM, as well as their counterparts in Nepal, by participating in
and perhaps even winning elections. Comrade Prachanda appears to
recognise that the political ideology most appropriate to the 21st
century is multiparty democracy. A reconciliation of extremism
with electoral democracy seems even more urgent and necessary
in a country like India, which is much larger and much more
diverse than Nepal.
As things stand, however, one cannot easily see the Indian
Maoists give up on their commitment to armed struggle. Nor, given
the way the Indian state actually functions, can one see it so radically
reform itself as to put the interests of a vulnerable minority –
the adivasis – ahead of those with more money and political power.
In the long run, perhaps, the Maoists might indeed make their
peace with the Republic of India, and the republic come to treat
its adivasi citizens with dignity and honour. Whether this
denouement will happen in my own lifetime I am not sure. In
the forest regions of central and eastern India, years of struggle
and strife lie ahead. Here, in the jungles and hills they once called
their own, the tribals will continue to be harassed on one side
by the state and on the other by the insurgents. As one Bastar
adivasi put it to me – “Hummé dono taraf sé dabav hain, aour
hum beech mé pis gayé hain”. It sounds far tamer in English
– “Pressed and pierced from both sides, here we are, squeezed
in the middle”. EPW
Email: ramguha@gmail.com
Notes
[The arguments in this essay were first presented in a series of talks across
the country in the first months of 2007 – in the ‘Challenges to Democracy’
series organised by and at the Nehru Centre, Mumbai (January); as the
seventh ISRO-Satish Dhawan lecture at the Jawaharlal Nehru Centre for
Advanced Scientific Research in Bangalore (also in January); as the annual
lecture of the Raja Rammohun Roy Foundation in Jaipur (February); and
as the first Rajiv Kapur Memorial Lecture at the India International Centre,
New Delhi (March). I am grateful to the audience at these lectures for their
questions and comments. The present text has also benefited from the
comments and criticisms of Rukun Advani, David Hardiman, Sujata Keshavan,
J Martinez-Alier, Mahesh Rangarajan, and Dilip Simeon. I am especially
indebted to Nandini Sundar, from whose work on adivasis I have learnt a
great deal over the years. The usual disclaimers apply.]
1 Constituent Assembly Debates, Volume I, pp 143-44.
2 On anthropological constructions of the tribe in India, see, among other
works, Verrier Elwin, The Baiga (John Murray, London,1939), idem,
The Tribal World of Verrier Elwin: An Autobiography (Oxford University
Press, New York, 1964); G S Ghurye, The Scheduled Tribes (third edition,
Popular Prakashan, Bombay,1959); K S Singh, editor, The Tribal Situation
in India (Indian Institute of Advanced Study, Simla, 1972); C von Furer
Haimendorf, The Tribes of India: Struggle and Survival (University of
California Press, Berkeley, 1982); K S Singh, Tribal Society in India
(Manohar, Delhi, 1985); Andre Béteille, ‘The Concept of Tribe with
Special Reference to India’ in his Society and Politics in India: Essays
in a Comparative Perspective (Athlone Press, London, 1991);
Ramachandra Guha, Savaging the Civilised: Verrier Elwin, His Tribals,
and India (Oxford University Press, Delhi, 1999); Nandini Sundar,
Subalterns and Sovereigns; An Anthropological History of Bastar, 1854-
2006 (second edition, Oxford University Press, Delhi, 2007).
3 Arup Maharatna, Demographic Perspectives on India’s Tribes (Oxford
University Press, New Delhi, 2005), Chapter 2 and passim. Maharatna’s
estimates are based on studies and surveys conducted in the 1990s.
4 Cf Mahesh Rangarajan and Ghazala Shahabuddin, ‘Relocation from
Protected Areas: Towards a Historical and Biological Synthesis’,
Conservation and Society, Vol 4, No 4, 2006.
5 Fernandes, ‘Development-induced Displacement and Tribal Women’ in
3312
Govind Chandra Rath, Editor, Tribal Development in India: The
Contemporary Debate (Sage Publications, New Delhi, 2006).
6 Report of the Committee on Special Multipurpose Tribal Blocks (Manager
of Publications, Delhi, 1960), pp 20, 192, etc.
7 Report of the Scheduled Areas and Scheduled Tribes Committee
(Government Press, New Delhi, 1961).
8 Report of the Committee on Special Multipurpose Tribal Blocks,
pp 191-92.
9 Cf the 28th and 29th reports of the commissioner for scheduled
castes and scheduled tribes (Government of India Press, New Delhi, 1988
and 1990).
10 See, among other works, J C Jha, The Kol Insurrection of Chhota
Nagpur (Thacker, Spink, and Co, Calcutta, 1964); idem, The Bhumij
Revolt 1832-33 (Munshiram Manoharlal, Delhi, 1967); A R Desai, editor,
Peasant Struggles in India (Oxford University Press, Delhi, 1979); David
Arnold, ‘Rebellious Hillmen: The Gudem Rampa Risings, 1839-1924’
in Ranajit Guha, editor, Subaltern Studies I (Oxford University Press,
Delhi, 1982); Ranajit Guha, Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency
in Colonial India (Oxford University Press, Delhi, 1983); K S Singh,
Birsa Munda and His Movement 1872-1901: A Study of a Millenarian
Movement in Chhota Nagpur (third edition, Seagull Books, Kolkata,
2002); David Hardiman, The Coming of the Devi: Adivasi Assertion in
Western India (Oxford University Press, Delhi, 1987); Ajay Skaria,
Hybrid Histories: Forests, Frontiers and Wildness in Western India
(Oxford University Press, Delhi, 1999); Sundar, Subalterns and Sovereigns.
11 For a general overview, see A R Desai, editor, Agrarian Struggles in
India since Independence (Oxford University Press, Delhi, 1986). On
Bastar, see Sundar, Subalterns and Sovereigns; on Jharkhand, Susan
B C Devalle, Discourses of Ethnicity: Culture and Protest in Jharkhand
(Sage Publications, New Delhi, 1992), and Nirmal Sengupta, editor,
Jharkhand: Fourth World Dynamics (Authors Guild, Delhi, 1982); on
the Narmada Andolan, Amita Baviskar, In the Belly of the River: Adivasi
Battles over ‘Development’ in the Narmada Valley (second edition,
Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 2004). The mining conflicts in
Orissa are the subject of a forthcoming book by Felix Padel.
12 The early phase of the Maoist movement in India is ably treated in
Sumanta Banerjee, In the Wake of Naxalbari: A History of the Naxalite
Movement in India (Subarnarekha, Calcutta, 1980). There is, as yet, no
comparable work on Maoism as it has evolved in the 1990s and beyond.
13 In the remainder of this essay I use “tribal” and “adivasi” interchangeably,
as also “Maoist” and “Naxalite”.
14 These estimates are not offered on the basis of a scientific study, but
are an educated guess. A detailed statistical analysis of individual
constituencies would, of course, revise these figures upwards or downwards,
but I suspect by not very much.
15 Notably, while they have made major gains in states such as Jharkhand
and Chhattisgarh, the Naxalites have no real influence in the western
adivasi belt – that is, in the states of Gujarat and Rajasthan, where the
populations are more closely integrated with caste peasant society, and
where the terrain is much less suited to guerrilla action. Of course, it
is not merely in tribal areas that the Naxalites are active. For instance,
they have a strong presence in the Telangana region of Andhra Pradesh,
and in central Bihar. In both areas they work chiefly with sharecroppers
and agricultural labourers of low caste origin, mobilising them in opposition
to the upper caste moneylenders and landlords. (Cf Bela Bhatia, ‘The
Naxalite Movement in Central Bihar’, Economic and Political Weekly,
April 9, 2005.) However, in recent years their greatest gains appear to
have been in districts where adivasis are in a majority. In any case, this
essay’s focus on the tribal predicament means that it necessarily has to
give short shrift to Naxalite activity in areas where the principal axes
of social identification are caste and class.
16 D Mukherji, ‘If You Look after Forest People, You Kill Naxalism’, The
Asian Age, June 28, 2005.
17 These paragraphs are based on an interview conducted in Bastar in the
summer of 2006, with a Maoist leader calling himself “Sanjeev”.
18 See, among other works, Peoples Union for Democratic Rights, When
the State Makes War on Its Own People: A Report on the Violation
of People’s Rights during the Salwa Judum Campaign in Dantewada,
Chhattisgarh (PUDR, New Delhi, April 2006); Independent Citizens’
Initiative, War in the Heart of India: An Enquiry into the Ground
Situation in Dantewada District, Chhattisgarh (ICI, New Delhi, July 2006).
19 Cf Robert Service, Comrades: A World History of Communism
(Macmillan, London, 2007).
Economic and Political Weekly August 11, 2007
special article
Alien Construct and Tribal Contestation in Colonial
Chhotanagpur: The Medium of Christianity
Joseph Bara
Taking the case of the Mundas and Uraons of
Chhotanagpur, this essay looks at the encounter
between the colonial state and the tribals of India. It first
examines how the term “tribe” evolved to designate a
set of negative traits, shaped under colonialism’s
response to escalating tribal resistance to their rule. It
then studies Christianity in its dual role of providing
support to colonial rule as well as succour to the “tribals”.
The paper argues that the colonial state merely
transformed pre-colonial prejudices of brahmanical
texts and gave them a social Darwinian twist.
Unfortunately, the view of tribals as a lower evolutionary
form of civilisation continues in nationalist India.
Joseph Bara (josephbara@mail.jnu.ac.in) is with the School of Social
Sciences, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi.
90
T
he Oxford English Dictionary, Compact Edition (1971)
explains the original meaning of “tribe” as “a group of
persons forming a community and claiming descent from
a common ancestor”. The etymology changed it in course of time
as “a race of people ...applied, especially to a primary aggregate
of people in a primitive or barbarous condition under a headman
or chief”. The change of tribe from being a kinship-based simple
community to a group in “primitive and barbarous condition”
marks distinct derogation of the term. The shift indicates an im-
perialist slant since the latter idea was indiscriminately used in
various parts of the colonial world to stamp certain groups as in-
corrigible backwards. Especially, in the early 20th century, the
Darwinist theory of race was brought into use to depict tribes as
less human and more beastly, somewhat in a following way:
“There is less difference between the highest type of ape and
lowe­st of aborigines than there is between the latter and the
modern English gentleman”.1 Today, a tribe is universally under-
stood as primitive, savage or wild in a routine manner. It has be-
come an idiom of defining backwardness against advancedness.
This conceptual vilification was entirely based on non-tribal
sources. Rarely were the tribal viewpoints taken into account,
since those who indulged in it belonged to the exploiting classes.
Colonially evolved concept was, thus, imposed on the tribals. The
imposition meant suppression of the tribals’ own idea of self and
community which insisted on a tribe being simply a human, no
less or no more.2 Based on this conviction, recently an Indian
tribal group resented:
… little respect is today, shown to our culture, social systems, political
structures and economy. Efforts are made to integrate us into the
mainstream society as a low caste, though traditionally we have lived
in an egalitarian and casteless society.3
This essay attempts to examine, taking the case of the Mundas
and Uraons of Chhotanagpur, how the term “tribe” was shaped
under British colonialism and how tribes of India responded to
the conceptual cultural imposition.
Resilience of the Inner Voice
Under the British colonial rule, most of the tribal populations
have a history of resistance of the outsiders for their nefarious
acts of encroachment and exploitation.4 Even after independ-
ence, many, with a strong sense of sons of the soil, have contin-
ued to assert for their rights. This tempts one to project tribes as
avowed subaltern fighters for property rights, but nonchalant on
their cultural identity. Even where tribal cultural distinctiveness
is recognised, depiction usually is as cultural quaint, of museum
december 26, 2009  vol xliv no 52   EPW   Economic & Political Weekly

piece value. The tribals are shown as statically clinging to certain
archaic system and practices.
A careful observation indicates that the tribal societies are
a­ctually highly aware of their self-defined cultural identity. A live
indigenous tribal identity is an integral part of any tribal awak-
ening for rights, whether a revolt or a movement, though its
e­xpression might be latent in some cases. The tribals’ tribal iden-
tity, often reiterated and redefined, differed distinctly from what
was imposed. There are instances where the Mundas and Uraons
based the claims of rights on their self-defined identity. Perhaps,
one of the best examples in this respect is their maiden demand
for autonomy under the Indian polity, as a remedy to internal
c­olonialism in their region, before the Indian Statutory Commis-
sion (1928). In their petition the tribals professed:
We aborigines, sir … as descendants of the earliest known owners of
Indian soil and with more hoary traditions of sovereignty in the land,
… are entitled to as much or perhaps greater indulgence and an equal,
if not a larger, share in the government of our own people… These
alie­n landlords despise us as “Mlechhas” and despicable creatures –
more brutes than men, and actually stigmatise us as “Kols” which we
understand is a Sanskrit term for “pigs”. But we too, sirs are human
beings with a long past – longer than that of any other race in India,
with a native genius for democratic government.5
Voices like this did not surface from, what is generally presumed,
a cultural vacuum, or “silence” of the suppressed subalterns.6
They emanated rather from certain vibrant cultural undercurrent of
the tribal society that found articulation under certain specific
situations. The western forces coming under the bogey of coloni-
alism provided stimulus to the expression. But they were, it should
be emphasised, not the source, as authors tend to argue falla-
ciously.7 In 1831-32, for instance, when western forces had hardly
reached Chhotanagpur, the tribals, being harassed and labelled
as Kols by their adversaries, spontaneously felt “bein­g of one
caste (meaning tribe) and brethren” to rise against the enemies.8
Against live and resilient self-defined cultural identity, from
the mid-1830s, the Mundas and Uraons closely encountered the
forces of colonial education, British idea of rule by law and Chris-
tianity. These were introduced to pacify or tame the tribals,
whom the colonial ethnography of the time portrayed as “bellige­
rent” or “beastly”, having animal-like loose emotions and low in-
tellect. The interplay of these developments created a queer situ-
ation: more the cultural abuse of the tribals, more was their cul-
tural consciousness. If cultural impositions were innovative and
sublime, the tribal responses were no less dynamic and recon-
structive. In their cultural assertion, the tribals employed mis-
sionised Christianity markedly to define a respectable concept of
tribe, which is shown in the paper in the last part.
Pre-Colonial Setting and Sensitivity
The Mundas, joined by Uraons later, made Chhotanagpur their
home since ancient times, after constantly been pushed from one
place to another. The habitat of Chhotangpur became for the trib-
als a “resource” for a specific local culture. Trickling in of outsid-
ers reinvigorated in them a new sense of “identity by contrasts”.9
The tribals accommodated them in their settlement, but in a sep-
arate part of the village and sans certain privileges of traditional
tribal rights.10 This way they became bhuinhars or proud
Economic & Political Weekly  EPW   december 26, 2009  vol xliv no 52
special article
d­escendants of the first original settlers before the migrants. Tra-
ditional attachment with land and the rise of Parha, a loose po-
litical confederation of villages (the affairs of which were man-
aged by a chief called Manki and a council of elders), gave rise to
an idea of Chhotanagpur being their disum or homeland.
The tribal society was based on democratic principles. The
tribal chiefs were simply primus inter pares, who received chanda
(voluntary grant) and services from fellow tribals in lieu of their
services to the community. The democratic norms came to be
challenged when the idea of ruler-and-the-ruled came in with the
outsiders. In the beginning, the tribal cultural verve forced the
Nagabansi raja, a migrant ruler who had usurped power from
Manki, to accept the tribal way of life. Things changed from the
medieval times, when the raja distanced himself from the tribals
and invited a horde of outsiders as confidants and subordinates.
The immigrants were sublet the tribal lands fraudulently and
were provided with rukumat (free service) and bethbegari (forced
labour) from the tribals. The raja also Hinduised himself. This
inspired some tribals close to him to follow, but probably more as
a strategy to protect the tribal culture, since one finds simultane-
ous process of “tribalisation” of migrants in some parts.11
This medieval episode set the tribal society from “ethnic
mosa­ic” to “ethnic hierarchy”12 and a consequent conceptual
malady. The raja now projected himself as superior and the trib-
als as people of “low caste, turbulent wretches, in person like
men, but in mind like beasts”.13 Thus, the annals of the Nagabans­is
traced the lineage of Phani Mukut Rai, the first raja who was an
ordinary migrant, to a respectable brahminical ancestry, whereas
that of Madra Manki (whom the raja had dislodged) to a “cook”
of “one Bairaja Dom”.14 The tribal chiefs, who defied the raja,
were called daitya or raksal.15 Under “feudalism giving rise to
every species of extortion and plunder”,16 the Moghuls, ruling
Chhotanagpur through Nagabansi raja and his coterie, knew the
tribals mainly as the “original savage race” or the “barbarous
Hindus of Jharkhand”.17
Cultural disfiguration and slandering at the hands of the migrants
was not taken kindly by the Mundas and Uraons. They did not spare
the enemies uncontested. The aliens – initially simply “others” to
the tribals – became their hated dikus or exploiting aliens. To ex-
press their hatred for them, the tribals used the choicest metaphors,
such as “greedy vulture”, “ravenous crow”, “upstart peacock”,
“ominous owl” and so on.18 From their cultural standards, the trib-
als even looked down upon them as people of “low birth”.19
Denunciation and Disinformation
Already on the anvil of alien construct, the concept was in for
more rigorous hammering under the colonial state, making the
tribals increasingly contemptible. The deprivation and exploita-
tion of the tribals always went hand in hand with conceptual des-
picability of tribe. Thus, innocent-looking and frequently used
18th century British term “Hillman” or dhangar (deriving from
dangaor hill) for tribe20 came to be replaced by such brutish vari-
ants as “semi-barbarous”, “demon” or “kol”21 by the early 19th
century. A statement of 1832 reflects the change:
The inhabitants, neighbours to Coles (generally spelt Kol) are a simple
and in-offensive race, are chiefly Hindoos and talk the Ooriah language.
91
speciAl article
They have the greatest dread of the Coles, whom they consider as de-
mons, and no doubt, from their former frequent aggressions, in which
they usually exercised every species of cruelty, the former has suffi-
cient cause for doing so. Having no religion, the Coles, during their
incursions never hesitated to enter the temples.22
In this shift, invariably essence was drawn from the popular
Purana of the 18th century, the Bhavisyata Purana.23 The colonial
ethnological exercise this way recycled and ratified the pre-­
colonial Indian idea of tribe of beastly and demonic connotation.
The traditional idea, subsumed in the Aryan concept of mlech-
chh24, came in use in the post-1850 colonial Bengal. A peer group
of intelli­gentsia conjectured the following Indian tribe: The
Hindu books in poetical legends describe those aborigines as
monkeys, so Megasthenes writes of Indians one-eyed, without
noses, wrapped up in the ears (hastikarnas): even Marco Polo
and Ptolemy believed that men with tails had a real existence...25
The Mundas and Uraons were described by the same forum as
“Dhangars and other low caste people in the jungles: still i­mpure,
as probably unconverted mlechchhas”.26
When colonial ethnography embarked upon defining the
tribe, it relied upon the traditional Sanskritic sources – now
“Orientalis­ed” for the colonial cultural project – which were
replete with alternatives of the beastly image of tribe. The local
Indi­an idea of tribe, thus, colluded with the western racist idea,27
demeaning the concept doubly. The idea worked some times in a
subtle way. The tribes, though beastly and monstrous normally,
were, in exceptional cases, considered gentle and humane. But it
was so only under godly influence or brahminical ambassadorial
touch of “civilisation”.28 The term Uraon was, thus, said to have
derived from recitation of “O! Ram” by a grieving banara, when
Lord Rama left his forest abode of 14 years.29 Such supposed link
was probably the consideration why the Mundas and Uraons,
d­espite defined as dregs of the Hindu society, were labelled as
Hindus in the first census of Bengal (1871).30
Under the idea of beastly tribe, the Mundas and Uraons were
scandalised in a new way during the later half of the 19th century.
This was the period when the tribals were deprived most thor-
oughly. It was also during this time that, they after an interreg-
num, fought the longest battle for their rights under the move-
ment of Sardari Larai (1858-1890). The composite of the two phe-
nomena despised and demonised the tribals as sar kols (dirty
kols), “impure and illiterate savages”, “stubborn kols”, “restless
junglies”, “chuar” and “dakait”.31 Most of these terms found their
way in the official proceedings in common usage and were used
mainly for the participants of the Sardari Larai. The irony was
that the agitating tribals associated with this movement made
advanced use of recently-acquired skill of rudimentary literacy in
petitions and depositions for radical claims.32
In the making of the new usages, an important role was played
by the local informants of the Europeans coming from the plains,
who, as internal colonisers of the tribal region, were highly
prejudic­ed against the tribal people. They were not only gate-
keepers of information on the tribals, but were also active disin-
formants, out to prove that the tribals were by no means land-
owners, but non-descript “turbulent rebels”.33 From around the
mid-19th century, some European administrator-ethnographers
92
stationed themselves in the tribal regions and encountered the
tribals direc­t ly. This accessed them to a new kind of informa-
tion: the tribals possessing certain noble human qualities –
b­ravery, fideli­t y, honesty, diligence and intelligence – tempting
the auth­orities as “splendid material for recruiting regiments
equal to best of our native army”.34 But this did not lead to any
conceptual rediscovery.
In the face of escalating tribal resistance to the colonial rule,
the colonial state was bent upon showing the tribes as barbarous
backwards. This inspired the colonial ethnographical project
to remain firm on its charter and comfortable with the existing
approach and information syndicate. Moreover, the outsiders, now
migrating into the region in larger numbers and having greater
economic stake, came to monopolise the expanded British
bureaucracy at the crucial subordinate level. The period, thus,
became the informants’ paradise, suppressing the tribal view-
points and nicknaming the tribals by “all intents and purposes,
for the real name”.35
Mutant Mind and ‘Godsend’ Christianity
The heightened cultural denigration under British colonialism
was unable to domesticate the Mundas’ and Uraons’ conceptual
sensitivity. The tribal mind actually could not be numbed even in
the event of, what is believed to be, their “complete silence” or
“sullen silence” as a result of stern actions of the powerful British
military in the early 19th century.36 The suppression of the great
revolt of 1831-32 actually became an opportunity to ruminate
over the efficacy of the mode of violence for cultural rehabilita-
tion and exploration of an alternative.
At this stage the British gestured to the tribals a policy of
friendship and assured them redress for injustice in the post-­
revolt administrative measures of 1834. The British polity, insist-
ing on administration by rule of law and justice, came to the
doorstep of the tribals with headquarters at Kishenpur (present
Ranchi). The first European officials posted in the region, led by
political agent to the governor-general, T Wilkinson, established
personal rapport with the tribals. After studying the tribal sys-
tem and sentiments, Wilkinson upheld the indigenous bhuinhari
status of the tribals and promised to be their protector. The
Britis­h overture of goodwill, coming against the tribals’ long
expe­rience of systematic deprivation by deceit and treachery by
all the incoming social groups, was most appealing.
Yet, even as the tribals responded to the British overture and
tried to understand the “benevolent” administration, they found
the ground reality unchanged. The alien landlords and the sub-
ordinate officials continued with their usual excesses, at times
in a more reactionary way. For instance, the tribals, who had
fled their villages fearing British reprisal in the course of the
1831-32 revolt and returned later to claim their land, were re-
sisted.37 This way the hollowness of British “benevolence” was
gradually vindicated and the measures of 1834 proved to be a
mirage to the tribals. Deprivation of the tribals actually became
more rampant and thorough. The euphoria of close connection
to the European officials also dissipated. The officials were too
preoccupied with the nitty-gritty of administrative reclamation
of the region.
december 26, 2009  vol xliv no 52  EPW   Economic & Political Weekly

Swinging between hope and despair, the tribal psyche came
across another possible “resource”38 – the Christian missionaries.
The urge of making the troublesome tribals a peaceable colonial
subject in the British colonialist mind prepared a background for
the coming of the missionaries. The colonial managers invited
them as “colonial social workers” to educate and “civilise” the
tribals.39 The Gossner Evangelical Lutheran missionaries of
Berl­in responded to the colonialists’ call and positioned them-
selves among the tribals from 1845. Two and a half decades later,
since 1869, they were followed by the Roman Catholic Jesuits
from Belgi­um and the Anglicans of the Society for the Propaga-
tion of Gospel.
To pursue their object of winning coverts, the missionaries
adopted, since 1850, a humanitarian approach to the tribal
a­grarian problems. From their experience of contemporary
E­urope, they equated the tribal bhuinhari rights on land with
peasant proprietary rights and the imposition of bethbegari as a
form of slavery. With this notion, the missionaries demonstrated
their sympathy to the tribals by providing consultancy in their
legal battle with the landlords. As a result, many tribals actu-
ally won back their lost rights. Reciprocally, the tribals con-
verted to Christia­n ity, which they found as such a simple b­elief,
in large numbers. 40 Even as evangelical romanticism of humani­
tarian flair progressed spectacularly, what is noteworthy is that,
it was unable to refine western racist arrogance on the idea of
tribe. To a typical 19th century missionary, therefore, the
M­undas and Uraons were “heathen Coles”, comparable to “bears
and wolves” – an image that was deeply embedded in the
missiona­r y mind. 41
Arming by Appropriation
The Christian missionary support, though re-energised the tribal
mind, was hardly consequential in the colonial process of tribals’
deprivation and denunciation. Yet, while dispossession was wide-
spread, the colonial administrative discourse continuously reju-
venated the tribal psyche with the sense of distinct cultural iden-
tity and tribal territoriality. This occurred, since the maiden
m­ediation of Wilkinson, through a series of surveys, reports and
other official transactions of the colonial state – a body of sub-
orientalist data.42 The new facts not only upheld the bhuinhari
status of the tribals and their distinct cultural identity, they also
accorded formal recognition of Chhotanagpur as the Munda and
Uraon homeland.43 From the beginning, recognition ramified a
non-regulation status of the region which continued in some or
the other form throughout the British rule.
It is this new sense of cultural identity, ownership and sons-of-
the-soil, besides a new-found faith in British constitutionalism
(exemplified by the missionaries), which inspired the tribals for
the protracted course of the Sardari Larai.44 Various petitions of
the tribals associated with the Sardari Larai reflects this well. Im-
bued with new confidence, the first thing the tribals did was to
retort the Nagabansi raja’s claim of superiority under kingship
and his ownership of large portion of land as rajhans (raja’s per-
sonal property) by asserting that they, as bhuinhars, were actu-
ally the owners of the land of Chhotanagpur and the raja was
originally just their “servant”.45
Economic & Political Weekly  EPW   december 26, 2009  vol xliv no 52
special article
While the Mundas and Uraons were busy experimenting with
the appropriated resource of British constitutionalism and west-
ern education in the Sardari Larai, their engagement with Chris-
tianity became impassioned and deeper. From the beginning, the
missionary actions fixed in the simple tribal mind the idea that
the white missionaries were the right route to reach the white
masters towards resolution of their problems.46 Further, the mis-
sionaries continuing to help them, even at the risk of their own
life, assured the tribals that they were indeed their friends in
need. This paved way for an intimate interface between the tribal
society and Christianity.
In evaluating the role of Christianity in the tribal society, schol-
ars generally obscure the picture of reception by the tribals.47 In
their impatience to gather vertical “impact” of the “alien” force of
Christianity – bringing in instant cloud of Pax Christi or Pax Brit-
tannica in a dormant “primitive” society – they leave no scope of
the tribal mind being active and receptive.48 This prevents them
from recognising that the tribals actually made use of Christia­
nity to protect themselves as a cultural group, than Christianity
subduing or deactivating them by way of impact. To start with
the tribals valued the German missionaries as expedient means
for the restoration of their lost rights. But soon, within two dec-
ades, seeing Christianity as a potential force for wider cultural
protection they adopted and internalised it in the tribal society. 49
Since then Christianity stayed as a permanent and integral part
of the tribal culture.
Resourcing Christianity for Reasoned Reconstruction
The integration of Christianity in the tribal culture reflected
mainly in the social sphere. Christianity, the religion, had largely
an imperfect hold over the tribal masses. The conversion, it
should be recalled, was administered impromptu and on a large
scale. Obviously most of the converts were neophytes, and many,
in fact, just nominal Christians. There were even cases of men
calling themselves Christian as soon as they simply enrolled
themselves as catechumen.50 Yet, it is this tenuous adherence
that the tribal leaders made adroit use of. In their various peti-
tions to the government, they invariably introduced themselves
as 12,000 to 14,000 “native Christians”, no matter many had
a­ctually turned apostate.51
Highly conscious as a “Christian” group, the tribals asserted
their claims on cultural and ethical grounds. Hitherto some-
what reticent, they made best use of their newly developed
v­ocal cord to explain the whole case. They, thus, rationalised
their claim by insisting that “other castes than us do not engage
themselves to making the jungle clear”.52 The tribal voice soon
acquired a radical primordial tone. Striking a deeper cultural
base of the tribal claims, a Munda was heard stating before
E T Dalton, commissioner of Chhotanagpur in 1869: “We con-
sider Nagpore (Chhotanagpur) our Gya, Ganga, Kasi and
Prayag. The bones of our ancestors lie buried in the bowels of
Nagpore. We are no colonists from other countries, but derive
race from Nagpore”.53
The argumentative tribal mind employed the adopted Christi-
anity not only for cultural rationalisation of the tribal rights, it
also engaged it as a potent resource at a higher pedestal, i e, to
93
speciAl article
contest the imposed concept of tribe and construct a new one,
towards the effort of regaining their lost status. In that direction,
the tribals drew analogy of their being bhuinhars with episodes
of the Old Testament. That is how a group led by one “John the
Baptist”, which has been mocked as “ludicrously comic[al]”,54
named itself as the “Children of Mael”.55 Implicit in the assump-
tion of these names was to describe the tribals as special people,
like the “chosen” Israelites. A letter from two former Munda stu-
dents of the GEL mission school addressed to the mission authori-
ties makes it explicit:
We Mundas used to have a patriarchal form of government. We gave
taxes to the patriarchs (makshays), not rent for the land, but a reli-
gious type tax. Anyone, who reads Leviticus, chapter 25 (of the Old
Testament) can understand the conditions of our people; they were
similar to those of the Israelites....56
The leaders re-asserted the idea in a petition of 1881 to the
govern­ment: “We do not beg Your Majesty for a … right (differe­nt)
than that of the Israelites, who after wandering in the jungles,
and suffering many trials became heir of the holy land….”57
Christianity to the tribals, in short, became an advanced
weapon to fight for a “human” social status under a dignified
term of tribe.58
Around the period of these developments in the tribal world of
the Mundas and Uraons, the outcastes in various parts of India
also converted into Christianity, defying the domination of the
upper classes. This was preceded by, like the Munda-Uraon case,
their “unprecedented restlessness”.59 The outcastes were sensi-
tised by the colonial system of their age-old suppression under
the caste-ridden mainstream society and they took Christianity
as an escape route. In this sense, the outcaste conversion move-
ment has rightly been explained as “the first stage of dalit
movement”.60 The outcaste move essentially stood for self-respect
in the existing social set-up. In the case of the Chhotanagpur trib-
als, who were cultural exclusives, Christianity became a means
for cultural restoration that would yield them their rights and
h­uman dignity. Their effort for recovery of the lost rights and
dignity led them to, as indicated by the Sardari Larai, the idea of
autonomous status in the region.
Conclusion: Implications and Impasse
Making of the concept of tribe in pre-colonial and colonial India
is a succinct symbol of the tribals being culturally most sup-
pressed. Under British colonialism, the colonial ethnography
inte­grated the concept in the caste frame. The tribes, placed as
dregs in the caste hierarchy, formed the “brahmanical opposite”.61
The conceptual denigration culminated in “criminalisation” of
tribes, as pronounced in the Criminal Tribes Act, 1871.62 Close
asso­ciation of such conceptual making with colonialism has led
scholars to believe “tribe” as “colonial creation”.63 The proposi-
tion ignores heavy reliance of colonial ethnographers upon the
same traditional Sanskritic data that the pre-colonial idea was
based on. This substantially renders colonial depiction of tribe as
beastly as earlier. Colonialism, however, gave the concept a new
dynamism and currency. Especially, it added the ingredient of
social Darwinism and sprouted a number of regional terms, all
equally despicable.
94
The colonial term has stayed unquestioned. This is because
scholars rigidly stick to the belief that tribe is a stage of human
progress and not an autonomous unit of human progress. Tribe
is, thus, prmitivised or “savaged”, as R C Guha would like to call.64
That accounts for why tribes generally meant to the Indian nation
either “tiresome savages” or “colourful folks engaged in sexual
o­rgies, human sacrifice and head-hunting”65 on the basis of such
trite reason as “inferior in mental capacity, military organi­sation,
material advancement and social efficiency”.66 While scholars rec-
ognise stereotyping on the basis pre-colonial data, they lack the
boldness of exploring varied and alternative, including tribal,
sources for an objective understanding of the concept.67
Under static mindset, the best of western humanitarianism or
of Indian nationalist thinking would not be able to raise any diff­
e­rent idea of tribe.68 The latter instead harboured the idea of tribes
as “backward Hindus”.69 From such notion, the Indian nati­on
coined first the term adimjati or primitive people and later, after
independence, with same connotation vanavasi, i e, forest-dwellers.70
In recent times, the Hindu right wing sought to popula­rise vanavasi,
and from that, the name Jharkhand was to be Vananchal.
Taking tribes as “backward Hindus”, the nationalist humani-
tarian concern toyed with a romantic move to facelift the concept
by according the tribals kshatriya status or “civilised” label.71 The
effort was bound to fail, but the idea motivated in Chhotanagpur,
in the early 20th century, concerted effort to mainstream the tri-
bals: through “shuddhi” programme of the Arya Samaj to win
back “the lost brethren” from the fold of Christianity, by enumer-
ating them (especially, the followers of Sarna, the indigenous
tribal religion) as Hindus in various decennial censuses since
1921, and by their political mobilisation by the Indian National
Congress. Except a small segment of the Hinduised Tana Bhagats,
who responded to the Congress call, the Mundas and Uraons cold
shouldered these overtures.72
The tribals’ indifference indicated their firmness of belief in a
different idea of tribe and associated cultural values, to which
the Sarna faith was well coordinated and adopted Christianity
conformed. That was how, in 1930s, when the embryo of the
Jharkhand movement assumed shape as Adivasi Sabha (1938),
the Christian and Sarna tribals shared the platform, spurning
Congress as the outsiders’ “Hindu” party. Christian preponder-
ance of Adivasi Sabha instigated the Congress politicians in the
region to discern the factor of “separatism” in the Jharkhand
movement, as an “imperialist” impact on the “simple” people.
The tribals took pains to clarify that the movement depicted sim-
ply the tribals’ aspiration for cultural autonomy.
The tribal response underpinned a spontaneous conceptual
a­rticulation. An eloquent Jaipal Singh, the president of the
A­divasi Sabha stated in 1939 that the tribals, “as citizens of this
country”, were “equal in status to others”; and that as “adivasis –
the origin­al settlers” they wanted “to remove the stigma of a dalit
jati”.73 This marks a new initiative of the Mundas and Uraons for
conce­pt-based cultural claim for human dignity vis-à-vis super-
imposed sub-human status. They took adimjati or vananchal as
pejorative and made their choice clear for adivasi, denoting the
sense of indigenity.74 In that sense, adivasi became a f­­ought-and-
won term of the tribals, as independent India accepted it in
december 26, 2009  vol xliv no 52  EPW   Economic & Political Weekly
 special article

p­opular use. However, this did not liberate the term from inher-
ited bias. In independent India, adivasi officially became “sched-
uled tribe” or anusuchit janajati, with parenthetic presence of jati
(caste) as a legacy of colonial ethnography.
Today the term adivasi has become contentious because of
certain political ramifications, centring on the claim of first right
by the local tribal people over local resources. Many among the
gene­ral population disapprove it for the tribals and section of it,
espe­cially the Hindu right wingers, has even r­esorted to tamper-
ing with Indian history to prove their indigenity prior to the
t­ribals. The term is also detested by sections of tribals of north-
east India, since it is in use for the tribal m­igrants there from the
inner parts of India. The crux of the matter is not so much which
group settled in a region when, but rather which group has
continuously settled in a particular region for a period longer
than others.75
Equally important at stake is the need of appreciating the cul-
tural sentiments of the local tribal people, especially their sensi-
bility of being equal humans with others. This is where India has
faltered. In Americas and Australia, especially respective govern-
ments, in recent decades, have realised the colonial wrongs
wrought on the “indigenous people” and have publicly apologised.
The governments saw the reason behind these people’s cultural
assertions, and ultimately, as a token of compensation, accepted
their aspirations by according them the status of “first nation”.
Widespread recognition by individual states forced the United
Nations to open a Permanent Forum on the subject and declare an
International Decade of the World’s Indigenous People in 1993.
The Indian state is aware of these developments, but has
r­efused to join the UN Permanent Forum. The plea is that the
country has no “indigenous people”! At the back of the denial
are i­nveterate prejudice of the average Indian mind in respect
to the idea of tribe, inherited from history, and the political
implications of the tribals’ indigenous status. The government’s
abnegation has, however, not restrained a number of Indian tribal
o­rganisations to join the UN Permanent Forum. The adivasi ­versus
scheduled tribe stalemate symbolising alien-tribal ­conceptual
contention, thus, persists.

Notes A  Critique (New Delhi: Manohar 2002). One is 26 Ibid.

1 J Hoffmann, Encyclopaedia Mundarica, Vol I,
(Patna: Government Printing, Bihar, 1950), p  1117.
2 The tribals addressed each other as “Horo”,
“Maleh” and so on – that meant man.
3 Indian Confederation of Indigenous and Tribal
Peoples, Indigenous and Tribal Solidarity (New
Delhi: ICITP 1997), p 105.
4 K S Singh, Tribal Movements in India (New Delhi:
Manohar 1982) in Chhotanagpur the first revolt
took place in 1789, closely following the actual
occu­pation of the region in 1772.
5 “Memorandum Submitted by the Chhotanagpur
Improvement Society”, Report of the Indian Statu-
tory Commission, Selections from Memoranda and
Oral Evidence by Non-officials (Part I) (Calcutta:
Government Printing), 1930, p 447.
6 This is what cultural theoretician, Edward Said
perceived in his Orientalism (New Delhi: Penguin
Books, 1978). The view has since been critiqued
by a host of writers. I take cue mainly from And­
rew Porter, “‘Cultural Imperialism’ and Protestant
Missionary Enterprise 1780-1914”, Journal of
Impe­r ial and Commonwealth History, Vol 25, No 3,
September 1997.
7 The scholarly tendency in the context of the
growth of the Jharkhand movement in late 1930s
has been to discern tribal “separatism” in Chho-
tanagpur, chiefly “Sustained by Continuous Flow
of External Stimuli”, see P G Ganguli, “Separatism
in Indian Polity: A Case Study” in M C Pradhan et
al (ed.), Anthropology and Archaeology: Essays in
Honour of Verrier Elwin 1902-64 (London: Oxford
University Press 1969); K S Singh, “Tribal Ethni­
city in a Multi-ethnic Society: Conflict and Inte-
gration in Colonial and Post-colonial Chhota­
nagpur” in UNESCO, Trends in Ethnic Group Rela-
tions in Asia and Oceana (Paris: UNESCO 1979).
8 J Reid, Final Report on the Survey and Settlement
Operations in the Ranchi District, 1902-10 (Cal-
cutta: Bengal Secretariat Book Depot 1912), p 22.
9 Sumit Guha, Environment and Ethnicity in India,
1200-1991 (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press 1999), p 26.
10 They came to be known as “sadans”, who consti-
tute a sizeable community in the state of
Jharkhand today.
11 B B Choudhuri, “Society and Culture of the Tribal
World in Colonial India: Reconsidering the No-
tion of ‘Hinduisation’ of Tribes” in Jha, Hetukar
(ed.), Perspectives on Indian Society and History:
also reminded here of the Mundas and Uraons
claiming their ancestry to the Mahabharata fig-
ure, Jarasandha, while arguing for their “Indige-
nous” tribal status in Chhotanagpur before the
Indian Statutory Commission, 1928; see “Memo-
randum submitted by the Chhotanagpur Improve-
ment Society”, p 447.
12 Guha, Environment and Ethnicity in India, p 199.
13 Anonymous, “The Kols of Chhotanagpur”, Calcut-
ta Review, Vol XLIX, No XCVII, 1869, p 140.
14 Roy, “An Abstract of the Annals of the Nagabansi
Raj Family”, Man in India, Vol VIII, 19, pp 269-70.
15 Ibid, p 268.
16 S C Roy, “Ethnological Investigation in Official
Records” (Report of S T Cuthbert 1827), Journal
of Bihar and Orissa Research Society, Vol VII,
part  4, 1931, p 5 (Hereafter “Cuthbert Report
1827”).
17 E T Dalton, Descriptive Ethnology of Bengal (Cal-
cutta: Indian Studies 1872, rpt 1960), pp 162-63.
18 S C Roy, The Mundas and Their Country (Bombay:
Asia Publishing House 1970), p 93.
19 Ibid.
20 See, for instance, C P N Sinha (ed.) India Tracts:
Major J Browne’s Report of Jungle Tarai People of
South Bihar during 1774-79 (Darbhanga: Maharaja-
dhiraj Kameshwar Singh Foundation 1996); James
Long, Selections from Unpublished Records of Gov-
ernment for the Years 1748 to 1767 (Calcutta: Firma
K L Mukhopadhyay, second edition 1973); Reginald
Heber, Narratives of a Journey Through the Upper
Provinces India from Calcutta to Bombay 1824-25,
Vol I (Delhi: B R Publishing, rpt 1985), p  258.
21 British linguist of the late 19th and early 20th cen-
tury, G A Grierson sees the meaning of “Kol” as
dirty pig, which the tribals also believed.
22 Report entitled “The Coles”, The Bengal Harkaru
and Chronicle, Calcutta, 24 February 1832 in
­J  C  Jha, The Tribal Revolt of Chhotanagpur
(1831-32) (Patna: K P Jayaswal Research Institute
1987), Appendix 2, p 269.
23 Sinha, India Tracts, p 15.
24 Romila Thapar, Ancient Indian Social History
(New Delhi: Orient Longman 1978), pp 152-92.
This is often overlooked, and the rise of beastly or
demonic portrayal of tribe is exclusively linked
with Darwinian racism of modern times.
25 James Long, “Report of the Sociological Section”,
Proceedings of the Transactions of the Bethune
Society (Calcutta: Bethune Society 1870), p 414.
27 A Bavarian tourist in Chhotanagpur in the early
20th century remarked to his local host pointing
at a Munda sitting on the roadside: “That Fellow
Sitting there is Either a Monkey, and then I am a
Man, or if He is a Man, and then I am God”, J Hoff-
mann, Encyclopaedia Mundarica, Vol IV, p 1117.
28 The latter phenomenon is explained more explic-
itly in case of the Gond tribes of central India. See
W G Griffith, “The Folklores of the Kols”, Man in
India, Vol XXIV, No 4; J Forsyth, The Highlands of
Central India: Notes on their Forests, Wild Tribes,
Natural History and Sports (London: Chapman
and Hall, new edition 1919). In Chhotanagpur, it
reflects abundantly in the annals of the Nagaban-
sis See Roy “An Abstract of the Annals of the
N­agabansi Raj Family”.
29 “Srimati Satyawati Gaur Gahi Bakhni” (in Ku-
rukh, the dialect of the Uraons), Dhumkuria, May-
June, 1952, p 10.
30 H Beverley, Report on the Census of Bengal
(­Calcutta: Government Printing 1872).
31 J Hoffmann, Encyclopaedia Mundarica, Vol V
(Patna: Government Printing, Bihar 1950),
pp  1449-50; Ibid, Vol II (Patna: Government
Printing, Bihar 1950), pp 462; Letter dated 22 May
from R D Haldar, Special Commissioner to Deputy
Commissioner, Lohardugga in Papers relating to
Chhotanagpur Agrarian Disputes, Vol I, p 82;
L  S  S O’Malley, Census of India, 1911, Part I
B­engal, Bihar and Orissa (Calcutta: Bengal Secre­
tariat Book Depot), p 234.
32 The details of this movement is well-documented
in MacDougall, John, Land or Religion? The
S­ardar and Kherwar Movements in Bihar 1858-95
(New Delhi: Manohar 1985).
33 M G Hallet, Bihar and Orissa District Gazetteer:
Ranchi (Patna: Government Printing, Bihar 1917),
p 32. The early 60 years of the British rule, espe-
cially facilitated this politically. The authorities
governed the region from camp offices at Chatra
and Sherghati in central Bihar, which meant to
the tribals a distant “Delhi Durbar”; Reid, Final
Report of the Survey and Settlement Operation of
Ranchi, p 34.
34 Roy, “Cuthbert Report, 1827”; S C Roy, “Ethnolo­
gical Investigation in Official Records” (Report of
John Davidson, 1839), Vol XXI, Part 4, p 243;
H  Ricketts, Selections from the Records of the
Govern­ment of Bengal, No XX, Calcutta, 1855, p 36;
P C Roy Choudhury, 1857 in Bihar (Chhotanagpur
and Santhal Parganas), second edition (Patna:

Economic & Political Weekly  EPW   december 26, 2009  vol xliv no 52 95
speciAl article
Revenue Department 1959), p 39; Indo-European
Correspondence, 22 January 1890, p 77.
35 F A Grignard, “The Oraons and Mundas: From the
Times of Their Settlement in India”, Anthropos,
Vol IV, 1909, p 7.
36 Jha, The Tribal Revolt of Chhotanagpur (1831-32),
p 259; Ganguli, “Separatism in Indian Polity”,
p  100, A reflection of this theory is found in W­einer,
Myron, Sons of the Soil: Migration and Ethnic Con-
flict in India (Delhi: Oxford University Press 1978),
which sees “Passive Protest” in the emigration of
the displaced tribals vis-à-vis active protest in the
form of revolts and movements. The emigrants
actually left their land nostalgically, often with a
resolve to get it back. Some of them did return
with savings in hand and joined the Sardari Larai.
Some others converted to Christianity in the
migrated land to empower themselves. This indi-
cates that emigration was not r­eally passive exit.
37 Letter dated 22 December 1871 from E T Dalton,
Commissioner, Chhotanagpur to Secretary, Reve-
nue, Bengal, in Papers relating to Chotanagpur
Agrarian Disputes, Vol I, p 21.
38 MacDougall, Land or Religion?
39 Joseph Bara, “Seeds of Mistrust: Tribal and Colo-
nial Perspectives on Education in Chhotanagpur,
1834-c 1850”, History of Education, Vol 34, No 6,
November 2005.
40 See for detailed description of the circumstances
in Joseph Bara, “Colonialism, Christianity and
the Tribes of Chhotanagpur in East India, 1845-90”,
South Asia, Vol XXX, No 2, August 2007.
41 Report of the Chhota Nagpore Mission for Year
1863, Calcutta, 1864, pp 9-10.
42 This took place, especially between 1855, when
Henry Ricketts, visiting member, board of
r­evenue, prepared a report and 1880, when
R  D  Haldar, special commissioner to the bhuin-
hari survey submitted his report. Haldar’s note
entitled “An Account of the Village System of
Chhotanagpur”, appended to the main report,
e­specially became an authoritative reference
m­aterial on the subject of bhuinhari.
43 In place of “Khukra”, “Chutia Nagpur” or “Jhar­
khand”, the names of the region in the medieval
period, the British called it “Ramgarh Tract”
(1765) and “South-West Frontier Agency” (1834)
before opting for “Chhotanagpur” in 1854.
44 Scholars have either overlooked this movement or
have failed to recognise its importance. In the en-
tire set of “Subaltern Studies” of the Oxford Uni-
versity Press, the subject is unattended. K S Singh,
whose scholarship on tribal movement of Chho-
tanagpur is well-known for over three decades, is
more concerned to see how Birsa movement was
an “advance” over this movement and assigns the
latter the role of a second fiddle; see his Birsa
Munda and His Movement 1874-1901: A Study of a
Millenarian Movement in Chhotanagpur (Calcutt­a:
Oxford University Press 1983). Historian Sumit
Sarkar in his authoritative survey of popular
movements in colonial India explains the “prim­
ary resistance” led by traditional chiefs in Chho-
tanagpur before this movement and the “reviv­alist”
movement led by Birsa following it, but skips
comment on Sardari Larai; see Sarkar, Sumit,
“Popular” Movement and “Middle Class” Leader-
ship in Late Colonial India: Perspective and Problems
of a “H­i story from Below” (Calcutta: Centre for
Studies in Social Sciences 1983).
45 Petition dated 25 March 1879 of “14,000 Chris-
tians” to the Commissioner of Chhotanagpur in
Roy, The Mundas and Their Country, pp 162-63.
46 A tribal saying is Topi Topi ek Topi, which means
hat donning whitemen, whether a colonial official
or a missionary, were the same.
47 Some see Christianity playing the role of a mere
“Catalyst” in the tribal society, where the chief
role was played by market forces, giving rise to a
“Well-Off” tribal peasantry. See Romila Thapar
and M H Siddiqi “Chhotanagpur: The Pre-­Colonial
and Colonial Situation” in UNESCO, Trends in
Ethnic Group Relations in Asia and Oceania
(Paris: UNESCO 1979), p 39. Others discern a
96
direct role of it. See especially Roy, The Mundas Discourses of Ethnicity: Culture and Protest in
and Their Country. Jharkhand (New Delhi: Sage Publications 1992).
48 K S Singh, for instance, finds a proactive working 64 R C Guha, Savaging the Civilised: Verrier Elwin,
of Christianity which “radiated deeper” into the His Tribals and India (Delhi: Oxford University
tribal society and raised a band of “Reactionary” Press 1997).
tribal leaders, see Singh, Birsa Munda and His 65 Verrier Elwin, The Tribal World of Verrier Elwin:
Movement, p 20. An Autobiography (New York: Oxford University
49 For a vivid picture of it from contemporary writ- Press 1964), p 290.
ing see, Mullens, Joseph, Ten Years of Missionary 66 L S S O’Malley, Modern India and the West: A Study
Labour in India between 1852 and 1861 (London: of the Interaction of Civilisations (London: Oxford
James Nisbet & Co 1863), p 43. University Press, 1941), p 726.
50 W W Hunter, Statistical Account of Bengal: The 67 See, for instance, a number of essays dealing with
Districts of Ranchi and Lohardaga, Vol XVI (Delhi: “construction” of “Tribe” and “Adivasi” in Indian
Concept Publishing Company, rpt 1975), p 443. Historical Review (Vol XXXIII, No 1, January 2006)
51 Report of the GEL Mission for the year 1874, quot- devoted to the theme “Adivasis in Colonial India”.
ed in ibid, p 436. 68 The former was represented by the Jesuit mis-
52 Petition to the Lt Governor of Bengal, 1881 in Mac- sionaries in Chhotanagpur in the early 20th cen-
Dougall, Land or Religion?, Appendix B3, p 261. tury. This was the period when the Jesuits led by
53 Quoted by R D Haldar in his “An Account of J  B Hoffmann fought an in-house battle for the
V­illage System of Chhotanagpur”, appended to cause of social uplift of the Mundas and Uraons.
Resolution dated 25 November 1880 of the Gov- The missionaries generally still took the tribals as
ernment of Bengal on the Report of the Special incurable “Drunkards and Liars”, who preferred
Commissioners, in Papers Relating to Chhota­ the “bliss of their primitive simplicity”; Sevrin,
nagpur Agrarian Disputes, Vol I, p 103. Oscar, “Village Schools in Chota Nagpore”
54 Roy, The Mundas and Their Country, p 163. (mimeo) (Ranchi Jesuit Archives), pp 1-2.
55 Letter dated 19 November 1887 from Stevens to 69 This was academically adopted by G S Ghurye,
Chief Secretary, Bengal. The Aborigines – So-called – and Their Future
(Poona: Gokhale Institute of Politics and Econo­
56 Undated (but dating sometime before 1887) peti-
tion by two former students of the Lutheran mics 1943).
M­ission School, in MacDougall, Land or Religion?, 70 Both the terms were closely associated with the
Appendix B2, p 261. Adimjati Seva Mandal, a nationalist non-­
57 Petition dated 1881 to the Lt Governor of Bengal, governmental organisation, engaged in welfare
in ibid, p 262. works among the tribal populations.
58 The idea of “Chosen People” has pushed some sec- 71 The idea of Kshatriya status was floated on the
tions of the Mizos and Kukis in North-East India eve of independence by some philanthropists; see
to define themselves as one of the lost tribes of the Verrier Elwin, Foreword (written in 1944) to All-
Old Testament, leading some even to migrate to India Arya (Hindu) Dharma Sewa Sangha, Reli-
Israel. Under what specific circumstances it has gious Banditry (Delhi: AIADSS, undated), p 15. As
taken that turn needs to be studied. for the tribals being called “Civilised”, see Elwin,
The Tribal World of Verrier Elwin.
59 Forrester, B Duncan, Caste and Christianity: A­ttitudes
and Policies on Caste of Anglo-Saxon Protestant 72 See the details of these political moves in Joseph
Mission in India (London: Curzon Press 1980), p 73. Bara, “Western Education and Rise of New Identity:
60 Webster, C B John, The Dalit Christians: A History Mundas and Oraons of Chhotanagpur 1839-1939”,
Economic & Political Weekly, 12 April 1997.
(Delhi: Indian Society for Promoting Christian
Knowledge 1992), p 70. 73 Jaipal Singh, “Success of the Mahasabha”, A­divasi:
61 Crispin Bates, “Race, Caste and Tribe in Central Mahasabha Special Issue, March, 1939, p 10.
India: The Early Origins of Indian Anthropmetry” 74 As indicated above, besides forming a political
in Peter Robb (ed.), The Concept of Race in South f­orum with the word “Adivasi”, the tribals also
Asia (Delhi: Oxford University Press 1995). published an organ Adivasi since 1938.
62 Yang, A Anand (ed.), Crime and Criminality in 75 Virginius Xaxa, “Tribes as Indigenous People of
British India (Tucson: The University of Arizona India” in Joseph Bara (ed.), Ordeals and Voices of
Press, 1995). the Indigenous Tribal People of India (Guwahati:
63 Among many works on the subject, see specifi­ Indian Confederation of Indigenous and Tribal
cally on the Jharkhand tribes, Devalle, B C Susana, Peoples, North-East Zone 2006).
Review of Labour
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december 26, 2009  vol xliv no 52  EPW   Economic & Political Weekly
COMMENTARY
Andaman Tribes
Oscillating between Isolation and Doles
Zubair Ahmed
The lack of a comprehensive
policy on the tribes of Andaman
and Nicobar Islands, hasty
developmental projects, lack
of sensitisation among the
authorities and the settler
population, depletion of the
resource base, and escalating
tourism are the concerns needing
urgent attention.
Zubair Ahmed (zubairpbl@gmail.com) is
a researcher and journalist based in the
Andaman and Nicobar Islands.
16
O
scillating between isolation and
doles, the tribals of Andaman
and Nicobar Islands face an
imperious policy vacuum in the face of
an onslaught from a gratuitous develop-
ment paradigm, the aspirations of the
settler population and the demands of
the escalating tourism industry. Lack of
a comprehensive policy on the tribes,
hasty developmental projects, lack of
sensitisation among the administrators
and the settler population, and depletion
of the resource base of the tribes are issues
that need serious attention.
The Andaman Home was established
in 1863 through the efforts of Reverend
H Corbyn, chaplain at Port Blair, to esta-
blish friendly relationships with and, civi-
lise the Andamanese. Corbyn attempted
to teach them English and, to use his own
words, “daily employed them in work
with the native convicts cleaning sites,
etc” (Bonington 1932). The immediate re-
sults were that illness broke out among
the Andamanese and many escaped.
Those remaining were put under restraint
with convict guards in attendance. The
impossibility of striving to keep “primitive”
nomadic people to civilised and settled
life, a measure solely attainable under
conditions of restraint akin to slavery, was
all too clear (Bonington 1932).
There are sufficient recorded experi-
ences of the colonising powers who
FEBRUARY 9, 2019
attempted friendly missions for civilis-
ing the “primitive islanders” with the
aim of reducing hostile conflicts. These
failed miserably, with the remnants of
the tribes becoming dependent on exter-
nal assistance to survive in a modern so-
ciety that enveloped their ancestral
home (Chandi 2010). It is evident that
the Indian government failed to learn
much from experiences of the pre-
independence foreign forces in their
engagement with the tribals during the
150 years of colonial ingressions. It has
continued with the “friendly contact
missions.” Following the recent incident
where the American missionary John
Allen Chau was killed on the North Sen-
tinel Island, many reports in newspapers
and magazines claimed that the Senti-
nelese were not an uncontacted tribe.
The common theme was the glorification
of the contact missions of the govern-
ment agencies and anthropologists of
yore. However, when we look at both the
colonial and postcolonial policy inter-
ventions among different tribes in the
Islands, a bewildering picture emerges.
The Great Andamanese
In 1911, the Great Andamanese tribe
had dwindled to 209, owing to syphilis
introduced by the British and the penal
settlers, and the birth rate had become
excessively low. A few healthy half-bred
children, the result of the unions between
Andamanese women and the convicts,
survived as well. The opening up of the
forest camps at Stewart Sound Islands
certainly hastened the extinction of the
Andamanese in those parts by introduc-
ing contagious diseases, especially influ-
enza. Egon Freiherr von Eickstedt, a
vol lIV no 6 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

German anthropologist who visited these
islands in the 1920s, had mentioned the
Andaman Home to be the door of death
for the Andamanese race. As Bonington
(1932) accepts in his report, it seemed
unavoidable that individuals should get
infected by diseases such as syphilis,
measles and influenza, and once the in-
fection started, it overran the whole tribe
because those infected could not be seg-
regated or brought in for treatment ow-
ing to their nomadic habits and natural
dislike of any “civilised” treatment.
Post-independence, with no palpable
change in the approach of the govern-
ment, the remainder of the tribe, which
had been almost decimated, was stricken
with substance abuse. The government
drew tribal welfare policies to “develop”
and provide autonomy to indigenous
groups in the islands (Chandi 2010). On
the advice of the Anthropological Survey
of India (AnSI), in the 1950s, the Great
Andamanese were settled on the Strait
Island. They survive today on govern-
ment rations that are supplied through the
Department of Tribal Welfare. As the poli-
cy was to assimilate the community and
provide assistance, they were recipients of
various altruistic measures that they
welcomed, but ultimately became de-
pendent upon. The chance of their surviv-
al in the absence of these doles is now
questionable. They are only able to fish,
hunt a few spotted deer on the island, and
forage for money and rice beer/alcohol
from the settlements of other colonised
communities (Chandi 2010).
The Onges
The story repeats itself in the case of the
Onges. The community that had the
whole of Little Andaman Island to them-
selves as recently as the 1960s, has been
pushed to a little corner, Dugong Creek.
The tribe that once defended their land
and resources from outside invasion has
been cowed down today. The early history
of the relations with the Onges of Little
Andaman presents a series of fruitless
attempts at conciliation. For many years
the Onges proved a source of much worry
to the British settlement, owing to the pre-
carious position in which any visiting or
shipwrecked crews were placed after land-
ing on Little Andamans (Bonington 1932).
Economic & Political Weekly EPW FEBRUARY 9, 2019
In 1873, when General Stewart visited
the Island, the Onges kept out of sight.
On his return to Port Blair, however,
he discovered that five of the crew of
the ship Quangoon, trading between
Moulmein and the Straits, had been att-
acked and murdered while searching for
water. A party sent out as a punitive expe-
dition discovered their remains, and drove
the Onges off causing great loss to them.
The party also burnt down a few com-
munal huts and several canoes. One Onge
was captured and taken to Port Blair, but
he died soon of reasons unknown. In most
cases, any attempt to conciliate by captur-
ing them and loading them with gifts and
presents proved unsuccessful. At the first
chance they got, the Onge would escape
captivity. From an estimated 672 indi-
viduals in 1901, the numbers came down
to 250 in 1931, a decrease of 63% in 30
years. Experience in the colonial era
shows that Onges died out whenever
they came in contact with civilisation.
The gift-giving, which started in the
1890s, continued and for the past many
years, the Onges are being supplied gov-
ernmental rations. After the island was
settled with refugees during the 1960s, the
tropical forest, the primary resource base
of the Onges, saw a large-scale clearing,
pushing them to a corner and forcing
them to lead a sedentary lifestyle with
welfare measures doled out to them.
Today, they face intense competition
from the settlers in their hunt for pigs.
Moreover, in 1972, the Andaman admin-
istration in its wisdom thought of creat-
ing a Nicobari settlement very close to the
Onge settlement, without the two having
any separate resource base. Schooling for
the Onge children has also been initiated,
but what is taught lacks any understand-
ing of their time and space.
The Jarawas
The Jarawas, one of the last remaining
tribal group in the islands that contin-
ued to live in the forest without being
assimilated to any degree within the
larger society, are confined to around
1,100 square kilometres of Jarawa Re-
serve Forest in the South and Middle
Andaman Islands. According to Pandya
(2010), they are perhaps unaware of the
area set aside for their protection and use
vol lIV no 6
COMMENTARY
within a boundary. From the point of
view of the authorities, both colonial and
postcolonial, the Jarawas have a desig-
nated and demarcated place which pro-
vides them with access to the seashore,
the east side of one island and the ever-
green tropical forest that covers the lon-
gitudinal continuation of the Tirur Hill
tracts. This forest blends into the settle-
ment areas and small fields worked by
farmers. The designated area is where the
authorities believe the Jarawas should
be confined, observed and accessed by
only authorised persons (Pandya 2010).
Contact with the Jarawas was first
made in 1790, during the foundation of
the first settlement. On the second
arrival of the British to set up the penal
colony in 1858, the Jarawas, owing to
their decimation by disease introduced
by Lieutenant Blair’s men, had been ousted
from the vicinity of the harbour by the
Great Andamanese. The partiality shown
by the British administration to the Great
Andamanese provoked the Jarawas, who
grew to fear the settlement as much as
they did the Great Andamanese. The year
1872 marks the first recorded Jarawa raid
on the settlement and from then onwards,
scarcely a year passed without raids
being made on the settlement to obtain
iron implements (Bonington 1932). There
were many punitive expeditions against
the Jarawas by the colonial forces, killing
hundreds of them. Captain West, who led
many expeditions against the Jarawas,
claimed that the most effective strategy
against the Jarawas was “organising and
keeping in action a number of small mobile
parties of practised game trackers and
hunters” (Bonington 1932).
The mutual hostilities carried on after
independence. There were many cases
of exploitation of the Jarawas through
friendly contact expeditions as well as by
poachers, on both the east and west side
of the reserve. Jarawas have also shown
friendliness according to their conveni-
ence when the friendly moonlight con-
tact missions were conducted by the
“chosen” few. And, there are also stories
that settlers used to boast of about killing
and wounding the Jarawas, and damag-
ing their huts, and plundering exploits.
The Great Andaman Trunk Road, which
cuts across the Jarawa Tribal Reserve has
17
COMMENTARY
seen conflicts of a different nature. While
on the one hand, it opened a properly
organised and controlled convoy-based
human safari, on the other, it also helped
the Jarawas in their movement. After
the Jarawas shed the so-called “hostili-
ty” and came out without their tradi-
tional bows and arrows, there has been
a policy impasse. Tourism, however,
flourishes on the road. On the west
coast, interactions with fisherfolk and
poachers increased. And on the fringes
of villages, illegal barter of contraband
continues between the poachers and the
Jarawas, which is nearly impossible to
check with the present mechanism. There
has been no change in the Jarawa policy
which was framed in 2004, though the
ground realities have changed much.
The intervention of Andaman Nicobar
Tribal Research Institute (ANTRI) headed
by its honorary director, Vishwajit Pan-
dya had initiated a few steps to empower
the tribe to make them self-sufficient in
protecting their culture, land, and res-
ources. Some of the initiatives had started
to show results, but these were abruptly
slowed down by the administration for
reasons unknown.
The Sentinelese and Shompens
The Sentinelese tribe on the North Sentinel
Island remained isolated from the main-
stream due to its geographical distance.
Their hostile resistance was similar to
that shown by the other tribes. After the
John Chau incident, there had been a
rush to prove who first contacted the tribe.
However, the Sentinelese have resisted
any attempts by the authorities, poachers
or fishermen from approaching the is-
land. Had the policy of “eyes on, hands
off” implemented in its true spirit, the
incident that killed Chau could have been
averted. After the incident and the glob-
al focus on the tribe, the surveillance
has increased, as per the claims of the
Andaman administration.
The Shompen tribe, located on the Great
Nicobar Island, has two septs: one that
stays close to the coast, and another in the
deep forests. Shy in nature, the Shompens
have been in touch with the settlers and
do visit the settlement frequently. The
major contention is the strategic location
of the Island, which is the southern-most
18
tip of India, close to the sea lane, the
Strait of Malacca. Presence of defence
forces and construction of a road cross-
ing through the Shompen habitat to con-
nect the western coast are issues of con-
tention. This tribe has also started show-
ing dependency on the welfare meas-
ures doled out to them.
In Conclusion
One clear challenge before the tribes of
the Andamans is the island development
plans, over which the indigenous tribes
have no control, but are caught up with-
in this conflict of power with the non-in-
digenes. Another major issue is the flour-
ishing tourism without a proper plan or
place for the tribes in the whole scheme of
things. There had been proposals to
have tribal tourism in Nicobar. However,
lack of any consultation with the tribes
has been resented and the proposal not
welcomed by the Nicobari population. The
role of ANTRI, which was set up in 2014,
has potential due to its research-based
interventions among the tribes and has
shown results especially in the case of
the Jarawas, who are stuck at crossroads
between isolation and illicit contact
with the settlers.
A comprehensive policy for the tribes
with sufficient attention to its implementa-
tion, and wide sensitisation about their
history, culture and lifestyle among the
settlers has been due for a long time. The
settlers as well as the tourists, need to be
sensitised about the vulnerability they
face, and the resource depletion needs to
be addressed through proper research-
based interventions. The proposal to set
up a museum by ANTRI has also been put
on the back-burner. It could have helped
in checking the human safari to a large
extent by providing sufficient knowl-
edge-based exposure on the culture, na-
ture, and history of the tribes to the vis-
iting tourists as well as the settlers, who
remain totally ignorant about the tribes
that live around them.
The only museum on the islands, run by
the AnSI, which deals with the tribal and
non-tribal cultures of the islands remains
mired in the old static mode of display.
The museum is built around the display
of a selection of collected visual and
material artefacts without a connecting
FEBRUARY 9, 2019
narrative. This is in spite of the long-
standing engagement with the cultural
groups on the island. Though the museum
has become a major tourist attraction,
unfortunately, it has not been a major
learning and interpretive resource centre.
From the concept of “dying cultures,”
it is imperative to not just preserve but
also manifest the tribal culture of the
islands as “continuing cultures” through
such a museum as proposed by ANTRI,
for which land has been already allotted
by the Andaman administration. The
ANTRI museum has plans to depict the
communities not as de-historicised, or as
a people about to die. Instead, the crux of
the curatorial effort would be to design and
represent the Andamanese tribal commu-
nities as continuing cultures. ANTRI has
also deputed a tribal welfare officer well
versed with the tribes of the islands to
study museology for its own museum. All
this, however, still remains only on paper.
Whereas the protection of the tribes
from external dangers is important, the
larger issue is that of their empowerment
through research-based interventions. The
ill-informed decisions taken at higher
levels do more harm than good. There is
a need to build bridges of understanding
and mutual respect among the tribal and
non-tribal communities of the islands,
which would be of great importance for
the younger generation of the islands in
the long run.
References
Bonington, M C C (1932): Census of India, 1931: The
Andaman and Nicobar Islands, Calcutta: Cen-
tral Publication Branch.
Chandi, Manish (2010): “Colonisation and Conflict
Resolution in the Andaman Islands: Learning
from Reconstruction of Conflict between Indi-
genous and Non-indigenous Islander,” The
Jarawa Tribal Reserve Dossier: Cultural and
Biological Diversities in the Andaman Islands,
Pankaj Sekhsaria and Vishvajit Pandya (eds),
Paris: UNESCO, pp 12–17.
Pandya, Vishwajit (2010): “Hostile Borders on His-
torical Landscapes: The Placeless Place of
Andamanese Culture,” The Jarawa Tribal Reserve
Dossier: Cultural & Biological Diversities in the
Andaman Islands, Pankaj Sekhsaria and Vishvajit
Pandya (eds), Paris: UNESCO, pp 18–29.
available at
Churchgate Book Stall
Churchgate Station
Opp: Indian Merchant Chamber
Mumbai 400 020
vol lIV no 6 EPW Economic & Political Weekly
BOOK REVIEW
State Policy and Adivasi Resistance
in Contemporary India
Indra Munshi
A
s its title suggests, the book uses
the nomenclature First Citizen,
in preference to terms like Tribal,
Adivasi, Scheduled Tribe (ST), or Indige-
nous People for a number of reasons. In the
introduction, Meena Radhakrishna, editor
of the volume, explicates the historical-
political context of each of these terms,
from colonial to contemporary, on global
but especially the Indian scene. Bringing
together discussions among colonial and
postcolonial administrators, anthropolo-
gists, sociologists, and political activists
concerned with Adivasi communities,
she argues in favour of using the term
which is somewhat new in the discourse
on Adivasis. Radhakrishna observes,
The phrase “first citizen” derives from the
understanding that all such communities,
including in India, are amongst the world’s
first, original people, and so by definition,
the world’s first citizens. Terms like “tribe,”
24
First Citizens: Studies on Adivasis, Tribals, and
Indigenous Peoples in India edited by Meena
Radhakrishna, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2016;
p ix +444, `995.
“adivasi,” and “indigenous” have genealogies
which arise from specific historical-political
Indian contexts. (p 2)
However, as the studies in the volume
show, these communities may prefer
one term over another, for different cul-
tural or political reasons, to best identify
themselves at any particular time. Of
course, they are neither uncontested
nor unchanging.
The volume brings together studies by
well-known scholars, and scholar activists
seriously engaged with questions of
Adivasi identity, livelihood, right to res-
ources, gender issues, impact of “develop-
ment,” state action and growing discon-
tent and its articulation among them.
OCTOBER 6, 2018
Fifteen articles are organised into three
sections titled “Categories and Identities
as Historical Process”; “Destruction, Loss,
Dislocation”; and “Negotiations and Red-
ressals.” The introduction and the conclud-
ing paper titled “Epilogue: Violence of
‘Development’ and Adivasi Resistance: An
Overview,” are written by Radhakrishna,
providing a context and an overview of
the assault on the existence of these com-
munities in rapidly changing India, and
the emergence of new alliances to assert
their democratic and human rights.
Ethnicity and Conversion
In the first section, Virginius Xaxa high-
lights the implications of the use of
different terms, reminding us that “the
label used often becomes an issue in the
politics of identity.” He elaborates on
the question of indigenous, its usage in
international and Indian situation, the
controversy surrounding its applicability
in many countries, including India and
China. In India, Xaxa points out, the
complexities of regional diversity make
the use of the term problematic. So that
communities which are indigenous to
the country as a whole may not be indig-
enous to the region/territory of their
vol lIiI no 40 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

present settlement, making a group
“indigenous” and “non-indigenous” at
the same time. The distinction is impor-
tant because it is tied up with rights and
privilege of the communities and signif-
icantly, with their identity.
Issues related to Adivasi identity, ethni-
city, conversion to Christianity or Hinduism,
and the assimilation and modernisation
agenda of the Indian state are highlighted
by Biswamoy Pati, David Vumlallian Zou
and Rudolf C Heredia, from historical and
contemporary perspectives. For Heredia
the Adivasi question raises more funda-
mental issues for the whole society: eco-
nomic sustainability, cultural autonomy,
democratic integration that need to be
addressed. Neither assimilation nor iso-
lation can be the answer. Pati explains the
aggressive phase of conversion by the
Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP) in Odisha,
especially in the recent decades, with
reference to the virtual abdication of
responsibility by the state to provide
livelihood, education, and healthcare.
The space is taken over, partly by schools
and ashrams run by the VHP, Christian
missionaries and non-governmental orga-
nisations. In addition, the VHP has created
a narrative that tribals are in reality Hin-
dus who were converted to Christianity
by the missionaries—so they must be
reconverted. This goes along with the
terrorising of Dalits who had converted to
Christianity—to escape discrimination—
to now reconvert.
In the North East, conversion of tribals
to Hinduism and Chrisitanity is old,
going back centuries, but Zou finds that
most of these groups retain some of their
indigenous practices and beliefs. This
can be said for the rest of India, too,
where a peculiar mix of the old and new
seems to have evolved over time without
creating difficulties. The recent conver-
sions by Hindu organisations, however,
present a different picture.
Zou also highlights the dynamics of
power politics in post-independence India,
the contest between the new modernising
elite, the old traditional chiefs and the
majoritarian politician. But, importantly,
he tells us that the tribal groups of this
region “constitute a heterogeneous body
with distinct historical lineage and
divergent political trajectories” (p 122).
Economic & Political Weekly EPW OCTOBER 6, 2018
The plains tribes are not prepared to
share the benefit of being STs, a politi-
cally privileged identity in post-inde-
pendence India, with Assam’s tea tribes,
also known as Adivasis.
This section on categories, Adivasi,
tribes, indigenous communities, offers a
new perspective which views “indige-
nous” and “Adivasi sensibility,” “outside
the frame of primitive accumulation of
capital,” which subordinates both labour
and nature to the ever expanding need of
capital, by converting use value into ex-
change value. In this economic organi-
sation, both nature and labour are de-
graded and destroyed because profit
must be made. The indigenous and Adi-
vasi perspective, therefore, emphasises
the value of and need for preservation of
ecological balance, labour potential, hu-
man rights, and right to means of sub-
sistence. The Adivasi sensibility recog-
nises that the
life support system cannot be defined
satisfactorily either by the market or by the
state, or by both of them put together. The
state and the market perpetuate and deep-
en the contradiction between equity and
development. (p 65)
To achieve equity and development that
creates conditions for the regeneration
of labour and nature, Savyasaachi force-
fully argues, “Adivasi people need to be
engaged not only as members or as cul-
tural identities alone, but also as persons
of knowledge and skills” (p 65), as peo-
ple who have an alternative to offer.
The havoc that can be played by arbi-
trary de-notification of a tribe by the
state government is well spelt out in the
article on the Rathvas of Gujarat. Using
the ambiguity surrounding the nomen-
clature Hindu–Adivasi, the government
has not only deprived the Adivasis of
their rightful benefits but even more
seriously, it opens up the renewal and
non-renewal resources in the areas in-
habited by them for commercial explo-
itation by big business interests. This
process is likely to continue in many
other regions of a country, despite the
resistance put up by Adivasi organisation.
Arjun Rathva et al rightly point out,
The Fifth Schedule and PESA are prov-
ing to be significant hurdles. Therefore, a
new method is being embarked upon—that
vol lIiI no 40
BOOK REVIEW
of denotifying communities from the list
of Adivasis as declared by the president and
mentioned in the Constitution. (p 156)
‘Development’ as Disaster
It is amply clear by now that “Develop-
ment,” a misnomer, has spelt disaster in
the form of loss of life, livelihood, and
deep-rooted ecological culture among
the Adivasi communities. The second
section closely examines the process
and consequences of what Felix Padel
terms “Investment-induced displace-
ment” in different regions in India. He
argues that, in a situation where
megaprojects have invaded and de-
stroyed the largely sustainable tribal
economies, any attempt like the Pan-
chayats (Extension to Schedule Areas
(PESA) Act, 1996 to introduce a demo-
cratic self-government in these commu-
nities can only succeed minimally.
And although, dispossession and forced
migration resulting from redesigned land
and forest tenure and rights, and rampant
usury, can be traced to colonial adminis-
trative system. It has not only persisted
in new forms, but even gathered fresh
momentum in recent decades.
In an insightful article, Indrani
Mazumdar observes that the intermittent,
survival-oriented migration of Adivasis,
of whom Adivasi women form a large
proportion, only deepens their insecurity,
exploitation, and bondage. She writes,
... the particularly degraded conditions of
adivasi women’s migratory employment in
agriculture and non-agriculture, the chron-
ic cycle of debt/advance-based recruitment,
low income, wage-reducing dependence
on contractors, and related unfreedoms do
not seem to be capable of providing any se-
curity of livelihood or settlement outside
agriculture. (p 203)
Employment as domestic servants in
urban households, does not enhance
their economic or social position in any
way, on the contrary, traps them in an
alien culture causing “acute identity crisis
and social isolation” (Neetha). Even for
the plantation labour, after decades of
employment and despite the growth of
trade union politics in West Bengal,
Sharit K Bhowmik does not find a marked
improvement in the quality of their life.
In fact, the unemployed youth, he reports,
are forced to migrate to distant places like
25
BOOK REVIEW
Haryana, Bengaluru, and Kerala, moving
from one place to another one job, to
another as per the wish of the contractor.
The growing invasion, ever more
violent, on their lives, livelihoods, rights,
dignity, and identity, by the state and
national and global capital, has evoked a
widespread resistance from many Adivasi
groups. This has taken many forms, the
last section and the epilogue address
issues related to ideologies, strategies,
demands that characterise these protests,
struggles, negotiations and initiatives.
In this context, the Scheduled Tribes
and Other Traditional Forest Dwellers
(Recognition of Forest Rights) Act (FRA)
2006, a remarkable legislation, has been
an important step forward in recognition
of their individual and communal rights.
Two articles, by Sudha Vasan and Madhu
Sarin, critically evaluate the act, its limita-
tions and successes. Apart from its overall
tardy implementation, which most articles
in the volume point out, Vasan emphasises
that while FRA encourages the demands
for individual rights from the state, it
fails to establish the mechanism and
institutional process for promotion of
collective rights of Adivasi communi-
ties. Sarin’s examination of the ground
reality in several states like Andhra
Pradesh, Maharashtra, Jharkhand, West
Bengal and others, however, leads her
to a more optimistic conclusion. For,
although the act suffers from inherent
limitations and poor implementation, it
has strengthened the hands of the Adi-
vasi communities to challenge the au-
thority of the forest department. I quote
her at length,
the assertion of rights by organised commu-
nities, even where these are yet to be recog-
nised formally, is changing the balance of
power between communities and the forest
bureaucracy. Over one million households
are already enjoying tenurial security over
their cultivated lands obtained under FRA,
while community control over forests is begi-
nning to expand to areas beyond the pockets
in which it was achieved initially. (p 305)
It has empowered and encouraged
forest communities to adopt creative ways
of defining and exercising democratic
control over forest.
Archana Prasad’s analysis of the tra-
jectories of Adivasi politics, the multiple
forms of protests against state policy and
26
Adivasi resistance in contemporary India,
is a useful addition to the volume. The
complex interplay of class consciousness
and Adivasi community consciousness is
important to understand Adivasi politi-
cal mobilisation in the context of the
larger economic-political processes at
work. The larger structural changes like
crisis in the agrarian sector, reduction
in the state welfare measures, and the
expanding control over resources has
“increased the likelihood of overlap
between Adivasi and working class con-
sciousness,” but Prasad is quick to add that
this emerging politics is more a critique of
“modern” development, than the “capi-
talist form of modern development.”
Neither the Adivasi elite, totally ab-
sorbed into the neo-liberal framework of
the state, nor the Marxists in Central
India, Prasad argues, “Can provide a cred-
ible opposition to neo-liberal market on
which they partly depend for their
survival” (p 330). But there have been
cases like Vedanta and POSCO where
grass roots Adivasi organisations have
confronted the Indian state and the cor-
porate houses. These and later struggles
have taken diverse forms, legalistic and
militant, brought together scholars,
mass organisations, activists, local com-
mittee to resist the attack on their com-
munal as well as democratic rights by
the nexus of state, business interests,
and the aggressive Hindu nationalism
promoted by the right wing. One can
only agree with Prasad that there “is an
urgent need to build a unity and ideo-
logical cohesion between class-based
struggles and the communitarian Adivasi
politics of Adivasi workers.”
Adivasi demand for rights to resources
like land, forest and water for subsistence,
has also been challenged by the hardcore
environmental groups. But, there is a
growing realisation among many of
them that Adivasi rights are not incom-
patible with protection of natural re-
sources and biodiversity. Ashish Kothari
and Neema Pathak Broome hope that a
more inclusive conservation may evolve,
which would protect both nature and
peoples’ livelihoods from the destruction
by aggressive and unbridled economic
growth. Small steps in this direction by
communit-based initiatives and few
OCTOBER 6, 2018
official efforts, the authors believe, give
cause for hope that a paradigm shift at the
national level may occur in the future.
Adivasi Identity under Attack
Summing up, what stands out from the
volume, despite the complexity and the
variation, is the Adivasi mode of exist-
ence, habitat, culture, identity are under
attack by the state and the dominant
classes since centuries. The trend has only
deepened and become more violent in
the recent decades of globalisation and
privatisation. Adivasi resistance to it is also
growing and giving rise to wide alliances,
creative initiatives and experiments.
Radhakrishna concludes on a hopeful note
arguing that
this remarkable movement, which will be
an ongoing one for the foreseeable future,
has entrusted itself which the historic task
of watching over not just the rich ecology
of Adivasis’ habitats, but over their value
identity and dignity. (p 408)
The volume is a valuable addition to the
growing literature on Adivasi issues. It
brings together well-researched articles,
which are not just well-argued and sub-
stantiated but also reflect a deep concern.
Scholars, students, activists and admini-
strators will find it useful to understand
the predicament of a large section of our
population who somehow remain far
from our consciousness.
However, repetition of facts and argu-
ments in the articles makes one want to
skip pages. But more importantly, a larger
discussion on the North East, which pre-
sents a highly complex and a different
picture for the rest of India, would have
been useful. Lastly, it is also important
to recognise that although Adivasi asser-
tion is growing, one can notice the erosion
of the “Adivasi sensibility” within the
Adivasi communities, so that a large
section of the youth feel totally alienated
from their material and cultural exist-
ence, and values. But, this is a challenge
for the organisations that are struggling
to restore the pride and confidence of
the Adivasi people.
Indra Munshi (indramunshi@yahoo.co.in)
is an independent researcher and former
faculty and head at Department of Sociology,
University of Mumbai, Mumbai.
vol lIiI no 40 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

Tribalism, Casteism, Communalism ...
Romesh Thapar
SOMEONE is playing the fool with the PM. using 'Hinduism' as i f it were some r i g i d
Open the door. Close the door. Say this. Say doctrine to be imposed in the style o f pro-
that. Make a statement. Deny it. Smile, seletysers, or by f i l m stars, smugglers,
Frown. Get angry. Laugh It's all very un- gangsters, international financiers backing
nerving. We are beginning to wonder who new groups of influence peddlars.
or what rules us. Whether it is c i v i l or Tragically, the Indian politician has
military or police, no one knows what's reduced himself to such importance that
brewing. India is too large to be ruled in this he is not really able to challenge the in-
berserk way even though the objective is to experienced young man who stepped into his
change things and move us into whatever the mother's power system over a year ago. The
twenty-first century is supposed to stand for. ruling party under its new leader thrills all
In this connection, even though many of over even as it is abused and spat upon
our problems invite dithering and a certain because it is no longer a serious political for-
shiftiness, what stands in the way of taking mation. Rajiv Gandhi, w i t h his all-powerful
the first steps to curb our tribalism, casteism, Minister of the Interior, can do as he pleases
and communalism in matters like a con- because there is no other party at the Centre
sensus on a common civil code (drawing capable of calling a halt to the goings-on
from the best and most enlightened practises now threatening our coherence and stability.
of various groups be they Hindu, M u s l i m , The so called massive mandate, most
Sikh or Christian) or working out man- certainly a simplistic vote against terrorism,
datory disciplines for all places of worship k i l l i n g and assassination (all a part of
and control of their environments. Instant vicious p o l i t i c a l c r i m i n a l i t y ) is being
accords may not be possible, but at least we massively eroded as one state after another
would be debating the need for consensus in the Union votes against the monopoly of
at such levels —that is i f the electronic media Congress power. This pattern is bound to
were made to reflect the concerns of the continue, but what can we expect of political
people, reactionary, progressive or whatever. formations made largely in the image of the
Indians baft ling over who is going to Congress(I) and behaving like it? This
destroy and then rebuild the A k a l Takht at thought hangs like a fog over the sub-
pehnomenal cost when tens of thousands continent whatever the outpourings of one
have to be rehabilitated following rioting, or other chorus.
arson and looting, or controverting over Regionalism will be seen as the answer to
whether divorcees should get a maintenance a n i t - w i t Centre, unable really to evolve any
allowance or not even though it is a r i d i - comprehensive scenario o f correction and
culous pittance, or tub-thumping in rallies thrust. But regionalism, too, has many
about raids on businessmen and indus- facets. It is healthy to the extent that it
trialists when the whole system is shot expresses the collective will o f sections o f our
through w i t h corrupt practice, from the people who wish for greater recognition of
highest' to the 'lowest', or ever pretending their needs and aspirations, and feel that the
to be democratic secular and socialist when Centre has distanced itself from them. This
they are in every action contemptuous of regionalism is a corrective, however flam-
such concepts, has made of the sub- boyant under populist f i l m personalities, but
continent a thing of shreds and patches. it is diametrically different from the destruc-
For us in India, the focus is important. tive creed ofthose lost in tribalistic and com-
It would be terribly infantile for us to munalistic revival—and these elements are
imagine that our current regional, tribal, in all parties. We are saddled w i t h pretenders
communal and caste posturing are part of to national leadership who do not see the
the process of establishing a democratic real contradictions.
balance in a complex continental polity. We Perhaps, I should amend this statement
are building up angers and hatreds on a scale somewhat. I f Rajiv Gandhi speaks of
that w i l l soon become politically unmanage- 'regionalism' as an evil force, it is because
able The ruling party's record is disturbing, there are elements close to him who believe
but we would do well to remember the that no deviation exists which cannot be
'collaborative' role of the entire Opposition. disciplined by the whip. Those who believe
How on earth do we expect the Congress in sensitive and ordered decentralised
'hegemony' to be challenged by an oppor- political management, based on a strict code
tunist Devi Lai leading his mobs against the of institutional functioning, are not heard—
Punjab accord, or by a Shahabuddin ex- or are 'persuaded1 to remain slient. It is here
p l o i t i n g the Janata party for his alleged that co-ordinated interventions can make a
Koranic injunctions on which Muslim profound impact, and free the processes of
personal law is sought to be based, or by a democratic recovery.
Bal Thakeray holding hands w i t h the BJP Anyone who followed the extraordinary
and chauvinism in Bombay (Mumbai) and debate in Britain on the manipulative handl-
elsewhere, or by those shadowy Brahmins ing o f the Westland Helicopter Scandal-
CAPITAL VIEW
something that should be compulsory TV
viewing for our wretched politicians nur-
tured, it is said, in the 'culture' of
Whitehall—would realise how the strict
observance of the rules of the political and
administrative game' is only possible i f MPs
and the media network are alive and alert.
This calls for institutions, and the mobilisa-
t i o n of autonomous, sovereign individuals
who uphold institutions and tested practice.
A selective TV viewing of what happened
in Britain would show us, and particularly
the DOSCO gangs, how far we are from a
democratic culture.
It is this state of immaturity which
encourages all the aberrations of tribe, caste,
community and region. I f other people like
the crisis-ridden Brits did unto our com-
munities (black, brown and yellow) what we
do unto each other in Asia, A f r i c a and
America, we would condemn them as brutal
racists, genociders, fascists. They cannot act
like us. Their institutions continue building
the sensitivities required for civilised living.
What prevents us from taking a setp or two,
every now and then, to l i f t ourselves from
our inanities. I f we don't, they'll mount.
That's the trouble w i t h complex and rami-
fied societies.
Rajiv Gandhi's Congress, or whatever he
hopes to turn i t into w i t h A r j u n Singh, can-
not perform on its own. Nor can the array
once known as the Opposition Conclave. It
w i l l have to be a collective effort of politi-
cians belonging to all our parties, but per-
sons who suffer no confusions on the para-
mount need to rescue India from mounting
tribalism, casteism and communalism. Such
an exercise would begin to establish new
parameters (the word 'new' is important) for
a national revival. A n d those conducting the
exercise must be persons who will not falter
in their assessment of colleagues. There's a
great deal of realigning to be done before
the confusion in political parties begins to
dissolve.
Presuambly, Rajiv Gandhi vaguely felt the
need to do this when he launched on the
state of his own party at the so-called
centenary celebrations. But vagueness will
not do. The practical steps taken so far,
however, are stupid—a pointer to a basic
lack o f understanding o f what is required.
In the same context, could one expect the
Janata party to expel those who do not really
support its perspectives, together w i t h
a number of communalists and mafia
characters? The moment has certainly
arrived when the country at large seeks
healthy leadership. I f such moves do not
develop naturally w i t h i n party caucuses,
then some organised shaking is called for.
It's going to be very d i f f i c u l t . Take the
example of the raids on a number of
business houses and the far from legal
methods used to extract information. Not
a single political party thought fit to put the
matter in focus by declaring that the politicals
231
February 8, 1986
system and the style o f those who governed
India spawned the corrupt practices w h i c h
are now sought to be punished, and that even
i n this attempt the more honest were hound-
ed rather than the smugglers and narcotics
kings operating along our sprawling coast-
line. Why are all the parties silent? Because
they draw financial sustenance from those
elements. They cannot be touched.
The irony o f i t all. The special laws were
made to curb smuggling and the black
market. A n d now they are used exclusively
against those who have headed the indus-
t r i a l i s a t i o n o f the country. There is
something terribly wrong w i t h our under-
standings and priorities. I suppose it is this
messy amalgam that persuades Rajiv
Gandhi to hit out at his party, the party
created by his mother and brother. A n d who,
for god's sake, cast A r j u n Singh in the role
o f a party builder? This character has never
respected sovereign individuals and auto-
nomous institutions. Do we expect A l l Baba
CIVIL LIBERTIES
Assaults on Journalists and
Powers of Magistrates
A G Noorani
IT is over a fortnight since Seema Mustafa,
Sankarshan Thakur, Sondeep Shankar and
Pravcen Jain were brutally assaulted i n
Kandu Khera and detained illegally, there-
after, in a remote village 37 km away. To this
day the persons alleged to have instigated
and carried out the assaults remain un-
punished.
In her detailed and uncontradicted report
in The Telegraph o f January 18, Seema
Mustafa has alleged that the four "were at-
tacked by an entire unit of the Punjab police
under the direct orders o f the SSP, B a l j i t
Singh Sandhu. The three men bore the brunt
led, slapped and repeatedly hit w i t h r i f l e
butts for over 20 minutes continuously". The
policemen who took them away "threatened
to riddle us w i t h bullets, to push us into the
canal and so on".
The four journalists filed an FIR the same
day. No arrests were made. Imagine a con-
verse case—assaults on policemen. W o u l d
the state machinery have been as motionless
and still? On January 20 the Punjab govern-
ment ordered an i n q u i r y into the outrage
to be conducted by the Commissioner o f
Ferozepur division, Darshan Kumar, a senior
I A S officer. He was directed to submit his
report w i t h i n two weeks. Earlier the C h i e f
Minister, Surjit Singh Barnala, had ordered
—believe i t or not—a police enquiry. It was
only as a result of the pressure exerted by
the Centre (rather than his meeting w i t h the
four journalists) that he was prodded into
upgrading the level o f the i n q u i r y .
232
magic from him?
What ails the still clean elements in the
Congress party and keeps them silent? What
ails similar groupings i n other major par-
ties enjoying power in the regions? What ails
the professionals from m a k i n g clear that
they w i l l not collaborate with the criminalis-
ed politics o f today? Are we never going to
express a tangible solidarity w i t h our com-
promised and blackmailed c i v i l administra-
tion, with our politically interfered with
police forces, and w i t h our l i t t l e understood
armed forces? The stabilities we talk o f can
dissolve i n a sea o f cynicism and oppor-
tunism. This is the classic path o f violent
change.
We cannot live in the belief that India is
immune. Already, we are two nations. Rich
and poor. No tribalism, casteism or com-
munalism can obscure this dominating
reqlity. Two nations could spinter further i f
we do not act in time.
January 31.
Remember, SSP Baljit Singh Sandhu was
not suspended pending the inquiry. Nor, for
that matter, was any one else. Indeed, the
state's Agriculture Minister, Amrinder Singh,
was "unable to take the police officials to
task" despite the "insistence o f other cor-
respondents present". He could only apolo-
gise to the journalists whom he had o f
course rescued from captivity.
The pathetic reliance o f the government
o f Punjab on its police force, reportedly
among the worst i n India, is well known.
Having ruled the state directly for nearly two
years, New D e l h i cannot escape blame for
the present state o f affairs. When our
esteemed President Z a i l Singh was U n i o n
Home Minister, he defended the use o f t h i r d
degree methods in police investigation. The
present state of the police force is the direct
result o f such an amoral approach by p o l i t i -
cians in power.
What should prompt immediate attention
is the state of the law. Is our law so r i d i c u l -
ously inadequate as to need an i n q u i r y into
a case o f assault on four persons i n broad
daylight when the identity o f neither the vic-
tims nor the persons accused is in doubt?
One shudders to think o f what w o u l d or
could have happened i f the four who sought
merely to assert their fundamental right to
freedom o f movement were students or
teachers or less w e l l k n o w n than the four
journalists.
Section 190 o f the C r i m i n a l Procedure
Code says that any Magistrate o f the first
ECONOMIC A N D P O L I T I C A L WEEKLY
class, or a Special Magistrate o f the second
class, may take cognisance of any offence
i n one o f four specified ways. They are (1)
upon receiving a complaint o f facts w h i c h
constitute such offence, (2) upon a police
report o f such facts (incidentally, an FIR to
the police leads, i f the police really chose to
investigate, to a report to the magistrate who
then takes cognisance o f the offence),
(3) upon i n f o r m a t i o n received from any per-
son other than a police officer, or (4) upon
his knowledge.
Such is the obsession w i t h the glamour
and pyrotechnics o f public interest l i t i g a t i o n
that the law and the courts w h i c h directly
impinge on the daily life o f citizens are ig-
nored. Why is j u d i c i a l creativity a preserve
o f the higher courts? Consider category (3)
mentioned above. I f courts o f law—the
Supreme Court o f India and superior courts
o f other countries—can take notice o f press
reports and issue writs, it is too late i n the
day to assert that a report i n a newspaper
does not constitute i n f o r m a t i o n ' provided
by a person, namely, the correspondent.
Pray, why then can a magistrate not take
cognisance o f an offence on the basis o f a
newspaper report as ' i n f o r m a t i o n received
from any person other than a police officer'?
Or is the w o r l d "received" to be read
narrowly as received directly from the per
son. That w o u l d be an absurd construction.
A newspaper is addressed to any one and
every one. That is why editors and j o u r -
nalists can be dragged to any part o f the
country no matter what the place o f publica-
t i o n . A newspaper report is i n f o r m a t i o n
received' by any one and every one who
reads i t , be he minister or magistrate.
Beating journalists and photographers,
assaulting processionists and any one who
protests is all too common. What remedy
does the law provide—a c i v i l suit for
damages, FIR to the police itself or a
f o r m a l complaint to the magistrate? The
complaint, incidentally, need not be by the
victims themselves, save in rare cases
(eg, defamation).
oftheattack as they were kicked,
There are t w o other alternatives. One is
prosecution by c i v i l liberties bodies. They
can file the complaints. The other is in-
dependent magisterial cognisance. The
magistrate issues a summons or a warrant
to the person accused and a witness sum-
mons to the person aggrieved on the basis
o f the newspaper report.
Once this practice comes into vogue, eye-
witnesses w i l l be more w i l l i n g to give
evidence. Policemen w i l l be more deterred.
D u r i n g the emergency many a magistrate
showed pluck and independence in the grant
o f bail, i n award o f sentences and even i n
acquitting persons accused o f offences
against the emergency laws.
One hopes they will assert their power
under section 190(3) of the Code and take
the i n i t i a t i v e by hauling up wrong-doers.
Challenge to such an exercise o f power w i l l
help i n putting its v a l i d i t y beyond doubt.
 periphery was inevitably related to the
growth of wage labour at the centre. Andre
Gunder Frank argued that capitalism itself
created underdevelopment and that nations/
regions of the world who were the victims
of this process developed during periods
of delinkage from the system. Samir Amin
used more classic Marxist terminology to
discuss imperialism in terms of unequal
development. All of this was tremendously
creative and helpful in breaking from the
existing inane paradigm of “modernisation”
theory in the social sciences. But none of
it was Marxist. It did not explain “under-

Capitalism and Globalisation, development” in terms of the logic of

capitalism. Even somewhat later references
to Rosa Luxembourg and the notion that
Dalits and Adivasis the development of capitalism required
not original but ongoing “primitive accu-
mulation” (and thus that there would al-
To ask dalits, women and others to simply “fight globalisation” ways be some areas of the world remaining
at the cost of taking up real democratic demands, without outside the capitalist mode of production)
was in the end not very convincing.
carrying out a real analysis and understanding of how to deal One intervention in this debate was an
with the situation they find themselves in, is a recipe for disaster. important article by Bill Warren.1 What
It may also be a recipe for keeping the leadership of any movement Warren argued simply was that dependency
concentrated among a male, upper caste elite as well as one for theorists were wrong, that imperialism did
becoming politically irrelevant. What is needed is an alternative not require continuing precapitalist ex-
ploitation of any kind. Rather, imperialism
not only to the present system, but also to the left and spread capitalism, whether we saw this in
ecological challenges to it. terms of capitalist relations of production,
the market, economic growth or the growth
GAIL OMVEDT intelligent article in this journal on of the forces of production. He claimed the
“capitalism without boundaries”, arguing support of classical Leninism. “Capitalism
I made my mind the witness to truth and simply that in a globalised world labour is growing fastest in the colonies and
untruth, needs global regulation, and that leftists overseas territories”, Lenin had noted in
not heeding the opinion of the majority therefore should argue for the extension Imperialism: The Highest Stage of Capi-
– Tukaram. of these and not simply talk of the impos- talism. He could also have claimed support
Ghar ghar mantar det phirtaa hai, maahimaa sible task of withdrawing from the world from Marx, who saw capitalism as spread-
ke abhimaana
system (‘Globalisation, Women and Work’, ing “modernity” throughout the world,
guru-sahit sikh sub budhe, ant kaal
pachitaana EPW, March 6, 2004) the response of one breaking down national barriers, and sup-
– Kabir. of my Marxist friends was “this is a one- ported the free trade proposals of his time
All I know is that I am not a Marxist sided defence of globalisation”. (the abolition of the Corn Laws which had
– Karl Marx. Issues have to be grappled with, not dis- protected English agriculture up to that
missed. The only meaningful question is, for time) on the grounds that the faster spread
On the Spread of Capitalism a Marxist (or dalit, or feminist) activist, what of capitalism would hasten the socialist
and the Market advances the revolution, that is, the move- revolution. In terms of the oversimplified
ment towards a non-caste, non-patriarchal, posing of “modernisation theory” against

B
eing “anti-globalisation” has be-
come the current standard of
political correctness. Those uphold-
ing the slogan are reluctant to give it up.
When it is argued that “globalisation” as
such has simply a technological social
meaning, is inevitable, and has certain
good aspects (all of which the anti-
globalisers find hard to deny), they retreat
to “opposing imperialist globalisation,”or
(which is again a different thing), “oppos-
ing neoliberal globalisation”. When Rohini
Hensman published, some time ago, an
equalitarian and sustainable socialist soci-
ety? I continue to take this as a goal, but feel
we need a little more of what Phule,
Ambedkar, Tukaram, Kabir, the Buddha –
and Karl Marx himself – saw as independent
thinking. In that spirit I am putting forward
some rather politically incorrect thoughts.
Dependency theory emerged during my
college days and was at the time an impor-
tant factor in our radicalisation. Immanuel
Wallerstein gave a model of the “capitalist
world system” in which the extraction of
surplus through forced labour at the
“dependency theory”, Marx himself was
a modernisation theorist.
The debate – between such a view of
imperialism and a “dependency theory”
position which argues that there are inherent
limits to the spread of capitalism as a result
of imperialism – continues today. It is
dependency theory which primarily fuels
the opposition of Marxists in India and
elsewhere to the world market and
“globalisation”.
If the debate goes on, it does not continue,
at least in India, on a very intelligent level.

Economic and Political Weekly November 19, 2005 4881

My problem with the “anti-LPG”
(liberalisation-privatisation-globalisation)
position is, and has been for some time,
that there are missing links, unproved
statements, and open contradictions in the
arguments people are making. For example,
one hears “the market is spreading every-
where” (taken as a disaster) and “increasing
numbers of people are excluded, poverty
is increasing”. But the two statements are
contradictory. If the market is spreading,
this has to mean that purchasing power is
in some way expanding. People have to
be getting at least enough employment to
buy what is coming on to the market.
Otherwise, if poverty, unemployment, etc,
are really increasing, the expansion of
the market will hit limits and stop.
The questions I would put forward are
the following:
(i) Are there inherent obstacles to the spread
of the market due to the logic of the capitalist
mode of production as such?
(ii) Are there inherent obstacles (due to the
logic of the capitalist mode of production)
to the shift from accumulation of capital
through absolute extraction of surplus value
to accumulation through relative extrac-
tion of surplus value?
(iii) What should be the position of Marxists
in relation to the spread of capitalism?
In regard to the first question, the answer
appears to be no. Those who were arguing
for a dependency theory “development of
underdevelopment” position of one kind
or another were not really using Marxist
economic theory and talking at the level
of the capitalist mode of production. The
most sophisticated replies were those using
some version of Rosa Luxembourg’s
position or simple ecological arguments
(the “second contradiction of capitalism”,
a position developed by James O’Connor
and others).2 They implied that the limits
of capitalist expansion would have to do
with the limits put up by the “carrying
capacity” of the earth, or, in simple-minded
terms, there would never be enough places
to park all those cars, or, we would run
out of oil, the accumulation of waste would
overwhelm us, etc. Leaving aside for a
moment the ecological arguments, it has
never been convincingly shown or argued
that capitalism itself cannot, for reasons
of its own logic, expand throughout the
earth. (The ecological, or “eco-romantic”
arguments are put most forcefully by Maria
Mies, most poetically by Vandana Shiva.
I will not take space to go into them here;
my point is that Marxists at least should
subject them to careful examination before
4882
wholeheartedly taking up these positions).
The second question can be put again more
simply: is there any logic in the capitalist
mode of production itself which says that the
working class will not expand and increase
its standard of living so that workers them-
selves become part of the market economy?
This was a shift that began around the end
of the 19th century, but the paradigm might
be said to have shifted when Ford gave its
$5 a day wage, i e, paid workers enough
so that they could purchase what they were
producing. Again, I see no convincing
arguments why this should not be so at a
global level. Already we are seeing in parts
of India and other countries of the south
a section of the working class which is
“prosperous” enough to purchase what they
are producing; and I see no reason why this
process should not continue.
Third question: what should be the posi-
tion of Marxists in regard to these develop-
ments. Here I take another point which was
well made in the 1960s: that (if socialist
revolution is not on the agenda) it is better to
be exploited by capital than not to be so
exploited. “Exploitation” in Marxist terms
is of course a technical term referring to
the extraction of surplus value, and the
point can be rephrased by saying simply
that it is better to be a decently paid worker
than to be unemployed, or a slave or serf
under precapitalist relations of produc-
tion, or for that matter a housewife who
is exploited through her domestic labour.
Or, as someone else said, we do not have
to take “the worse the better” kind of
political position. We should feel no
compulsion to say that things are getting
worse, people are getting poorer,
immiseration is increasing, etc, in order to
be a revolutionary. The revolution will
come when conditions are ready for it, and
I think now that part of those conditions
include the development of a global
working class which is educated and
cultured enough to understand and create
a new world. This revolutionary class will
of course include women and dalits (an
issue I will come to below) as an advanced
part of it, and will undoubtedly act in ways
which we, left intellectuals and political
activists, may not be able to control or
understand or predict at present.
On Reservations
in the Private Sector
I turn to what is not simply the most
crucial issue of the “dalit movement”
currently, but also a major question of the
Economic and Political Weekly November 19, 2005
working class itself – the issue of
affirmative action (diversity) or reserva-
tions in the private sector. Unfortunately,
this has been discussed until now as if it
were an issue simply of the anti-caste move-
ment. The result is that dalits (and bahujans)
debate the question as a matter of social
justice and try to respond to the “merit”
argument of backward Indian corporate
leaders and conventional intellectuals by
simple refutation, while Marxists either
defend the dalits on grounds of social
justice, or else express uncertainties and
anxieties about the development of caste
and other divisions in the working class,
or say that it is a pseudo-issue.3
The reactions to the question of reserva-
tions in the private sector from the corporate
bosses on the one hand, and most Marxists
on the other, are interesting. Indian capi-
talists are a backward, upper-caste domi-
nated group and this is reflected in their
unwillingness to consider the issue – in
contrast with US/multinational capitalists
who have learned to live with affirmativ
action. (There is also fact that the whole
history of the struggle for representation
in India has differed from that of the US).
So they have mostly responded by stress-
ing the false and ideologically indefensive
notion of “merit”, as if the upper castes
who dominate among the bourgeoisie and
the upper and middle castes who dominate
in the higher-earning sections of the
working class do so because of some
inherent biological qualities. This is erro-
neous and I will not bother to refute it.4
However, the Marxist response has been
troubling. Quite aside from the question
that Marxists in India tend to take an
“economic” position that reservations are
only a matter for the “petty bourgeoisie”,
it seems other factors have been at work in
their reluctance to take up the issue. From
quite early on Marxists seemed to want to
avoid the question of affirmative action in
the private sector because they felt that if
it was granted dalits would become com-
mitted to the system and co-opted by capital.
This was even expressed openly by some
at the time of the discussion about the
Bhopal document and the Madhya Pradesh
initiatives. The very important step of
putting the issue on the political agenda
was scorned with the argument that
“Digvijay Singh wanted to co-opt dalits
into the support of capitalism”. In fact the
initiative was taken by, and the conference
organised by, dalits themselves.
But more important, if affirmative action
programmes are to be opposed because
they supposedly co-opt those who get the
support of the system, by the same logic
all demands for wage raises and other
working class gains should be opposed.
But leftists have brought up this argument
only in the case of affirmative action/
reservation. They have not seriously tried
to understand what affirmative action
means in terms of the working class itself.
They have contented themselves with iden-
tifying the Bhopal document with
Chandrabhan Prasad and then attacking
Chandrabhan’s formulation of it. But if
Chandrabhan talks of “dalit billionaires”
then why don’t they talk of dalit workers?
Again, some revolutionaries have criticised
the Bhopal agenda for “making demands
of the government”, or for the “utopianism”
that any gains at all can be made under
capitalism. This logic would mean no
support for any working class demands
and it offers no programme except to take
up arms and go to the jungle.
My view is as follows: If we look at the
question from the point of view of the
growth of a revolutionary working class,
the obvious beginning point is what
everyone knows – that the working class
in India (and for that matter everywhere,
in the world as a whole) is divided, seg-
mented and hierarchical in terms of caste,
race, gender, nationality, religion, etc.
Conventional economists have discussed
the issue in terms of segmentation of the
labour market; Ambedkarites refer to the
“caste division of labourers” as opposed
to the “caste division of labour” and so on.
The most simple argument for affirmative
action programmes is that they combat this
division, which is certainly a crucial
obstacle to the growth of a revolutionary
working class movement. What would
happen if affirmative action programmes
really worked and dalits, OBCs, women,
African-Americans, oppressed nationali-
ties, minorities of all kinds, were repre-
sented in it according to their proportion
of the population? Obviously it would be
a step forward in the constitution of a
revolutionary and united working class.
Further, bringing in dalits, women, etc,
would help in the transformation of work-
ing class culture, since culture is not sim-
ply a matter of reflecting relations of
production, and dalit, African-American,
women’s culture, etc, tends to be more
advanced than that of upper castes, whites,
men as a group.
In India, Marxists have argued for revolu-
tionary land reform as the main solution to
the problems of caste and untouchability.
Economic and Political Weekly November 19, 2005
Giving land to dalits would make them
petty property-holders, a petty bourgeoisie
(which I am all for), but reservations/
affirmative action programmes are aimed
at making them into full-fledged workers.
There is a very serious question about why
Marxists in India have not seen it this way.
On Adivasis, Extraction of Natural
Resources and Local Control
Large numbers of anti-globalisation
activists today are working in the adivasi
belt, where they are rightly noting two
tendencies: the increasing extraction of
natural resources and their channeling to
the world market via multinationals, the state
and local powerholders; and the growing
“Hindutva-isation” or “Hinduisation” of
the adivasis by forces of the Hindu right.
Few have any kind of answer to the second
threat; the effort to deal with the first
tendency takes two forms – resisting
market incorporation and extraction by
themes of returning to subsistence produc-
tion, traditional cultivation methods, etc,
and gaining local control over the forest
and its resources. The first effort is a
romantic impossibility, the second is one
of the most progressive and important
demands of today.
The problem regarding local control
(community control) and the extraction of
resources is precisely that the two may go
together. Anti-globalisation activists often
do not see this; but in fact gaining local
control will at best – and this is a very
important best – mean that resources will
be extracted more sustainably, that local
people will get a share of the profits and
raise their standard of living. It does not
mean that they will resist the world market
and extraction or listen to the activists
when they try to tell them to do so; self-
determination after all does mean just that,
that they will do what they want. And this
will primarily mean getting a better deal
from world capital.
The clear example of this is India’s north-
east – where the hill peoples have a much
higher degree of local control, and yet
extraction goes on. The important differ-
ence is that though the north-eastern hill
peoples are classified as “scheduled tribes”
along with the adivasis of the central India
belt, the difference in standard of living,
human rights indicators, education and
health is one of night and day. The north-
eastern states are far ahead. They of course
have their own problems and contradic-
tions continue, but the north-east example
shows that local control is indeed a goal
worth fighting for – even if it simply means
getting a better deal from capital. Probably
a major source of frustration among ac-
tivists working in the central India adivasi
belt is that in their hearts they know this;
they know that the adivasis are not going
to listen to them about withdrawing from
the global capitalist system and that the
extraction will continue.
But they may be missing a major creative
possibility of the time. Let me just throw
out some ideas. Who, after all, are we
dealing with? The term “tribal” which is
frequently used in English is after all both
insulting and scientifically inaccurate.
“Tribal” was at one time used by anthro-
pologists and social scientists in general
to refer to pre-state communities: there
were bands, tribes and then states. “Tribes”
numbered usually in the thousands; bands
in the hundreds, state societies in the mil-
lions. The term thus refers to a “backward”
mode of production and is understood that
way. This is the main reason why indig-
enous peoples throughout the world have
rejected it. The Navaho, Cherokee, Dakota
and other peoples of north America, for
instance, who used to be Indian “tribes”
now insist that they are “nations” – and,
in the case of Canada, “first nations”. The
reason the adivasis of India have not so
openly objected to the term and simply
thrown out the “progressives” who go on
using it is that genuine English-speakers
among them are very rare. The peoples of
the north-east, though they may be called
“scheduled tribes” and have to endure the
term, insist that they are “hill peoples”.
They are also scientifically right in doing
so, especially in the case of the large adivasi
communities. Santhals, Bhils, Gonds,
Oraons, etc, today number in the millions
– and a people of such a size cannot by any
stretch of the imagination be called a “tribe”.
But is “adivasi” more accurate? This is
the question that I have wondered about
lately. It is true that they are indigenous
people, but so after all are many other
groups, including most of those incorpo-
rated as “dalits” and “bahujans” in the
caste-class system.
Sociologists would suggest that the term
“ethnic group” or “ethnicity” is more
accurate to apply to the people concerned
(after all, the differentiation of “jamaat”
and “jati” also did not exist before the
colonial period). But why not consider
what it would mean if we said that com-
munities like Santhals, Bhils, etc, are in
fact proto-nations or nationalities in the
4883
same sense in which Tamils, Bengalis,
Gujaratis, etc, can be called “nationalities”?
They also have a history – one that can
be traced not only by oral tradition, but in
written records also. Bhils, for instance,
can be considered as “Nisadas”, as
“Pulindas” or as “Phyllitai” which is how
they were referred to in some Greek texts.5
Such a perspective raises some very inter-
esting questions. To me the most significant
one is the following: might it be possible
for such peoples, in the current global
situation, to indeed develop as “nations” or
“nationalities” – but as non-caste nation-
alities, which avoid the filth of the caste
system that plagues all the major nation-
alities of India? In other words, they could
claim a territory; they would indeed have
class divisions and resulting contradic-
tions among themselves – but as non-caste
nations they would represent something
new in the south Asian context. This does
not necessarily mean that a sovereign
nation-state is the answer; it would to my
mind imply local autonomy of a meaning-
ful kind. We are, after all, beyond the age
when “nation-states” can be really sover-
eign but at the same time local autonomy
movements are growing and often suc-
cessfully so – for example, Scotland achiev-
ing a separate parliament within the UK.
Real autonomy includes a resistance to
the Hinduisation process, needless to say.
This process is a powerful and threatening
one, for it is a fact that the incorporation
of “tribes” or hill-forest peoples into the
caste-state society has gone on throughout
Indian history. It is my view, to be very
brief, that resistance to it requires the help
of a powerful cultural movement: either the
so-called adivasi communities must convert
to a universalistic equalitarian religion (in
which case of course, they will have their
own fights within the frameworks of
Christianity, Islam and Buddhism, but that is
another issue), or they must establish what
many describe as an “adivasi religion” –
for example the Sarna religion of the Santhals
– on a strong and sophisticated basis.
On ‘Resisting Globalisation’
Simply put, it is impossible and even
undesirable to withdraw from the global
economy and social system. Those who
seriously argue this have to be joking.
Small-scale production is backward. “Sub-
sistence production” is a recipe for
poverty. As far as ecological issues are
concerned, hunters-and-gatherers have also
had negative effects on the environment
4884
(e g, species destruction in Australia), but
even if we admit that they are more eco-
friendly, that hunter-gatherers “live more
lightly on the earth,” then a hunter-
gatherer economy is possible only on the
basis of a drastic reduction in world popu-
lation. The US group EarthFirst! was at
least logically consistent in advocating such
a reduction, but others are dreamers.
When I say resisting globalisation as such
– meaning globalisation as a (who would
deny it?) a currently capital-dominated
world system – is impossible, I may well be
criticised as pro-capitalist. Those saying
this are themselves getting “globalised”,
and dalits and others can see this. Their
sons and daughters are going to the US,
or they themselves are spending time there.
Or they return home after taking all kinds
of benefits and try to spread the message
of not doing what they themselves have
done. The most famous opponents of
globalisation today live off the plums of
high-level jobs provided by the American
and European economies. Yet they are
urging others not to come, to stay home,
to stay in their places – on one ground or
another. It is no wonder that people like
Chandrabhan Prasad and Kancha Ilaiah get
exasperated and leftists are frustrated at
being marginalised by people who can no
longer understand them. Can one blame
dalits and bahujans for distrusting the on-
going upper-caste leadership of left parties?
To ask dalits, women and others to simply
“fight globalisation” at the cost of taking
up real democratic demands, at the cost
of a real analysis and understanding of
how to deal with the situation they find
themselves in, is a recipe for disaster. It
may also be a recipe for keeping the leader-
ship of any movement concentrated among
a male, upper caste elite. It is also a recipe
for becoming politically irrelevant. The
reality is that “globalisation” as a slogan
appeals to the masses of people. Not only
this, “LPG” is an example of the worst kind
of choice of a symbol: liquefied petroleum
gas (LPG) is something that is a boon to
almost every housewife in India.
Going beyond Sloganeering
“Giving an alternative” has also almost
become a slogan. It is usually taken to
mean an alternative to the market society (or
to neoliberalism, LPG, etc). Eco-romantics
take it to mean “an alternative to the
market and the state”, that is, a socialist
society based on subsistence production.
The latter is impossible; the alliance of
Economic and Political Weekly November 19, 2005
eco-romantics with the traditional left is
opportunistic on both sides – since eco-
romantics theoretically condemn statism
as well as the market, and the traditional
left at least believes that the development
of the forces of production is a develop-
ment in human capacities. The result is an
illogical opposition that does not lead us
forward.
A true alternative is very necessary. It
should be an alternative to the present
system (itself a combination of state and
market) as well as to current left and
ecological challenges to it. It should be an
alternative that poses something of what
a true equalitarian, classless, casteless, non-
patriarchal sustainable society would be,
which at the same time shows at least
partially how we might move in that di-
rection by recognising and using the seeds
formed within the womb of the current
capitalist society. (This also means work-
ing for the alternative of a more democratic
capitalism to lay the foundation for the
movement forward. As Marx had also
noted, no social formation disappears
before all its possibilities are exhausted.)
The following are some sketchy sugges-
tions in this respect. Two basic points can
be suggested: One, there is a role for both
the state and the market (remembering that
both are oppressive). Two, there is a role
for “sunrise industries” – which forecast
the new society – including what we know
as information technology and the deve-
lopment of alternative energy and raw
material sources.
In regard to the first point: it is true that
saying both state and market have a place
is, like stating one is “anti-globalisation”,
a rather simple-minded slogan. The differ-
ence is that the former allows scope for
independent thinking and for judging each
case (of liberalisation, privatisation, etc)
on its own merits – and this is crucial.
As for the second point, as we all know,
the production system of industrial capi-
talism relies on fossil fuel production,
which in so many ways is ecologically
unsustainable. But this itself is in the
process of being superceded and what we
might call “new forces of production” are
developing within the womb of capitalism
itself. Corporate leaders are talking (and
acting on) things like social justice phi-
lanthropy, corporate responsibility, stake-
holders not just shareholders and so on.
They are not only putting up billboards on
saving the environment, but actually de-
veloping things like electrically-powered
cars, windmills, power-saving light bulbs
(which are now quite popular in our rural
small town of Kasegaon, along with in-
verters, uninterrupted power supply units
and batteries of all kinds). Worker-owned
companies, various forms of home pro-
duction and services, and not-for-profit
enterprises are all important and possibly
growing in advanced capitalist countries.
All of this may not seem to be much within
the framework of capitalist hegemony, but
it is the responsibility of those who like
to think of themselves as revolutionaries
to develop them, direct them, link them up,
work them to the point where they may
indeed “come into conflict with the exist-
ing relations of production” and so herald
an era of revolutionary change. -29
Email: gailomvedt@yahoo.com
Notes
1 See Warren, William, ‘Imperialism and
Capitalist Industrialisation’ in New Left Review,
1973, and Imperialism, Pioneer of Capitalism,
Verso, 1980.
2 James O’Connor, ‘Capitalism, Nature,
Economic and Political Weekly November 19, 2005
Socialism: A Theoretical Introduction’ in
Capitalism, Nature and Socialism, 1988, first
issue and debates in subsequent issues.
3 See for instance the curious article in
countercurrents.org on August 11, 2005 by
K Vidyasagar Reddy.
4 Most of the argument about “merit” was debated
in the US in the context of racism: to assume
that tests (whether IQ tests or SATs or the
“objective tests” for marks used in India)
measure an actual biological/genetic capacity
and have nothing to do with social conditioning
factors is a racist position. This view was
openly taken by some in the US, for instance
in the Richard Herrnstein and Charles Murray’s
The Bell Curve, which provoked a huge debate.
The authors amassed hundreds of pages of
evidence to argue that IQ tests, which showed
a 15-point difference between the average
“white” and the average “African-American”
score, measured real biological intelligence,
a genetic capacity. But at some point they let
slip the fact that over the last decades, average
IQ scores had risen by about the same amount.
Since the genetic capacity of a population
cannot change in just decades, this would
indicate that social conditioning plays a major
role in the scores. European data indicate that
this rise in the average was mainly due to a
rise in the lowest scores, i e, working class
scores had risen due to improving education.
5 See my paper ‘Towards a History of the Bhils’,
Sahitya Academy, Baroda, 2005.
4885
NOTES
Clans, Tribes and Unions
of Tribes
Nomenclature of North East India
Pauthang Haokip
The people of North East India
are often identified by the
outside world on the basis of the
nomenclature associated with
their clans, tribes and union of
tribes. Yet, contrary to popular
belief, this notion of “oneness”
asserted by people embracing a
particular nomenclature does
not imply a common language
or culture. Far from tribal or
ethnic identity corresponding
to linguistic or cultural identity,
this notion of oneness arises out
of a shared history or common
political aspirations.
Pauthang Haokip (pauthanghaokip@yahoo.co.in)
is with the Centre for Linguistics, School of
Language, Literature and Culture Studies,
Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi.
Economic & Political Weekly EPW SEPTEMBER 1, 2018
N
orth East India is one of the most
diverse regions of the world in
terms of ethnolinguistic diversity,
which is reflected in the vast nomencla-
ture of the region. For the purpose of our
present exposition, the nomenclature of
the people of North East India may be
broadly categorised in three hierarchical
levels.
The highest level is where a union of
tribes comes together under a larger
nomenclature, often loosely termed an
ethnic group. Second is the community
of clans, which together form the tribal
nomenclature. The lowest level is where
a group of families comes together under
a single clan. In most parts of the hill states
of North East India, a person’s identity is
determined by their membership within
these three nomenclature levels. While
a person’s membership in their clan is
well defined by their family lineage,
there is no such well-defined criterion or
set of criteria for one’s membership in a
tribe or ethnic group. A common lan-
guage and culture, often considered the
strongest determinants of “oneness,” do
not really matter for one’s membership
in a tribe or ethnic group.
A northeasterner is known to the
outside world by their ethnic nomencla-
ture, by their tribal nomenclature at the
regional or state level, and by that of their
clan at the local or village level. A person
of north-eastern origin may thus have to
answer the questions, “are you a Naga,
Kuki, or Khasi?” when outside their state,
“are you an Ao, Thadou, or Kom?” when
outside their village (within their state),
and “are you a Jamir, Haokip, or Sailo?”
when outside their clan’s territory. For a
very long time, an identity narrative has
been built along the lines of tribal or
ethnic membership, signalling that the
vol lIiI no 35
people embracing a particular tribe or
ethnic group are “one people.”
The remainder of this article is devoted
to explaining the notion of “oneness”
that the people of the North East often
refer to when they say that “they are
one tribe or one ethnic group.” Contrary
to the general understanding, this arti-
cle argues that the notion of “oneness”
may not necessarily imply a common
language or culture. In other words,
there is no one-to-one correspondence
between tribal and ethnic identity on
the one hand and linguistic or cultural
identity on the other. Thus, cultural and
linguistic oneness is not the necessary
determinant for one’s membership within
a tribe or ethnic group. If indeed a com-
mon language and culture are the neces-
sary criteria for one’s membership within
a group, the Nagas would have been
divided into three or more ethnic nomen-
clatures, and the Kukis, Chins, Mizos,
and Zomis would have been united under
a single nomenclature.
Colonial Influences
When the British colonial administrators
came in contact with the hill people of
the North East for the first time, they
had to depend on the plainsmen, who
had already been under their control, to
designate the hill people of the unadminis-
tered areas. So, the British administrators
first designated the hill people of the North
East into (larger) groups on the basis of
geographical location. Thus, the desig-
nation “Naga” was given to the various
hill people occupying the northern hill
ranges between the Brahmaputra and
Chindwin rivers on both sides of the
Indo–Myanmar border. The designation
“Kuki” was given to the various tribes
inhabiting an area from the Naga Hills
in the north down into the Sandowary
district of Burma (Myanmar) in the south;
from the Myittha river in the east, almost
to the Bay of Bengal in the west; the vast
mountainous region from the Jaintia
and Naga Hills in the north, besides the
Manipur Valley and the small settle-
ments in the Cachar plains and Sylhet.
Similarly, the designation “Kachari” was
given to the various tribes such as the
61
NOTES
Bodos living in a lower part of Assam,
along the basin of the Brahmaputra and
the Dimasas living in the North Cachar
Hills (Dima Hasao) district of southern
Assam, etc. After the entire north-eastern
region was brought under their control,
and after having gained a better knowl-
edge of the people, the British adminis-
trators further segregated the different
groups into their respective tribes or clans.
Thus, many of the tribe names we find
today in publications by colonial writers
are not indigenous names; rather they
are either Assamese or Bengali names,
and often carry derogatory meanings.
Scheduled Tribes Status
After India’s independence, the Consti-
tution, with the aim of reducing the
number of linguistic minorities and also
to protect, promote, and develop these
minorities, formally recognised the people
of the North East as belonging to various
Scheduled Tribes (STs), so that the smaller
and marginalised communities are not
deprived the fruits of independence. The
Indian Constitution does not spell out
any specific criteria, but simply says that
the STs are specified by the President of
India after consultation with the gover-
nor. According to the Ministry of Tribal
Affairs, the criterion—while not spelt out
in legislation—“is well established,” and
includes an indication of “primitive”
traits, distinctive culture, geographical
isolation, “shyness of connect” with the
community at large, and “backward-
ness.” As Cristina-Ioana Dragomir (2017)
observes, because of the highly-tangible
benefits such as political representation,
reserved seats in schools, and government
jobs, the number of STs has expanded
from 225 in 1960 to 700 today (with
overlapping communities in more than
one state). Because of these broad criteria,
some communities such Mate, Hanghal,
Sukte, and Chongthu tribes in Manipur
have been demanding an ST1 status for
sometime now. But, their demands are
not based on linguistic and cultural
grounds: the Mates and Chong speak the
same language as the Thadous, the Suk-
tes speak the same language as the
Paites, and the Hanghals speak the same
language as the Zous. However, the
glamour of inclusion in the ST list is such
62
that even a larger, and much-advanced
community such as the Manipuris, have
been aspiring for the ST status. So, who
deserves the status of a ST in the North
East is not so dependent on a communi-
ty language or culture. Rather, people
pick up on small differences that exist
amongst them in terms of dialect, region
or local interest, and accordingly, a de-
mand for separate tribal status is made.
There are communities that are not
recognised as STs but deserve to be acc-
orded this status not only because of their
economic backwardness but also on
account of their cultural and linguistic
distinctiveness. These communities are
often listed as “unclassified” or simply as
clans or “sub-tribes” within a tribe. For
example, in the Dwarband subdivision
of Cachar district of Barak Valley, a par-
ticular community known as the Saihriem
or Farhriem has not been included in the
ST list because of their low number; their
language is spoken by around 1,000 mem-
bers. According to the chronology of the
tribe, Saihriem is believed to be one of
the clans of the Hmar tribe. But they speak
a language that is not mutually intelligi-
ble with Hmar. On the contrary, despite
their people speaking mutually intelli-
gible dialects, Thadou, Paite, Vaiphei, in
Manipur are listed as separate tribes.
There are several Old Kuki tribes in
Tripura that on the surface seem similar
and speak languages that are closely
related to each other. This includes Bong,
Bongcher, Korbong, etc. Our current
understanding is that they speak different
Tibeto–Burman languages of the Kuki–
Chin subgroup. These tribes are not
recognised as STs simply because their
numbers are far less than other tribes of
the region.
Many of the tribe’s names given by the
colonial administrators are now replaced
with more favourable traditional names.
For example, the people formerly known
as Lushai are now called Mizo, “Lakher”
have become Mara, “Mikir” have become
Karbi, “Plain Miri” are now Mising, and
the “Chulikata,” are now Idu. Certain
nomenclature such as Kachari is out of
use and found mostly in colonial writings,
but other group names, such as Kuki and
Naga, have gained new meanings. In the
case of the former, the number of tribes
SEPTEMBER 1, 2018
is on the decrease, while in the case of
the latter, more tribes have been added
over a period of time.
Naga Tribes
The different tribes of the North East,
which are now included under the term
“Naga,” are not a unified race in terms of
language and culture. In the 19th century,
British writers used the term Naga for
the tribes in the hills to the south-east
and east of Sibsagar. As the British power
extended further into the hill regions,
the term Naga was gradually extended
to denominate more tribes as far as
Manipur, and as far as the India–Myanmar
border in the east, even beyond the upper
Chindwin Valley (Marrison 1967: 12). It
was not until recent times that any of the
tribes called themselves Naga, or claimed
that they were one group. Our current
knowledge of the languages of the Naga
tribes is that they are very diverse, so as
to form a coherent subgroup. Burling
(2003) even goes to say that the lan-
guages of the Naga tribes may be divided
into three or more subgroups within the
Tibeto–Burman family. Marrison (1967:
15), who worked extensively on the
Naga languages, claimed that “they are
not homogeneous, either in race, culture
or language. However, they live in a
continuous belt of hills between the
Brahmaputra plain and Chindwin.
Before the British occupied the Naga
region, the Nagas used to identify them-
selves by the name of the village (Wettstein
2012). It was only after the arrival of the
British that the term “Naga” was used to
designate the people of the Naga region.
Wettstein discusses how the term Naga
was not a unifying force during the colo-
nial rule and pointed out two major fac-
tors that are the turning points for the
awakening of a collective identity. The
first was their experience during World
War I, in which around 2,000 Nagas
were recruited by the British and taken to
Europe, where they were designated with
tasks such as building roads in France. It
was following this that the Nagas became
conscious of a greater political context.
A second factor was the British with-
drawal from South Asia and subsequent
modern state formation in the region,
which brought awareness among the
vol lIiI no 35 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

Nagas that only as a united people would
they have a chance to withstand the newly-
forming Indian and Burman nation. This
shows that the Nagas are not a homogene-
ous group, and the only thing that united
them is their past history and future
aspirations. In recent times, new sub-
nomenclatures within the Naga group
have been formed. These include “Chakhe-
sang” by combining Chakri, Kheza, and
Sangtam and “Zeliangrong” from Zeme,
Liangmai and Rongmei. It may be noted
that the tribes who aligned themselves
under “Chakhesang” and “Zeliangrong”
have not done so with the intention of
breaking away from the Naga fold, but
as a strategy to strengthen their own
politico–linguistic unity within the ambit
of the larger Naga umbrella. Thus, the
Naga nomenclature not only expanded to
include other neighbouring tribes in
Manipur and Arunachal Pradesh, but
also all religious and cultural institutions
through a deliberate attempt. Organisa-
tions and churches have been named by
placing the term Naga before them, as in,
Naga Hoho, Naga Baptist Church, Lotha
Baptist Church, Ao Baptist Church, Anal
Naga Taangpi, Lamgang Naga National
Council, Anal Naga Baptist, and Chiru
Naga Baptist Church.
Kuki–Chin–Mizo Tribes
Kuki, along with Chin and Mizo comprises
an ethnic group known as Kuki–Chin–
Mizo (KCM). Unlike the Nagas, the people
included under KCM speak languages
and dialects closely related to each other.
The KCM people maintain a separate
nomenclature depending on the region
in which they live. The majority of the
KCM people living in Manipur, Nagaland
and Assam called themselves Kuki, those
living in Mizoram called themselves
Mizo and others living in Myanmar are
loosely referred to as Chin. It may be
noted that the term Chin is not widely
accepted by the people, and it is beyond
the scope of the present study to explore
all the Chin groups of Myanmar.
In the linguistic literature on the KCM,
the denomination Kuki–Chin is used as
a convention of clubbing together the
tribes living in both, Indian and Burman
territories: Kuki on the Indian side of the
border and Chin on the Burmese side.
Economic & Political Weekly EPW SEPTEMBER 1, 2018
Grierson (1904: 1) viewed the denomina-
tion Kuki-Chin as purely a conventional
one, and, admits that there is no proper
name comprising all the tribes. He goes
on to say that Meithei–Chin would be a
better appellation, as the whole groups
can be divided into two sub-groups, the
Meitheis and the various tribes which
are known under the names of Kuki and
Chin. The KCM people residing in the
Indian side of the border are simply re-
ferred as “Kuki” by the colonial adminis-
trative writers and this is the term which is
commonly adopted by many social science
scholars when dealing with the KCM
people of the North East. Although many
theories surround the origin of the term
“Kuki,” the Assamese or Bengali version
seems logical, which is the view adopted
by the Linguistic Survey of India (LSI). Ac-
cording to the LSI, “Kuki is an Assamese
or Bengali term, applied to various hill
tribes, such as the Lusheis, Rangkhols,
Thados, etc” (Grierson 1904: 1–2). Simi-
larly, the term “Chin” is a Burmese word
(pronounced as Khyang by the Burmese)
applied to the tribes, who use titles such
as Zo or Yo and Sho (Grierson 1904: 1–2).
Renouncing ‘Kuki’
Post India’s independence, the number
of tribes, formerly included under the
term “Kuki,” slowly and gradually started
disowning the term Kuki in favour of
more traditional names. The Lushais, who
constitute the largest subgroup of the
erstwhile Kukis, favoured “Mizo” for
their language and “Mizoram” for their
newly created state, which was carved
out from the union of Assam in 1987.
They believed that a new traditional no-
menclature, Mizo, would have a better
appeal to all clans within the tribes as
opposed to the old colonial “Kuki.” Of
course, this comes with a high price for
the other smaller Kuki tribes, who, at
the expense of the Lushai-speaking
tribe, had to sacrifice their languages
and dialects, as Duhlien, the standard
variety of Lushai became the lingua
franca throughout the states. Today, the
Mizo language has penetrated into ev-
ery home of the other cognate tribes, for
whom it was not their mother tongue.
The trend to give up the colonial term
Kuki was also followed by other KCM
vol lIiI no 35
NOTES
tribes in the neighbouring state of
Manipur. Here, the change was in favour
of “Zomi,” which differs from “Mizo”
only by metathesis, but refers to the
same people, and means “hill people.” In
the southern district of Churanchandpur
in Manipur, where most of the KCM tribes
are represented, half a dozen of the erst-
while Kuki tribes aligned themselves under
a new nomenclature, Zomi, which in-
cluded Paite, Sukte, Simte, Vaiphei, Zou,
and Hmar. However, Thadou, the largest
KCM tribe, along with Gangte, refused to
affiliate themselves under this new
nomenclature, and chose to cling on to
the old colonial term “Kuki” for reasons
suiting their political interests.
Other “old Kuki” tribes of Manipur,
namely, Aimol, Anal, Chiru, Chothe,
Lamkang, Monsang, Kom, etc, did not
form a new nomenclature. Rather, they
realigned themselves under the term
“Naga” with whom they share no linguistic
affinity at all. Other Kuki–Chin speakers
on the Myanmar side of the territory
created new nomenclatures such as
“Fallam.” The so-called “old Kuki” of
southern Assam and adjoining areas of
Tripura, separated from the Mizoram and
Manipur hills, formed a new nomenclature
called “Hallam.” These include Ranglong,
Kaipeng, Molsom, Rangkhol, Koloi, Rupini,
Bawngcher, Bawng, Saihmar, Sakachep,
Thangkachep, Morsephang and Koloi
(which is not a Kuki–Chin language but
is included under Hallam). However,
Darlong—the most dominant Kuki–Chin
language of Tripura—along with Chorai,
Bete and Saihriem, have not been included
under this term. Based on field interviews
with some Chorei elders, it was learnt
that they had sent a representation to
the meeting convened on behalf of the
then-government of Tripura to recognise
them under “Hallam.” The Chorei com-
munity resented against this classifica-
tion in favour of the term “Kuki.”
As stated above, the reason to replace
Kuki by Mizo in Mizoram was purely
due to the preference for a more tradi-
tional nomenclature over the colonial
name. However, this was not a major cause
of concern in Manipur. One of the major
causes of disowning the term Kuki was
due to the mistrust and misunderstand-
ing among the KCM tribes (Haokip 2011).
63
NOTES
The Old Kukis joined the Naga National
Movement, which was gaining momen-
tum at the time. The Old Kukis of south-
ern Assam and in the adjoining hills of
Tripura felt that they should have a sepa-
rate nomenclature, different from that
of Mizoram and Manipur. This led to the
formation of “Hallam.” The Scheduled
Castes and Scheduled Tribes Orders
(Amendment) Act, 1956, which was
aimed at reducing linguistic minorities
in the state, did not work well among
the Kuki tribes in Manipur because, un-
der the act, each dialect group chose to
be considered a separate tribe (GoI
1956). Thus, the constitutional provi-
sions in the form of job reservation and
other economic benefits of STs further
divided the already-divided KCM group
in Manipur. The translation of the Bible
into their respective languages and dia-
lects became the most valuable piece of
literature to assert their tribal status.
Vumson, a retired government officer of
Myanmar, campaigned for a common
nomenclature, “Zo,” for all the KCM
tribes spread across India, Myanmar
and Bangladesh, but this movement
never actualised.
Language Politics
Unlike the terms “Naga” and “Kuki,” under
which a group of tribes come together to
form a union of tribes for a political cause,
such a union of tribes does not exist in
the plains of Assam and Tripura. Rather,
each has political demands separate
from the other. Here, the narrative for
political demands is often along linguistic
lines. Assam in particular—which houses,
major linguistic groups such as Assamese
and Bengali, as well as other tribal
languages belonging to the Bodo–Garo
subgroup—is the centre of linguistic un-
rest in the region. The Sylheti-speaking
Bengalis of the Barak Valley had protested
against the decision of the Government
of Assam to make Assamese the official
language of the state. The decision of
the government was opposed tooth and
nail by the Bengalis, which led to the
killing of 11 people by state police forces
on 19 May 1961 in Silchar. This incident
forced the Government of Assam to
withdraw its decision, and Bengali was
given official status in the three districts
64
of the Barak Valley: Cachar, Hilakandi
and Karimganj.
A similar language agitation was
launched by the Bodos against the state
government’s decision of declaring Assa-
mese as the official language of the
state. The Bodos felt that the act will
undermine their language and culture,
and thus demanded the Roman script
for their writing system. The Bodos
under the banner of the Bodo Sahitya
Sabha also demanded that Bodo lan-
guage be made the medium of instruc-
tion at the primary level in all Bodo-
dominated areas of Assam. With the
government unwilling to cede to the
demands of the Bodos, the language
agitation intensified with months of
strikes and boycotts in all the Bodo-
dominated regions. Later, when the move-
ment turned violent, the police had to
resort to firing in which 15 Bodo youth
were killed by the police forces. Gupta
(2016) describes how under the threat
of arrest and detention, the Bodo leaders
were forced to accept the Devanagari
script. Ultimately, the Bodo language
movement was suppressed by the inclu-
sion of Bodo in the Eighth Schedule of
the Constitution and through institution
of the Bodoland Territorial Council.
The Dimasas, inhabiting the North
Cachar Hills of southern Assam, have been
fighting for greater autonomy for their
people through demands for a separate
state. The demand of the Dimasas was
suppressed by granting them a linguisti-
cally-based district called Dima Hasao
(formerly known as North Cachar). The
demand for a separate state along
linguistic lines was also echoed in other
parts of the North East: the Garos of the
Garo Hill district of Meghalaya have
made similar demands.
The Kokboroks, a major tribe of Tripura,
have been demanding extra-constitutional
safeguards to protect their lands at the
hands of the Bengalis who had come and
settled in the state in large numbers
after India’s independence. It may be
noted that Tripura was once a princely
state with an overwhelming number of
people speaking Kokborok as their mother
tongue. Today, the Kokborok people are
reduced to a linguistic minority in their
own homeland.
SEPTEMBER 1, 2018
The Meitheis have been using the
Bengali script for a very long time. The
Meitheis felt that the Bengali script was
not an indigenous script and wanted
to revive Meitei Mayek (Meitei script).
However, the transition was not without
violence. Towards the final stage of the
transition, there was a three-month-long
agitation, which resulted in the burning
down of the state central library, the
railway booking centre, four government
offices, and many trucks loaded with
essential items. With the recommendation
by the Manipur University, the government
decided to introduce Meitei Mayek in
Classes 1 and 2 from 2005. Prior to this,
the Manipur government had attempted
to impose Manipuri as the official lan-
guage of the state, a decision which was
vehemently opposed by the hill tribes. It
may be noted that Manipur had been
reeling from a severe law and order
problem for over a decade. While the
Meitheis were demanding protection of
the state’s territory, the Kukis and Nagas
were demanding the separation of the
state: Kukiland for the Kukis and Greater
Nagalim for the Nagas. The ultimate result
of the major linguistic movements, which
held state governments to ransom by
paralysing the state machinery, was that
governments gave in only to the demands
of the majority communities, but the
voices of the small and marginalised com-
munities continue to be neglected.
Religious Minorities
In a very diverse region, such as the
North East, where sociocultural diversity
existed for a very long time, it is not
strange to find a linguistic scenario where
the religious minority of one faith assimi-
lates to the language of the majority com-
munity of another faith. This is exactly
what has occurred among the Muslim
minorities in Manipur. The Muslims
who constitute 8.4% of the total religious
population (GoI 2011) entered Manipur
from the neighbouring state of Assam as
workforce. Many of them later married
Manipuri women who were Hindus. After
a period of time, the children born from
such unions grew up speaking Manipuri,
which eventually became their mother
tongue. This linguistic assimilation brought
about some kind of linguistic consolidation
vol lIiI no 35 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

between the two communities. However,
despite this linguistic consolidation, the
Manipuri community, in order to maintain
their separate religious identity, have des-
ignated them as “Pangal” which basically
means Manipuri-speaking Muslims.
In sharp contrast to the example given
above, there is also another scenario in
which the indigenous tribes belonging to
the Kuki–Chin community have deve-
loped a racial and religious link with
the geographically and culturally-distinct
Jewish community. In the recent years, a
certain section of the Kuki–Chin speakers
in Manipur and Mizoram have conver-
ted to Judaism. The Kuki–Chin people
have been claiming that they belong
to Manasseh (one of the lost tribes of
Israel). New converts are being taught
Hebrew in their respective synagogues
in Churachandpur district and elsewhere
in Manipur. In the recent years, 2,000–
3,000 converts have entered Israel seek-
ing religious asylum, and this number is
likely to go up in the coming years. Some
“social reformers” have been trying to
expand this Jewish identity to other
neighbouring Naga tribes such as Konyak,
Sangtham, Chang, etc, of Nagaland and
some Kachinic tribes of Myanmar. Some
of these Naga tribes of Nagaland and the
Kachinic tribes have also been attending
a joint cultural festival held in the
Churachandpur district of Manipur for a
few years, where the cultural identity
around Jewish roots is emphasised.
Language–Tribe Paradox
There is a general tendency to assume
that every tribe has a language. Tribe and
language are often used interchangeably
in the discourse of the common people
and in the literature dealing with the
people of the North East. The reason is
that many of the tribes’ names that
appeared in the writings of the colonial
administrators are also the names by
which their languages are known. For
example, the Ao tribe speaks Ao, the
Dimasa tribe speaks Dimasa, the Bodo
tribe speaks Bodo, and so on. But, this
correspondence is not true in all cases.
There are many instances where the
name of a tribe and its language do not
correspond to each other. In other words,
on the one hand, people belonging to a
Economic & Political Weekly EPW SEPTEMBER 1, 2018
NOTES
particular tribe may speak different, the Tai languages2 which belong to the
mutually unintelligible languages, while Tai-Kadai family spoken in Assam and
on the other, people speaking mutually Arunachal Pradesh, as well as contact
intelligible languages may belong to dif- languages such as Nagamese3 in Naga-
ferent tribes. For example, the people land and Arunachal Hindi in Arunachal
belonging to a tribe known as Thangkhul Pradesh. Languages such as Assamese
in Manipur speak different, mutually and Bengali, whose speakers number over
unintelligible languages, but call their a million, along with Nepali, Rajbongshi,
tribe and their language Thangkhul. On and Bishnupriya belong to the Indo–Aryan
the contrary, the Thadous, Pates, Vaipheis, family, while Khasi and Jaintia belong to
Simtes and Zous speak mutually intelligi- the Austro–Asiatic family. An over-
ble languages, but are separate tribes whelming number of languages and di-
(Haokip 2011). Another example where a alects spoken by the people of the North
tribe and language do not correspond East belong to the Tibeto–Burman fam-
with each other comes from Arunachal ily. The Tibeto–Burman family is further
Pradesh. Post and Burling (2017) report divided into various subgroups: Bodo–
that the Koro and Hruso Aka people Garo (which includes Bodo, Garo, Dimasa,
speak mutually unintelligible languag- Kokborok, etc), Kuki–Chin (Mizo, Hmar,
es, but are understood as belonging to Thadou, Paite, Hrangkhol, etc), and Naga
the same tribe, while the people of Pad- (Ao, Angami, Chang, Selma, Sangtham,
am and Mising tribes, which are sepa- Tangkhul, Rongmei, etc). Meithei and
rate tribes, can sometimes converse eas- Karbi, formerly included under the Kuki–
ily with each other. This creates a lot of Chin subgroup, are now considered sep-
confusion in the classification of lan- arate from Kuki–Chin. Some tribes
guages of the North East because one-to- speaking different Tibeto–Burman lan-
one correspondence between tribe and guages also live in neighbouring states.
language is not always the case. Thus, a For example, the Tshangla speakers are
distinction between the two needs to be settled in Arunachal Pradesh and Tibet.
drawn when dealing with the people of Tangkhul and the various Kuki–Chin
the North East. The term “tribe” is a languages such as Thadou, Sukte, Zou,
colonial construct and often has a pejo- and Vaiphei are spoken in Manipur and
rative connotations such as savage, un- also in Myanmar.
civilised, wild, and so on.
North East is home to hundreds of Conclusions
languages belonging to the Indo–Aryan, The notion of oneness differs from re-
Austro–Asiatic and Tibeto–Burman fami- gion to region. In two north-eastern
lies. In addition to these major language states, Nagaland and Manipur, the no-
families, the North East is also home to tion of oneness has been often political
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vol lIiI no 35 65
NOTES

in nature, while in Assam and Tripura,
the notion of oneness is often built along
linguistic lines.
Over a period of time, various nomen-
clatures have been infused into the minds
of the people and have gained wider
acceptance. On account of the existing
sociopolitical situation of the region,
these nomenclatures appear quite fre-
quently in the news for one reason or the
other. In many parts of the North East,
demands and strikes are often staged
under the banner of various nomencla-
tures. Politicians and the like often
exploit them to create a feeling of “us”
versus the “other.” Often their success
depends on how well they are able to
exploit nomenclature “politics” for their
own political gains. Thus the narrative
built around nomenclature in North East
India, often gives the impression that
persons grouped within a particular no-
menclature are one homogeneous peo-
ple. This misconceived notion of “one-
ness” when people say that certain com-
munities are “one people,” has been con-
tested to reveal that not all communities
are one in terms of culture or language,
which are often considered the strongest
determinants for asserting oneness.
Notes
1 These tribes are not yet included in the
Scheduled Tribe list. But, the Tribal Research
Institute Manipur has listed them under “Any
Kuki tribes” (GoM 2018).
2 Grierson (1904: 59) included the Tai languages
in a family that he called Siamese–Chinese.
Nowadays Tai is grouped together with the
Kam languages of China as the Kam–Tai family,
and at a higher level with the Kadai languages
to form a macro-family called Tai–Kadai
(Morey 2005: 7).
3 Nagamese is a pidginised form of Assamese
spoken in Nagaland.
References
Burling, Robbins (2003); “The Tibeto-Burman Lan-
guages of Northeastern India,” The Sino–Tibetan
Languages, Graham Thurgood and Randy J
LaPolla (eds), London: Routledge, pp 169–91.
Dragomir, Cristina-Ioana (2017): “Scheduled Tribe
Status: The Need for Clarification,” India in
Transition, Center for the Advanced Study of
India, https://casi.sas.upenn.edu/iit/cristinaio-
anadragomir.
GoI (1956): “The Schedule Castes and Scheduled
Tribes Orders (Amendment) Act, 1956,” No 63
of 1956, Government of India.
— (2011): “Manipur Religious Census,” Census of
India, Office of the Registrar General and
Census Commissioner, Government of India,
http://www.census2011.co.in/data/religion/
state/14-manipur.html.
GoM (2018): “Tribes of Manipur,” Tribal Research
Institute, Government of Manipur, http://www.
trimanipur.res.in/Masters/Title.aspx?ref=tribes_
of_manipur.
Grierson, G A (1904 [reprint 2005]): Linguistic Sur-
vey of India: Specimens of the Kuki–Chin and
Burma Groups, Vol 3, Part 3, Delhi: Low Price
Publications.
Gupta, Susmita Sen (2016): “Language as a Catalyst
to Identity Assertion among the Tribes of North
East India,” Journal of Socialomics, Vol 5, No 3,
pp 2–5.
Haokip, Pauthang (2011): “The Languages of
Manipur: A Case Study of the Kuki-Chin,”
Linguistics of the Tibeto-Burman Area, Vol 34,
No 1, pp 85–118.
Marrison, Geoffrey Edward (1967): “The Classifica-
tion of the Naga Languages of North-East India,
Vol 1,” PhD thesis, Department of Phonetics
and Linguistics, School of Oriental and African
Studies, University of London.
Morey, Stephen (2005): The Tai Languages of Assam:
A Grammar and Texts, Canberra: Pacific Lin-
guistics, Research School of Pacific and Asian
Studies, Australian National University.
Post, Mark W and Robbins Burling (2017): “The
Tibeto–Burman Languages of Northeast India,”
The Sino–Tibetan Languages, 2nd ed, Graham
Thurgood and Randy J LaPolla (eds), London:
Routledge, pp 249–78.
Wettstein, Marion (2012): “Origin and Migration
Myths in the Rhetoric of Naga Independence
and Collective Identity,” Origin and Migrations
in the Extended Eastern Himalayas, Stuart
Blackburn and Toni Huber (eds), Leiden: Brill,
pp 213–38.

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66 SEPTEMBER 1, 2018 vol lIiI no 35 EPW Economic & Political Weekly
THE 'ECONOMIC WEEKLY ANNUAL
Book Review
Caste, Kinship, Tribe and Nation
Caste and Kinship in Central India : A Village and its Region. Adrian C Mayor, London. Routelage
and Kegan Paul. 1960. Pp 295. 35 s net.
Tribe, Caste, and Nation : A Study of Political Activity and Political Change in Highland Orissa.
F C Bailey. Oxford University Press. I960. Pp 279. Rs 22.50.
B O T H these books are significant
to students of I n d i a n social struc-
ture. They advance o u r under-
standing of I n d i a n social l i f e , and
show us the way toward a more
comprehensive analysis of complex
Indian social institutions arid the
changes t a k i n g place in them.
A d r i a n M a y e r deals w i t h caste re-
lations in a multi-caste village and
its region in the f o r m e r princely
state of Dewas Senior, now included
in the .central I n d i a n State of
Madhya Pradesh. Bailey is concern-
ed w i t h the analysis of political acti-
vity of the Konds in the three differ-
ent contexts of tribe, caste, and na-
tion.
A major theme of Mayer's book
is the difference between what he
calls 'ceaste and 'subcaste'. The for-
mer is defined as a larger reference
category composed of subcastes.
rather than a group in its o w n
right. The subcaste is a group of
actual or potential k i n whose mem-
bers take care to keep them sepa-
rate f r o m all other similar groups.
Caste membership is important for
relations w i t h other castes, and sub-
caste membership for activities
w i t h i n the caste. Thus, there are two
different groups of Weavers, viz..
M a l w i Weavers and G u j r a l i Weavers
in the village here called R a m k h e r i .
Members of both these groups are
treated s i m p l y as Weavers by others
i e. Non-Weavers, but they keep
themselves separate and maintain
marriage and other intimate ties
w i t h entirely different sub-caste
members in n e i g h b o u r i n g villages.
This distinction between caste and
subcaste seems to have been over-
emphasized by M a y e r . In any linguis-
tic region in India there are a num-
ber of i m m i g r a n t castes who speak
a different language f r o m the one
which is locally dominant. The speak-
ers of the same language, whatever
their subcaste. possess certain com-
mon c u l t u r a l forms, and when, in the
same l i n g u i s t i c region there are sub-
castes w i t h different languages or be-
l o n g i n g to different linguistic areas.
each becomes conscious of the cultu-
Imtiaz Ahmad
ral f o r m w h i c h distinguishes it f r o m
others and tries to m a i n t a i n it by ob-
serving subcaste restrictions. The
groups of Weavers in R a m k h e r i keep
themselves separate and maintain
endogamous relations w i t h different
subcaste fellows in other villages, not
just^ because they belong to two sub-
castes, as Dr Mayer assumes, but
because they belong to two different
linguistic regions possessing two dif-
ferent cultural forms. Subcastes be-
longing to the same region, and other-
wise equal in status, do not empha-
size this difference. They generally
deal w i t h a person in terms of the
larger reference, category.
Three Levels of Membership
Mayer dicerns three levels of
membership in a caste. The lowest is
that, of an effective subcaste popula-
t i o n , called the k i n d r e d of coopera-
t i o n , w i t h w h o m a villager has close
agnatic and affinal ties. A r o u n d it
is the group called the k i n d r e d of
recognition w i t h i n w h i c h marriages
are made a n d / o r k i n l i n k s can be
traced t h r o u g h mutual k i n . Beyond
these two kindreds are people who
are recognized as members of a sub-
caste which is endogamous, named
and separate f r o m other sub
castes. The overlapping network of
k i n ties v a r y i n g f r o m person to
person and even more among the
groups of a village — constitute a
region. ' T h i s makes the region, a fluid
and rather unsatisfactory structural
concepts. Nevertheless, it is an i m -
portant concept, since, apart from
its socio-economic aspects, the v i l -
lagers generally have definite notions
of their regional identity as con-
trasted w i t h people of other regions.
In most of the studies of caste rela-
tions in I n d i a n villages single v i l l -
age has so far been the main focus
of research.
The study is remarkable in that
it focusscs on the region. It is o n l y
by a number of s i m i l a r studies that
we can really understand the com-
plexity of the caste structure and
its pivotal position in determining
the actions and social relations of
villagers.
167
February 4, 1961
Since the region appears amor-
phous, the village emerges as a
f a i r l y autonomous entity. Thus, the
people of one village need not ob-
serve the same rules of inter-group
d i n i n g as do those of a neighbour-
i n g village. S i m i l a r l y , a boycott by
carpenters in a village may be
ignored by their subcaste fellows
in a nearby village.
Rajputs are the dominant caste in
Ramkheri. A l l i e d to them, and
r a n k i n g in the same division of the
local hierarchy arc seven other
castes f o l l o w i n g the w a r r i o r tradi-
tion of meat-eating and d r i n k i n g
liquor. Parallel in rank, but sepa-
rate from this d i v i s i o n , is another,
c o m p r i s i n g six castes which follow
the vegetarian t r a d i t i o n . The vege-
tarians are ascendant because bas-
ing their superiority mi the p r i n c i -
ples of non-violence, they consider
vegetarianism as the wave of the
future', and look f o r w a r d to na-
tional policies which w i l l eventual-
ly ban all animal slaughter and so
bear out their superiority. This
shows that, though caste standards
arc1 changing, caste is still pivotal
in the life of the villagers. This
revelation will undoubtedly dis-
appoint those who believe that a
new casteless social order is emerg-
ing in Indian village.
Choice in Political Relations.
Bailey deals with the K o n d V i l l -
age, here called Baderi. in the fas-
tern Kondomals in Orissa. Here
the a u t h o r s main concern is w i t h
the conflicts which arise when t r i b a l
svstem meets the caste system, and
the role of administration and poli-
tics in i n i t i a t i n g social change. T h e
problem is death w i t h f r o m the
point of view of politics.
The central argument is that in
the political field there are m a i n
choices open to a person. These
choices lie not w i t h i n one system of
political relations but also between
systems. Thus for example, in
K o n d o m a l there are at least three
different political systems, namely :
February 4. 1961
T H E ECONOMlC W E E K L Y A N N U A L

the t r i b a l system, the caste system, linguistic region both the t r i b e to dominance. Such a system is
and t i n - system of a d m i n i s t r a t i o n and the t r a d i t i o n a l caste are being still called caste and it is this type
and representative democracy. All merged. of system w h i c h is emerging in most
these systems have the same ' a i m villages in the present transitional
content'' and every K o n d has a role Moreover, more recently, t h r o u g h
the paternalistic policies of the I n d i a n society. B u t this type of
in all of them, But as he cannot society is different from the classi-
operate in all of them at once, he A d m i n i s t r a t i o n , and latter t h r o u g h
the K o n d dominance in numbers in c a l pattern of dominant and depen-
has to choose between them. dent caste. In this t y p e of society
the representative democracy, the
The argument is presented w i t h balance of power is s h i f t i n g in t e r r i t o r i a l cleavages are replaced by
the help of case histories supported favour of the Konds. The Konds cleavages between castes.
by statistical data. The analysis are challenging the dominant caste. Bailey does not claim to p r o v i d e
moves by stages from the simple to T h i s does not mean the decay of us w i t h any principles of political
the complex. It begins w i t h a dis- the caste, system. It might be a change. 'The only p r i n c i p l e I
cussion of the competition f o r means by w h i c h the system is ad- have to offer" lie writes, ' is the
power and control over resources justed to meet economic realities. heuristic one — to ask continually
w i t h i n the t r i b a l system and the In such a situation the positions who profited and t h r o u g h what
way men combine w i t h one another in the structure change but the social alignments he did so.
so as to compete more effectively. type of relationship which charac- Nevertheless, the book brings i n t o
This analysis shows that there are terizes the structure does not
no contradictions w i t h i n the system focus the wider problem of nation-
change. But it m i g h t also be a hood and gives us a f a i r l y compre-
so presented. structural change an arresting hensive picture, of changing social'
Next, it moves to political rela- of the move back to e q u i l i b r i u m , at order in India today. It is expect-
tions of a different type than those the end of which there emerges not ed that it w i l l serve as a useful"
w h i c h characterize the t r i b a l system. one but several castes, all of w h i c h mode! for similar studies in other
These are the relationships between have some, but not a complete claim parts of I n d i a .
the Konds and the Pans. Here too
there is no contradict i o n .
In the t h i r d stage the analysis
nunes to the p o l i t i c a l relationships
between the Orivas and the Konds.
Here we are told that the Orr'ya
system of political relationships is
not only different from the t r i b a l
system, but is contradictory. This
contradiction is relleeted at the level
of conflict between groups in which
the Konds tried to extrude the
Orivas. or the Oriva attempts to
b r i n g the K o n d in the O r i y a politi-
cal structure.
Where Tribe and caste Merge
Finally, the analysis shifts to the
wider political arena of nation. To-
day the political allegiances are not
w i t h i n the local system o n l y but in
the wider political arena. As a
result. the Konds no longer try to
become the headman of the muntha
(the administrative division in
which Baden lies) as they d i d for-
merly, but try to be politically ac-
tive in the K o n d caste, by w o r k i n g
in their organization called the Kui
Samaj. to get into the inner ring of
this organization, to be employed
as social worker by I he Congress or
one of the other political parties
and eventually to reach the top by
becoming a Member of the Legisla-
tive Assembly. This trend of poli-
tical change suggests that, p o l i t i -
cally at feast. the distinction
between ' t r i b e ' and "caste" is ceasing
to be a useful one. In the modern
caste — the group which is politi-
cally active to the w i d t h of the

168
SPECIAL ARTICLE
Determinants of Child Malnutrition in Tribal Areas
of Madhya Pradesh
Rajesh Mishra
A research study conducted in three tribal districts—
Alirajpur, Barwani and Khandwa—of Madhya Pradesh,
based on a sample of 294 women with their last child in
the age-group of six months–five years analyses the
status and determinants of malnutrition and child death.
Despite certain infant and young child-feeding practices
like colostrum feeding and early initiation of
breastfeeding, the study finds that a high level of child
malnutrition exists due to short period of breastfeeding,
delayed initiation of supplementary nutrition, and poor
activities under the Integrated Child Development
Services. Moreover, the conversion of normal children to
malnourished category and malnourished children to
normal category put together indicates a dismal picture
of ICDS as well as the health functionaries. Barring
antenatal care services, other nutrition and health
services for women were not found to be satisfactory.
The malnutrition level of children has shown a strong
association with the age of mothers at the time
of marriage.
Rajesh Mishra (rajeshnipccd@yahoo.com) is working with the National
Institute of Public Cooperation and Child Development, Ministry of
Women and Child Development, GoI, Indore.
50
T
ribals in Madhya Pradesh constitute a sizeable popula-
tion. As per the Census 2011, out of the 7.26 crore of total
population of the state, tribal population constitutes 1.53
crore (21.1%). There are 46 recognised Scheduled Tribes (STs)
and three of them—Bharia, Baiga and Sahariya—have been
identified as “Special Primitive Tribal Groups.”
Bhil is the most populous tribe in Madhya Pradesh with a
population share of 39.1% of the total ST population. Gond is
the second largest tribe, with a population share of 33.3%. The
next four populous tribes are: Kol, Korku, Sahariya and Baiga.
These six tribes constitute 91.5% of the total ST population of
the state (Census 2011). Bhils have the highest population in
Jhabua district followed by Dhar, Barwani and Khargone dis-
tricts. Gonds have major concentration in Dindori district,
Chhindwara, Mandla, Betul, Seoni and Shahdol districts. Other
four major groups—Kol, Korku, Sahariya and Baiga—have reg-
istered the highest population in Rewa, Khandwa, Shivpuri
and Shahdol districts, respectively.
The tribals of Madhya Pradesh like other parts of the coun-
try largely depend on forest produce for their food and liveli-
hood, but the civilisation and development processes have
gradually invaded the forest area, depriving tribal community
of their means of sustenance. Thus, tribals are confronted
with poverty, food insecurity, unemployment, poor health and
nutrition conditions that result in severe malnutrition and
deaths of children. Every death of a child leads to a controversy
as the government departments disown the responsibility of
such deaths.
There are food security programmes like Mid-day Meal
(MDM), Antyodaya Anna Yojana, Supplementary Nutrition
Programme, etc, but even then hundreds of children die due
to malnutrition and diseases every year. Malnourishment
paves the way for a number of diseases like fever, vomiting,
measles, diarrhoea, etc. Under ordinary circumstances these
diseases are curable and not deadly; but when a malnour-
ished child is caught up with any such disease, it becomes a
death trap.
This article is based on a research study conducted by the
regional centre of the National Institute of Public Cooperation
and Child Development (NIPCCD), Indore in three tribal
districts, namely, Alirajpur, Barwani and Khandwa of Madhya
Pradesh. The study was based on a sample of 294 women with
their last child in the age-group of six months–five years to
analyse the status and determinants of malnutrition and child
death. This study assesses child malnutrition, its causal analysis
february 4, 2017 vol lIi no 5 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

and also reviews the Integrated Child Development Services
(ICDS) scheme which is aimed at the reduction of child malnu-
trition in tribal areas.
1 Infant and Young Child Feeding Practices
Infant and Young Child Feeding (IYCF) practices play a vital role in
survival, growth and development of children. It helps in reducing
infant and child mortality and morbidity. There are several factors
like timely initiation of breastfeeding, administering first milk
of mother (colostrum), exclusive breastfeeding up to six months,
timely initiation of complementary feeding, etc, which affect
the nutrition and health condition of children (Table 1).
Table 1: Adoption of IYCF Practices by Tribal Women
Serial No Adoption of IYCF Practices
1 Knowledge about benefits of colostrum feeding
2 Colostrum feeding administered
3 Breastfeeding initiated within one hour after delivery
4 Exclusive breastfeeding up to six months
5 Duration of breastfeeding up to two years
6 Initiation of complementary feeding at six months
Source: Tables and figures given in this study are taken from a research project “Detriments
of the High Malnutrition and Child Deaths in Tribal Areas of Madhya Pradesh: An Empirical
Study” completed by NPCCO Regional Centre, Indore.
Colostrum is considered as the best vaccine which protects
child from infection and disease. Colostrum feeding was
administered to 91.5% tribal children, but knowledge about
the benefits of the colostrum was known to only 32.3% women.
This shows that though there is a practice of giving first milk of
mother to children after birth, mothers are not aware about its
benefits to children’s health. Early initiation of breastfeeding is
considered essential for better health and nutrition of a new-
born child. The guidelines of IYCF suggest initiation of breast-
feeding within an hour of the child’s birth. About 56.8% wom-
en respondents accepted to have initiated breastfeeding to
their children within one hour of their birth. There is a need to
further strengthen the IYCF practices by propagating the
importance of an early initiation of breastfeeding among
mothers of the tribal areas.
As per the mandate of the Ministry of Women and Child
Development, Government of India, exclusive breastfeeding
for six months is being promoted nationwide through ICDS
programme. About 94.6% women agreed to have exclusively
breastfed their child for six months. This shows an encourag-
ing practice by mothers in tribal areas. As far as the duration of
breastfeeding is concerned, it was found that only 20.7% of
women continued breastfeeding up to a period of two years.
The IYCF guidelines recommend for an extended breastfeed-
ing period up to two years. This is attributed to the fact that
most of the tribal women are engaged as wage workers or
agriculture workers which causes discontinuation of breast-
feeding after one year or even less.
As per the guidelines under ICDS programme, complementary
feeding should be initiated to the child on completion of six
months of age. Either early or late initiation of complementary
feeding causes obstructed growth of the child. It was found
that about 58.2% of children were initiated with complemen-
tary feeding on completion of six months of age as per the
Economic & Political Weekly EPW february 4, 2017 vol lIi no 5
SPECIAL ARTICLE
guidelines. This needs further strengthening through educa-
tion and counselling of tribal mothers.
Infant and young child-feeding practices like giving mother’s
first milk and early initiation of breastfeeding were found to be
traditionally very strong in the area, but duration of breast-
feeding is not satisfactory. Similarly, timely initiation of supple-
mentary nutrition is also a weak area. These two problematic
areas are largely associated with the fact that a large number
of tribal mothers work in the fields having no time for care of
children. The standard timing of anganwadi centres (AWCs) is
not suitable for tribal areas where majority of women are in
fields/forest for whole day for collection of forest produce or
working in agriculture field for their livelihood. Opening
Percent crèches in such areas could be more effective in dealing with
32.3 the child malnutrition.
91.5
56.8 2 Review of Growth Monitoring and Promotion
94.6
Regular growth monitoring and promotion is an important
20.7
58.2
component of the ICDS programme directed towards reduction
of malnutrition among children. It includes recording of birth
weight, date of birth, regular monthly weighing and plotting
the growth charts as per the New World Health Organization
(WHO) Child Growth Standards.1 It is followed by necessary
interventions like home visits, mothers’ counselling and nutri-
tion care at the level of AWCs (Table 2).
Table 2: Growth Monitoring and Promotion
Serial No Birth Weight Percent
1 Children recorded with their birth weight 59.2
2 Low birth weight 31.0
3 Underweight children as per AWC record 57.1
4 Underweight children as per actual weighing 68.0
5 Underestimation of underweight children at AWCs 10.9
6 Knowledge of mothers about current malnutrition
status of child 64.3
Source: Same as Table 1.
The information on birth weight of 294 sample children was
collected from the AWC records. It was very disheartening to
note that the birth weight information of only 174 children
(59.2%) was available out of 294 children. This is evidence of
very poor recording of birth weights in tribal areas. Out of 174
children with birth weights, 31% babies had low birth weight,
which is higher than the state average of 26% (AHS 2012–13).
The higher proportion of low birth weight babies shows poor
nutritional status of their mothers during pregnancy.
Nutrition data of all 294 children was collected from AWCs.
As per the AWC records, 23.8% children were found severely
underweight (SUW), 33.8% children were moderately under-
weight (MUW) and 42.9% children were found in normal category.
Field investigators took the weight of all these children during
the survey and also measured nutrition status as per the latest
WHO Child Growth Standards. It was alarming to note that
growth monitoring of children conducted by anganwadi workers
possessed serious flaws. Actually, there were 31.3% SUW chil-
dren against AWCs’ record of 23.8%. Similarly, MUW children
were found to be 36.7% in place of 33.3% as per the AWC
records. Put together, the malnutrition level goes up from
57.1% as per AWC records to 68% as per the actual weighing.
51
SPECIAL ARTICLE
Overall, malnutrition is underestimated by nearly 11%. The
awareness of mothers about malnutrition of their children is
also a weak area as mothers of only 64.3% malnourished
children were found to be aware of malnutrition in their child.
3 Nutrition and Health Status of Women Affecting
Children
Poor nutrition and health conditions of women have a direct
bearing on nutrition and health conditions of children in any
community. There is an association between malnutrition in
women during adolescence and pregnancy on the one hand
and low birth weight babies and malnourished children on the
other. This paper presents nutrition and health status of women
with an objective to assess the effect of this on nutritional
condition of children. This mainly covers antenatal care and
delivery services as well as food intake and rest during
pregnancies which have a direct bearing on survival and
development of children.
Table 3: Nutrition and Health Status of Women Affecting Children
Serial No Body Mass Index (BMI) Level
1 Additional food during pregnancy
2 Low BMI (<18.5)
3 Pregnancy complications
4 Treatment for pregnancy complications
5 Institutional delivery
6 Home deliveries conducted by trained hands
7 New blade used to cut placenta in home deliveries
Source: Same as Table 1.
It is also recommended that women should take additional
food during pregnancy to cater to the nutritional needs of
growing foetus in the womb. It was found that only 36.4%
women had additional food during pregnancy. There is need
to strengthen awareness and counselling interventions to pro-
mote healthy nutritional intake among pregnant women in
tribal areas.
Anthropometric tools were used during data collection in
the field to record the weight and height of the sample women
to work out BMI of women. But weight and height of 270 out of
294 women could be taken in the field. The data of 270 women
were analysed and the BMI was worked out. As per the
guidelines, women with BMI < 18.5 are considered wasted and
categorised under low BMI. About 44.4% tribal women were
found with low BMI (less than 18.5) which is higher than the
figure of 28.3% for the whole of Madhya Pradesh as mentioned
in the National Family Health Survey (NFHS – IV) (2015–16).
Complications during pregnancy have a significant bearing
on successful delivery and birth of a child. As Table 3 shows
37.1% women faced health complications during their last
pregnancy. The highest proportion of them (73.4%) suffered
from fever during pregnancy. About 52.3% women had swell-
ing and 46.8% faced severe fatigue during pregnancy. Out of
109 women who had pregnancy complications, about 77.1% of
women received treatment for the same. This shows good
improvement in health-seeking behaviour of women during
pregnancy.
Promoting institutional delivery is one of the prime focus
areas under the National Rural Health Mission (NRHM) and
52
ICDS programmes. Institutional delivery helps in preventing
infant and maternal mortality. Janani Suraksha Yojana under
the NRHM is one of the flagship programmes of health depart-
ment. As the findings show, 53.4% deliveries were conducted
in hospitals and rest 46.6% deliveries were conducted at home.
About 21.9% home deliveries were conducted by trained
persons. This shows that the majority of home deliveries in the
tribal areas are still conducted by untrained hands which
needs urgent attention at the programme level. Moreover, new
blades were used to cut placenta only in the case of 59.8% of
total home deliveries. This shows that even safe delivery prac-
tices are not being followed in tribal areas.
4 Role of ICDS in Reduction of Child Malnutrition
Mothers of normal children along with malnourished children
were also covered to have a control group analysis during this
study. The primary data was collected from 15 AWCs of three
districts. Apart from this, AWWs of all 15 AWCs were also inter-
viewed to assess and analyse the implementation of ICDS,
Percent functioning of AWCs and malnutrition in the area.
36.4 Major aspects covered under this section are profile of AWWs,
44.4
low birth weight, malnutrition among children, distribution of
37.1
supplementary nutrition, utilisation of AWC service, etc.
77.1
53.4
21.9
Coverage of supplementary nutrition under ICDS: Under
59.8 the ICDS programme, children of age group six months–three
years are provided bal ahar (take-home ration [THR]) to sup-
plement their nutritional needs. Children of age-group three–
six years are provided breakfast and lunch (hot-cooked meal)
at AWCs. Hot-cooked meal (breakfast and lunch) is being pre-
pared by self-help groups (SHGs) under the Sanjha Chulha pro-
gramme. Sanjha Chulha is combined kitchen preparing food
for ICDS as well as MDM for schoolchildren.
As stated in the table, the coverage of THR provided to child-
ren (six month–three years) was found to be 98.2% in Alirajpur
and Khandwa, whereas it was 81.06% in Barwani. Overall, the
coverage of THR for children (six months–three years) was
92.9% in all three districts together.
Table 4: Distribution of Supplementary Nutrition at AWCs
Serial No Supplementary Nutrition at AWCs Coverage (%)
1 Supplementary nutrition to children Take Home
(6 months–3 years) Ration (THR) 92.9
2 Supplementary nutrition to children
(3–6 years) Breakfast 55.4
Lunch 60.7
3 Supplementary nutrition to
pregnant women THR 92.9
4 Supplementary nutrition to
lactating mothers THR 90.9
The coverage of hot-cooked meal, including breakfast and
lunch, was found to be much lower than the THR. As stated in
Table 4, the coverage for breakfast for three–six years children
varied from 29.6% in Alirajpur to 67.9% in Khandwa. Similarly,
lunch had the coverage of 53.7% in Alirajpur, 57.2% in Barwani
and 67.5% in Khandwa. Overall, 55.4% children were covered
under breakfast and 60.7% children were covered under lunch
for all three districts put together. Low coverage of hot-cooked
february 4, 2017 vol lIi no 5 EPW Economic & Political Weekly
 SPECIAL ARTICLE

meals may be attributed to the fact that substantial proportion of Figure 1: Causes of Child Death
children (three–six years) enrolled at AWCs are going to nurs-
ery/private schools. Apart from this, poor Early Childhood Other
Malnutrition 12.5%
Care and Education (ECCE) activities at AWCs are also Fever
12.5% 37.5%
responsible for low attendance at AWCs, and hence, low coverage
and utilisation of ICDS. It was also observed during the data Pneumonia
collection that there were several AWCs in these tribal districts 25.0% Diarrhoea
which were not receiving breakfast for AWC children from des- 12.5%
ignated SHGs.
Pregnant women and lactating mothers are provided THR
under the ICDS programme. As stated in Table 4, on an average,
92.9% pregnant women and 90.9% lactating mothers received analysis of data is presented in Table 6 separately for each of the
supplementary nutrition provided at AWCs. Supplementary three districts (Alirajpur, Barwani and Khandwa) and com-
nutrition provided to pregnant/lactating women is directed bined data for all three districts together.
towards meeting the additional requirement of nutrition of All three districts put together, only 9.9% SUW, 21.2% MUW
women during pregnancy and lactation. The coverage of sup- and 17.8% SUW/MUW children could convert to normal category
plementary nutrition for pregnant/lactating women was in a time span of two years. In the same duration, 26.7% of
found to be lower in Alirajpur than in Barwani and Khandwa. normal children converted into SUW/MUW category. Thus
looking into these two conversions simultaneously, there
Supplementary nutrition and reduction of child malnutrition: seems to be virtually no impact of AWC services in reducing
The growth monitoring data of 0–5-year-old children were malnutrition of children enrolled at AWCs. There is a need to
collected from all 15 sample AWCs for the month of survey. It strengthen the quality and coverage of nutrition and health
was found that growth monitoring records were available for services provided through AWCs. The counselling, advocacy
1,070 children out of 1,156 children of the age-group 0–5 and community participation components of ICDS require
years registered at AWCs. Table 5 presents three nutrition more attention.
categories, namely, SUW, MUW and normal for all three
sample districts covered under the study. The data presented Malnutrition and child deaths: We also collected data from
here is purely secondary data collected from the records AWC records on child deaths occurred during the last five
of AWCs. years. As Table 6 shows, total 32 cases of child deaths were
Table 5: Supplementary Nutrition and Reduction of Child Malnutrition reported from 15 AWCs of the three districts during the last five
Serial No Category of Children Malnutrition Level (%) years. Though the number of child deaths recorded at AWCs
1 All children under AWC 41.8 during the last five years seems to be widely under-reported, if
2 Children not taking supplementary nutrition under AWC 46.4
compared with child death rates of the state (SRS 2014), but
The study also tried to analyse the nutrition category of chil- inferences are drawn to understand the major causes of child
dren who were not receiving supplementary nutrition from deaths in the area. As per the records of AWCs, the highest pro-
AWCs under the ICDS programme. As Table 5 depicts, 32 chil- portion of child deaths was attributed to fever (37.5%) fol-
dren out of 69 children (46.4%) not availing supplementary lowed by pneumonia (25%), diarrhoea (12.5%) and malnutri-
nutrition provided at AWCs were found in the underweight cat- tion (12.5%) (Figure 1).
egory. The equal proportion of children was found in the Table 6: Conversion of Underweight Children (0–3 Years) to Normal
normal category. On the other hand, malnutrition level for S No Nutrition Category during 2011–12 Conversion to the Category (2013–14)
Category No of Children SUW MUW Normal
children availing supplementary nutrition was found to be 1 SUW 71 32 (45.1) 32 (45.1) 07 (9.9)
41.8% as discussed earlier. This clearly indicates that the utili- 2 MUW 165 09 (5.5) 121 (73.3) 35 (21.2)
sation of supplementary nutrition has no significant impact on 3 SUW + MUW 236 41 (17.4) 153 (64.8) 42 (17.8)
nutrition category of children. 4 Normal 310 10 (3.2) 73 (23.5) 227 (73.2)
Figures in parenthesis are in percentage.

Conversion of underweight children to normal: The major

thrust of the ICDS provided through the AWCs is to reduce mal-
nutrition among children by providing supplementary nutrition,
health and nutrition education, health check-ups and referral
to nutrition rehabilitation centre (NRC). Under this study, an
attempt was made to assess and analyse the conversion of under-
weight children into normal category as per the new WHO
Child Growth Standards. For the purpose, secondary data of
underweight children (0–3 years) in 2011–12 were collected
from AWCs and compared with their current nutrition grades
(on the day of survey) almost after a gap of two years. The
Economic & Political Weekly EPW february 4, 2017 vol lIi no 5
Nutrition category at the time of child death: The AWC data
pertaining to child deaths were analysed to find out the nutri-
tion category of children at the time of their death to assess
the relationship between malnutrition and child death. It was
found that in case of 14 out of 32 deaths (43.8%), children were
in the underweight category (SUW/MUW) at the time of death.
Only 21.9% of total deaths were found in normal category
(Figure 2, p 54).
The nutrition category of 34.4% children could not be
traced from AWC records. This clearly implies the strong
53
SPECIAL ARTICLE
Figure 2: Nutrition Category at the Time of Child Death
association of malnutrition and child death in tribal areas of
Madhya Pradesh.
Analysis of nutrition rehabilitation centre: NRCs have been
established in every district of Madhya Pradesh in joint collab-
oration of the Department of Women and Child Development,
and Department of Health. ICDS functionaries mobilise mal-
nourished children from villages to NRC. The children are
screened at NRC as per the criteria of severely acute malnour-
ished (SAM) laid down by the Department of Health and
UNICEF. Only SAM children are admitted in NRC for a period of
14 days. There are three criteria for SAM children, namely, mid-
upper arm circumference (MUAC) measurement < 11.5 cm, bila-
teral oedema and weight for height < - 3Z score. Children
satisfying any one of the three criteria are considered for NRC
admission. Rest of the children would be sent back for care at
the AWC level. There is a norm of admitting children in NRC for
a period of 14 days. If required, it is extended for a further
period, but initially it is mandatory to admit SAM children for a
period of 14 days.
Total three NRCs, one from each of three districts were
covered under the study to assess and analyse the situation.
Total children admitted in one year (2012–13) were 371, 304
and 485 in Alirajpur, Barwani and Khandwa, respectively. As
stated in Table 7, it was found that only about 60%–70%
children admitted in NRC stayed for a complete period of 14
days. This is a major challenge before ICDS and NRC function-
aries to hold children in NRC for the stipulated time period of
14 days. There is a strong reluctance of community for keeping
their children in NRC for a period of 14 days.
The recovery rate of children admitted in NRC was found to
be about 56.9% with slight variations among the three districts.
The above findings suggest that there is a need to increase the
utilisation of NRCs through a clear policy and mobilisation and
sensitisation of community about possible implications of
malnutrition among children.
5 Causal Analysis of Child Malnutrition
Initially, it was proposed to cover 10 underweight (SUW/MUW)
and 10 normal children under the study from each of 15 AWCs
selected from three tribal districts of Madhya Pradesh. Thus,
in total, it was planned to have 300 children consisting of 150
underweight and 150 normal children with an objective of
54
control group analysis. But due to incomplete and faulty
growth monitoring records in some of AWCs, the study could
finally cover 168 underweight and 126 normal children with a
total of 294 children in the sample. But as per the actual weigh-
ing of these 294 children, it was found that there were 200
malnourished (92 SUW and 108 MUW) children and 94 normal
children. The nutrition category of children based on the
actual weighing during the survey has been taken for causal
analysis of malnutrition in the present chapter.
This chapter analyses malnutrition (underweight) in light
of its association with several causal factors like low birth
weight of children, mother’s first milk given to child, early
initiation of breastfeeding, exclusive breastfeeding, low BMI
of mothers, etc.
Nutrition category of children by birth weight: Out of total
294 children in the sample, birth weight of only 174 children
were available in the records of AWCs which show pathetic
condition of recording and reporting system in ICDS. The
cross tabulation of 174 children shows interesting results. Out
of 174 children, 120 children were born with normal birth
weight ( 2.5 kg) and 54 children were born with low birth
weight (< 2.5 kg). Table 8 reveals that among children with
normal birth weight, 27.5% children were in SUW, 34.2% in
MUW and 38.3% in normal category. But among children with
low birth weight, 44.4% children were in SUW, 35.2% in MUW
and only 20.4% in normal category. Put together, 61.7% of
children with normal birth weight were found underweight
against 79.6% children with low birth weight. Moreover,
there were 44.4% children in SUW from low birth weight cat-
egory against only 27.5% children from normal birth weight
category. It is quite obvious from the analysis that low
birth weight of children is an important factor contributing
towards high malnutrition among children under the age of
five years.
Nutrition category by children given first milk of mother
(colostrum): Mother’s first milk is considered as the first vac-
cination of child and it influences health, nutrition and growth
of children. The cross-tabulation implies a close association bet-
ween present nutrition category of children (six months–five
years) and mother’s first milk administered to the child after
birth. The cross-tabulation is presented based on the sample of
Table 7: Profile of Children Admitted in NRC during 2012–13
Serial No Status of NRCs in Tribal Areas Level
1 Total children admitted in a year 1,160
2 No of children staying for 14 days 765 (65.9%)
3 Children cured 436 (56.9%)
Table 8: Present Nutrition Category by Birth Weight
Serial Birth Weight of Children Present Nutrition Category Total
No SUW MUW Normal
1 Children with normal
birth weight 33 (27.5) 41 (34.2) 46 (38.3) 120 (100)
2 Children with low
birth weight 24 (44.4) 19 (35.2) 11 (20.4) 54 (100)
All children 57 (32.8) 60 (34.5) 57 (32.8) 174 (100.0)
Figures in parenthesis are in percentage.
february 4, 2017 vol lIi no 5 EPW Economic & Political Weekly
 SPECIAL ARTICLE

294 children (Table 9). About 28.9% of children given first against 66.7% of children breastfed after one day. This leads to
milk were found in severely underweight category against the conclusion that an early initiation of breastfeeding reduces
56% of children not given first milk. In total, about 67% chil- the chances of malnutrition in children up to the age of
dren given first milk were in underweight category (MUW/ five years.
SUW) against 80% of children who were not given mother’s
first milk. This categorically states that, mother’s first milk has Nutrition category of children with health problems dur-
a significant and long-lasting effect on nutritional status of ing last one year: Poor health conditions cause malnutrition
children. among children. This is clearly visible in the cross-tabulation
Table 9: Present Nutrition Category by Children Given First Milk (Table 12). About 35.7% and 37% of children with health prob-
Serial Children Given First Milk Present Nutrition Category Total lems during last one year were found in SUW and MUW cate-
No SUW MUW Normal
gories, respectively. On the other hand, only 13.6% and 35.6%
1 Children given first milk 78 (28.9) 102 (38.0) 89 (33.1) 269 (100)
of children with no health problems in the last one year were
2 Children not given
first milk 14 (56.0) 6 (24.0) 5 (20.0) 25 (100.0) in SUW and MUW categories. On an average 72.7% of children
All children 92 (31.3) 108 (36.7) 94 (32.0) 294 (100.0) with health problems were in underweight category against
Figures in parenthesis are in percentage. only 49.2% of children with no health problem in the last one
year. This clearly indicates that poor health conditions adversely
Nutrition category of children by exclusive breastfeeding: affect the nutrition condition of children in tribal areas.
This section focuses on the effect of exclusive breastfeeding up Table 12: Present Nutrition Category by Children with Health Problems
to six months on nutrition condition of children up to the age Serial Category of Children Present Nutrition Category Total
No SUW MUW Normal
of five years. Out of 294 children, 278 children were given exclu- 1 Children with health
sive breastfeeding up to the age of six months and remaining 16 problem during
children were initiated mix feeding during the period. As Table last one year 84 (35.7) 87 (37.0) 64 (27.3%) 235 (100.0)
10 states, 30.2% of exclusive breastfed children were found in 2 Children with no
health problem during
SUW category against 50% of mix-fed children. This clearly last one year 8 (13.6) 21 (35.6) 30 (50.8) 59 (100.0)
indicates that exclusive breastfeeding up to six months of birth All children 92 (31.3) 108 (36.7) 94 (32.0) 294 (100.0)
is better than mix feeding for growth of the child as also Figures in parenthesis are in percentage.
propounded by WHO under the new WHO Child Growth Stand-
ards. On an average 68% of exclusive breastfed children were Nutrition category of children by BMI of mothers: Out of
in malnutrition category (SUW/MUW) against almost an equal 294 women covered under the sample, weight and height of only
proportion of mix-fed children. 270 women could be recorded in the field. Out of 270 women,
120 women were in low BMI category. As the cross-tabulation
Nutrition category of children by early initiation of breast- results indicate (Table 13), 38.3% of children of mothers with
feeding: Early initiation of breastfeeding after birth is essen- low BMI were found in SUW category against 26.7% of children
tial for healthy growth and development of children. The of mothers of normal BMI. Overall, 72.5% of children of low
cross-tabulation clearly indicates the effect of early initiation BMI mothers were found in underweight category (SUW/MUW)
of breastfeeding on nutritional status of children up to the age against 66% of children of normal BMI mothers. This clearly
of five years. As stated in Table 11, 29.8% of breastfed children indicates a positive association between nutritional status of
(within one day) were found in severely underweight category mother and child. Therefore, it is essential to improve nutritional
Table 10: Present Nutrition Category of Children by Exclusive Breastfeeding status of mother so as to reduce malnutrition among children.
Serial Exclusive Breastfeeding Status Present Nutrition Category Total Table 13: Present Nutrition Category of Children by BMI of Mothers
No SUW MUW Normal Serial BMI of Mothers Present Nutrition Category Total
1 Children with exclusive No SUW MUW Normal
breastfeeding for 1 Children with low
six months 84 (30.2) 105 (37.8) 89 (32.0) 278 (100.0) BMI of mothers (<18.5) 46 (38.3) 41(34.2) 33 (27.5) 120 (100.0)
2 Children with mix 2 Children with normal
feeding within BMI of mothers (>18.5) 40 (26.7) 59 (39.3) 51 (34.0) 150 (100.0)
six months 8 (50.0) 3 (18.8) 5 (31.2) 16 (100.0) All children 86 (31.9) 100 (37.0) 84 (31.1) 270 (100.0)
All children 92 (31.3) 108 (36.7) 94 (32.0) 294 (100.0)
Figures in parenthesis are in percentage.

Table 11: Present Nutrition Category by Early Initiation of Breastfeeding Present nutrition category of children by age of mothers’
Serial Early Initiation of Breastfeeding Present Nutrition Category Total marriage: It was interesting to note that mothers’ age of mar-
No SUW MUW Normal
riage has a significant impact on the malnutrition level of the
1 Children with
breastfeeding initiated children (six months–five years). The proportion of SUW was
within one day 84 (29.8) 107 (37.9) 91 (32.3) 282 (100.0) the highest (50%) among the children whose mothers married
2 Children with at an early age, that is, below 14 years. The proportion of SUW
breastfeeding initiated
children gradually reduces with an increase in the age of
after one day 8 (66.7) 1 (8.3) 3 (25.0) 12 (100.0)
All children 92 (31.3) 108 (36.7) 94 (32.0) 294 (100.0) mothers’ marriage (Table 14, p 56). Overall, the malnutrition level
Figures in parenthesis are in percentage. (SUW and MUW) was found to be 82.4% for children whose
Economic & Political Weekly EPW february 4, 2017 vol lIi no 5 55
SPECIAL ARTICLE

mothers’ age of marriage was below 14 years followed by the need for popularising small family norms in tribal commu-
72.2% and 58.6% for age at marriage of 15–17 years and 18 nity in way to reduce malnutrition among children.
years and above. This clearly indicates a strong negative cor-
relation between malnutrition among children and their 5 Summing Up
mothers’ age at marriage. This is attributed to the fact that low There is an improvement in social and economic life of tribals
age of marriage adversely affects the condition of women’s in Madhya Pradesh. Though the education level of tribals is
health and nutrition, and in turn, causes poor nutrition and still below the overall education level of the state, it has
health of children. registered a positive change. The fact that about one-fourth of
Table 14: Present Nutrition Category of Children by Mothers’ Marriage Age schoolgoing children not attending schools, is definitely a
Serial Mothers’ Marriage Age Nutrition Category of Children Total
No SUW MUW Normal
cause of worry. Large proportions of early marriages and child
1 Less than 14 years 17 (50.0) 11 (32.4) 6 (17.6) 34 (100.0) marriages in tribal community are another problematic area
2 15–17 years 50 (34.7) 54 (37.5) 40 (27.8) 144 (100.0) which needs an urgent attention. Areas like equitable land
3 18 years and above 25 (21.6) 43 (37.0) 48 (41.4) 116 (100.0) distribution, cropping pattern, electrification of villages and
All children 92 (31.3) 108 (36.7) 94 (32.0) 294 (100.0) water supply have shown encouraging improvements in the
Figures in parenthesis are in percentage. tribal community. All these have helped in improved utilisa-
tion of household durables positively affecting the living
Present nutrition category of children by schooling of their standards of tribals in the state.
mothers: The education of mother largely influences the Infant and young child feeding practices like giving mother’s
health and nutrition of their children. As analysed earlier, the first milk (colostrum) and early initiation of breastfeeding were
education level of women was found very low in the study found to be traditionally strong in the tribal area, but duration
area. Therefore, schooling of mothers was considered under of breastfeeding and timely initiation of supplementary nutri-
cross-tabulation to understand its association with malnutri- tion were found to be weak in the area. These two problematic
tion of children. As depicted in Table 15, the malnutrition level areas are largely associated with the fact that a large number
(SUW and MUW) was found to be 69.3% for children with their of tribal mothers work in agricultural fields having no time for
mothers having no schooling. But the malnutrition level reduces proper care of their children.
to 63.8% for children with their mothers having some years of The ICDS programme is a major intervention directed towards
schooling. Though it does not depict a very strong association, providing supplementary nutrition to children (six months–six
but significantly justifies the role of mother’s education in years) and growth monitoring of children through AWCs for
reducing malnutrition among children.
Table 15: Present Nutrition Category of Children by Schooling of Their
Mothers
Serial Schooling of Mothers Nutrition Category Total
No SUW MUW Normal
1 No schooling 72 (32.0) 84 (37.3) 69 (30.7) 225 (100.0) Subscribe to the Print edition
2 Formal schooling 20 (29.0) 24 (34.8) 25 (36.2) 69 (100.0)
All children 92 (31.3) 108 (36.7) 94 (32.0) 294 (100.0)
Figures in parenthesis are in percentage.
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Present nutrition category of children by their birth order: a Print subscription?
The high birth rate with low birth spacing in tribal community t 50 issues delivered to
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Serial Birth Order of Children Nutrition Category Total
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56 february 4, 2017 vol lIi no 5 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

 SPECIAL ARTICLE

reduction of malnutrition. The whole growth monitoring
exercise was found in pathetic conditions. Half of the children
of AWCs had no records of their birth weight. Weighing and
plotting of children were found to be erroneous. Children
registered in growth registers were not found in villages and
children available in villages had no place in growth registers
of AWCs. The proportion of malnourished children as per the
AWC data was found highly underestimated.
The conversion of malnourished children (SUW and MUW) of
AWCs to normal category, and at the same time, normal
children converting to malnourished category after a span of
two years had stated a dismal picture. There seems to be virtually
no impact of AWC services in reducing malnutrition of children
even after two years. There was no significant difference
between malnutrition level of children availing supplementary
nutrition and children who were not availing the same from
AWCs. This also indicates that there is no significant bearing of
supplementary nutrition of ICDS in reduction of child malnu-
trition. There was high level of malnutrition in tribal areas
observed under the study. Malnutrition has been found as one
of the important causes of child death in the area. It was also
observed that NRCs were not being optimally utilised in tribal
areas of Madhya Pradesh.
The updating and maintenance of vaccination/mother–
child protection cards (MCP) was also found to be poor in the
area. The MCP card which is considered as a good counselling
tool for mothers had been adopted with no interest of ICDS as
well as health functionaries. Fever, diarrhoea and pneumonia
were major health problems faced by tribal children. They
were largely dependent on private doctors and faith healers
for treatment.
The nutrition and health status of women largely affects
children. Slightly less than half of women were found under-
weight. The dietary intake by women during pregnancy was
found far from satisfactory. The study also observed poor
awareness and counselling in the tribal community on malnutri-
tion, safe delivery practices and maternal care during pregnancy.
It can be concluded that despite certain IYCF practices
(colostrum feeding and early initiation of breastfeeding) being
traditionally strong among tribals, there was a high level of
child malnutrition in the tribal area due to short period of
breastfeeding, delayed initiation of supplementary nutrition,
and most importantly, poor growth monitoring and poor
implementation of malnutrition reduction interventions,
including information, education and communication (IEC)
activities under ICDS. Barring ANC services, other nutrition
and health services for women were not found satisfactory.
The malnutrition level has shown a strong association with the
mothers’ marriage age and the birth order of children showing
the need for promoting legal age of marriage and small family
norm in tribal areas. Low BMI of women and low birth weight
of children had also shown a strong association with high
child malnutrition stating the need for more emphasis on
nutrition care of women in a way to reduce child malnutrition.
Poor health condition had registered a positive association
with child malnutrition, and moreover, malnutrition was
found to be one of the important factors responsible for child
deaths in tribal areas.
note
1 Child Growth Standards, World Health Organization, available at: http://
www.who.int/childgrowth/en/
References
AHS (2012–13): Annual Health Survey–2012–13, Registrar General and Census
Commissioner, Government of India.
GOI (2011): Final Population Totals–India/States/Districts, Registrar General,
India, Census of India, Government of India, New Delhi.
NFHS (2005–06): National Family Health Survey-3, 2005–06, Indian Institute
for Population Studies, Mumbai.

Uttar Pradesh—Vortex of Change

December 31, 2016
Uttar Pradesh, circa 2017 – Ravi Srivastava
Deciphering Growth and Development: Past and Present – Ravi Srivastava, Rahul Ranjan
Third Democratic Upsurge in Uttar Pradesh – A K Verma
RSS, BJP and Communal Polarisation in Uttar Pradesh Polls – Radhika Ramaseshan
Understanding the Potentialities: Ethnographic Study of Rural Dalit Women Leaders – Archana Singh
The Weavers of Banaras – Nita Kumar
The Time of Youth: Joblessness, Politics and Neo-religiosity in Uttar Pradesh – Satendra Kumar
Facts and Fiction about How Muslims Vote in India: Evidence from Uttar Pradesh – Rahul Verma, Pranav Gupta
Identity Equations and Electoral Politics: Investigating Political Economy – Prashant K Trivedi, Surinder Kumar,
of Land, Employment and Education Srinivas Goli, Fahimuddin
The Demand for Division of Uttar Pradesh and Its Implications – Ajit Kumar Singh
For copies write to: Circulation Manager,
Economic and Political Weekly,
320-321, A to Z Industrial Estate, Ganpatrao Kadam Marg, Lower Parel, Mumbai 400 013.
email: circulation@epw.in

Economic & Political Weekly EPW february 4, 2017 vol lIi no 5 57


Undermining Adivasi Interests
Amiya Kumar Das, Nigam, Ranjana Padhi
The haste with which a public
hearing was pushed through for
Sesa Sterlite’s expansion of its
Lanjigarh facility in Kalahandi,
Odisha leads to the assumption
that perhaps the acche din
promised by the new government
are actually for the corporate
sector. There seems to be an overt
and covert effort to ensure that
big corporate houses take over the
development projects at the cost
of local communities and natural
resources. The Dongria Kondhs
who have been opposing the
expansion have been paying the
price in terms of daily repression
and arbitrary arrests.
Amiya Kumar Das (amiyadas@gmail.com) is
faculty at the Tezpur University, Assam; Nigam
(sadangin@rediffmail.com) is a freelance
writer and translator based in Bhubaneswar;
and Ranjana Padhi (ranjanapadhi@yahoo.
co.uk) is an activist and writer based in Delhi.
Economic & Political Weekly EPW january 3, 2015
T
he promise of acche din indeed
seems to be coming true for corpo-
rate houses, never mind about the
others. In less than two months of the new
Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP)-led govern-
ment coming to power, the alacrity
with which a public hearing was pushed
through for Sesa Sterlite’s – formerly
known as Vedanta Aluminum – expan-
sion of its Lanjigarh facility in Kalahandi
district in Odisha is exemplary.
When on 30 July 2014 the Odisha State
Pollution Control Board held the public
hearing for the proposed expansion from
one million to six million tonnes per
annum, neither the board nor the district
administration felt the need to inform all
the local people about it. Instead, the
administration and those aiding the com-
pany merely put in notices about the
hearing in some selective newspapers
and published it on a website. When we
visited the five villages on the Niyamgiri
Mountain that had voted against mining
on 6 and 7 July 2013, we discovered that
none of the village people in the area
were aware of this public hearing.
Vedanta is currently depending on
states like Gujarat and Andhra Pradesh
for the supply of bauxite that is ferried
by train to its Lanjigarh plant. One can see
goods trains all day long carrying tonnes of
these minerals to Kalahandi district. Even
then, the plant utility is being optimised
at 60% only. Anti-mining activists of the
Niyamgiri Suraksha Samiti (NSS) therefore
were put on the alert when they got to
know that a public hearing was being
planned to expand the production facility.
For them it was proof enough that the com-
pany still has its sight fixed on the bauxite
reserves of the Niyamgiri Mountain.
The NSS has pointed out that no proper
information was given to the people
about the subject of the public hearing
nor about when and where it was to be
held; the local concerned and affected
people were also not informed well in
advance through proper public notices
or announcements. On the contrary,
vol l no 1
COMMENTARY
pro-company Biju Janata Dal (BJD) ele-
ments were mobilised with the connivance
of the district administration from all
parts of the district to speak in favour of
the expansion plan. There were reports
that the company and the district admin-
istration had mobilised self-help group (SHG)
members and provided training on how
to speak at the public hearing.
When activists of the NSS got to know
about the designs of the company and the
district administration, they alerted the
local people. On the day of the hearing,
around 1,500 Dongria Kondhs and anti-
mining activists gathered at the venue of
the public hearing but were not allowed to
speak for a long time. In protest, an elderly
person snatched the microphone from one
of the representatives of the company and
started speaking. To this, a company agent
who is regarded as a tout of the company by
the local tribal people made an extremely
derogatory and racial remark. This led to
an altercation and vociferous sloganeering.
Finally, when they were allowed to speak,
they affirmed their resolve not to give up
even an inch of Niyamgiri for mining and
expressed their opposition to the plant.
Lingaraj Azad, one of the leaders of the
NSS, alleges that the proceedings of the
public hearing were neither read out to
them nor was voting held to assess the
exact nature of the people’s opinion. There
is no way to figure out whether the depo-
sitions made by the Dongria Kondhs were
recorded as part of the proceedings.
However, the district collector reportedly
said that people had given their consent
to the expansion plan and the proceed-
ings would be sent to the centre.
“The public hearing was, for all practical
purposes, a BJD show with its local leaders,
MLAs and workers from the entire Kala-
handi district gathering at the Lanjigarh
Nodal UP School ground, the venue of the
public hearing”, commented Kailash Sahu
in an article “Angry Odisha Tribals Dis-
rupt Public Hearing on Vedanta Refinery
Expansion” in the Odisha Suntimes on
30 July 2014.
Double Speak Continues
The Union Minister for Environment,
Forests and Climate Change, Prakash
Javadekar, made a statement soon after
taking charge that the protection of the
25
COMMENTARY
environment and development were not
contradictory to each other and that the
Narendra Modi-led government would
ensure that development was not halted
because of environment clearance and
environment was not damaged because
of development projects. Interestingly,
he had also said that before the starting
of any kind of developmental project,
the local people would be consulted and
their opinion would be taken seriously.
On the other hand, the Union Minister
of Tribal Affairs Jual Oram has expressed
his opposition to big projects like POSCO
and Polavaram where the indigenous
and tribal people are bound to suffer
the ill-effects.
The statements made by these minis-
ters appear to appreciate the balance of
approach in pursuing the development
agenda. On the other hand the same
Union Ministry of Environment, Forests
and Climate Change also initiated an
online environment or green clearance
project to expedite the process and to end
the “new licence raj” as it has been dubbed
in some quarters. Encouraged by the
minister’s initiative, many big industri-
alists, chief ministers and other ministers
have also requested the new government
to find a way out for their clearance. The
30 July public hearing, that has been
pushed through in such a surreptitious
manner and in such blatant disregard
of the procedures where local people
affected by it were left with no option
but to barge in to state their views,
needs to be seen in the light of this
double speak.
Perhaps, these statements are part of
the corporate narrative of acche din
where the state is delivering its promises
to corporates that had been held in
abeyance by people’s democratic strug-
gles in Odisha and other states. These
developments are indicative of the new
government’s covert and overt resolve
of becoming a facilitator for the big
corporate houses to take over the deve-
lopment projects at the cost of local
communities and natural resources.
Price of Resistance
The Dongria Kondhs, peacefully forgotten
after the gram sabhas held during July-
August 2013, where they unequivocally
26
rejected the mining of Niyamgiri by
Vedanta Aluminum, thus came into the
media glare protesting against the pro-
posed capacity expansion of the refinery
at Lanjigarh. After the gram sabha
verdict in 2013, there was an apparent
ease among the people living outside
the forested region of Niyamgiri about
the lives of the Dongria Kondhs. But our
visit to the area revealed the opposite.
The price of resistance is being paid by
the local people in myriad ways on a
daily basis. The routine patrolling of the
Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) and
Cobra battalions (locally pronounced
as “Cabra”) in the forested villages of
Niyamgiri in the name of hunting Maoists
continues. They reach the villages at any
unearthly hour. It does not matter to
them whether people are resting after
a day of hard work or working in the
field. Even children are not spared. The
women of Tadiguda, largely belonging to
the Gowda community, complain,
They offer sweets or biscuits and ask
children on the way to school whether any
outsider has come to the village, mean-
ing Maoists. When we shudder at the sight
of fearsome looking, gun-wielding forces,
what to talk of the children! Now they are
so scared that they have stopped going to
school.
In the combat against the “biggest in-
ternal security threat”, children’s educa-
tion has been the biggest casualty. Al-
most all girls we met who once used to
walk down to the government school at
Trilochanpur village have stopped doing
so due to the intimidating presence of
the CRPF personnel. The fear of sexual
violence was also expressed by some.
Ever since the news of the Vedanta
mining Niyamgiri reached the Dongria
Kondh, they have become suspicious of
the government’s health and educational
programmes in which Vedanta is also
associated in the name of corporate so-
cial responsibility. It is ironic that every-
body starts talking of development of
health and education in tribal areas only
when a big project arrives in the region
as if it is not the primary responsibility
of the government. But local people see
it differently. As Lado Sikoka, one of the
leaders of the NSS says:
If the government wants to give education
and health facilities why tag it to mining
january 3, 2015
Niyamagiri? Can’t it be without that? We
are not sending our children to schools as
Vedanta is involved in the distribution of
mid-day meal in schools. We feel that by giv-
ing food they will teach our children to sell
Niyamagiri to Vedanta. When they come to
us and promise health and education, we tell
them that we do not need all that. We want
the mountain to be ours only. Our children
and future generations will survive only if
we keep the mountain forever.
Paying the price for resistance does
not stop here. People are being regularly
picked up without being told on what
charges it is being done. Dillu Majhi, a
committed activist of the NSS was picked
by the police when he had gone to the
weekly haat (market) of Lanjigarh to sell
vegetables and fruits. After spending two
months in jail, he was released on bail.
“The police confronted me and insisted I
get into their vehicle. I protested and
told them I am here to simply sell what-
ever I have. We work hard for our living.
Why do you want to take me?” His eyes
became moist as the pain and bewilder-
ment came back to him while reliving
those moments of being arrested in the
marketplace. He was arrested on the basis
of some cases foisted on the activists
during the 2008 sit-in at the plant.
Similar is the case of Bhima Majhi.
He was active in the anti-plant struggle
during 2002-04. After 10 years he was
picked up by the local police in May 2014
immediately after the Lok Sabha general
elections, and is still in jail. He has been
charged in a case of burning a company
storehouse in 2004. After these arrests,
the male members especially are afraid
of going to the market or outside the
village. The weekly haat is the place
where the police take advantage of
their presence and arrest them. Not
letting people even take their produce
to the market is a serious violation of
the right to livelihood. They are unable
to figure out the reasons for the arrests
when the plant is in operation and
the mining of Niyamgiri has stopped
after the decisions of the gram sabha.
Why are the police invoking old charges
even now? What is this intimidation
being done for? Acche din for corpo-
rates seems to be thus pegged on this
institutionalised terrorisation of people
who dare to resist the juggernaut of
capital today.
vol l no 1 EPW Economic & Political Weekly
NAXALBARI AND AFTER
Adivasi Swaraj Is the Answer
to Violence
Manoranjan Mohanty
The Indian state’s strategy to
combat Naxalism has wrecked
havoc on the Adivasi and
tribal communities. A heavily
militarised area of operations is
certainly not the answer for
peace and security. It might make
those in power feel less insecure,
but eventually such a strategy will
have disastrous effects, when
those who have been alienated,
exploited and displaced take up
arms against the state. The right
strategy for developing Adivasi
communities is through the
de-escalation of military
operations and providing
them with autonomy and
institutional support.
Manoranjan Mohanty (mmohantydu@
gmail.com) is with the Council for Social
Development, New Delhi. He is a member
of People’s Union for Democratic Rights
and formerly taught political science at the
University of Delhi.
66
T
he Sukma incident of 24 April 2017,
in which 25 CRPF (Central Reserve
Police Force) jawans lost their
lives, is yet another milestone in the cycle
of violence and counter-violence in the
50-year history of the Indian Maoist
movement. The reflective comments in
the media on this have been far more
introspective than the dominant security-
centric line of analysis, propagated in
recent years. But unfortunately, the
principal policymakers of the Indian
state continue to believe that militaristic
counter-insurgency can wipe out the
Maoist challenge. They plan to strength-
en this perspective with an even more
superior technology and a reorganisation
of counter-insurgency strategies and
personnel, with the help of global exper-
tise. They refuse to reckon with the rea-
sons the movement has gone on for five
decades, at present covering, according
to official figures, 104 districts in 13
states and much more unofficially.
The Times of India said in its editorial
on 26 April 2017:
Approaches to tackling Maoism are inevita-
bly stuck in a security-human rights binary,
but this does not have to be the case. In fact
the government needs to deploy the right
mix of security, development and human
rights protection to root out the Maoist prob-
lem. This can be done by bringing Adivasi
groups, civil society organisations and
political parties together, while simultane-
ously improving intelligence and operation-
al coordination for security forces. It’s time
to cast aside old shibboleths and adopt a
fresh approach.
On the other hand, Home Minister
Rajnath Singh declared in Raipur a day
after the attack: “You name it … more
men, technical support, better resources
… I am willing to put it all at your dis-
posal. But I want results” (Times of India
2017b).
This attack came after another Maoist
ambush, also in Sukma on 11 March, in
which 12 CRPF jawans were killed. This
is bound to be followed by enhanced
MAY 27, 2017
CRPF operations in the area, leading to
killings of Maoists, their alleged sympa-
thisers, large-scale arrests and mopping-
up drives. According to reports, already 10
persons had been killed in encounters
within a week after the 24 April incident.
The review of strategy which began
immediately and would be firmed up in
meetings of chief ministers and police
chiefs, steered by the home minister,
seemed to point in one direction, namely
how to prove that the Modi regime was
more efficient in enforcing security com-
pared to all previous regimes. After all,
the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) claims
that security is its strong suit. So, the
components of this strategy reportedly
involve better equipment such as, mine-
protected vehicles, night-vision reconna-
issance aircrafts, drones, better intelli-
gence, better training for combatting
Maoist guerrillas in the specific terrain,
and better coordination between the
CRPF and state police. Increasing the
deployment of CRPF personnel from the
present 28 battalions (at present, the
security forces to civilian ratio in Sukma
is 1:14) and filling up 10,000 police
vacancies are on the agenda. Strength-
ening the Counter-terrorism and Jungle
Warfare College at Kanker, Chhattis-
garh, and setting up more such institu-
tions in other states, was another idea.
A view that has been in existence for
many years and which was presented to
the central government deliberations in
2006 was that the government’s “security
forces are formidable and if they are not
able to achieve decisive results, it is only
because the government dithers and
vacillates, and has shown itself incapa-
ble of taking hard decisions” (Singh and
Doval 2015: 70). Two well-known police
officers Prakash Singh and Ajit K Doval
had said this, after acknowledging that
the “government will not be able to crush
it for the simple reason that it draws its
strength from socio-economic grievances
which are genuine” (Singh and Doval
2015: 69). But that was a discourse which
the National Democratic Alliance (NDA)
government criticised as “dithering and
vacillating” and stated that the time had
come to end old practices and “show re-
sults” in the anti-Maoist operations. This
view is likely to guide the next phase of
vol lIi no 21 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

counter-insurgency operations leading
to even more bloodshed in the region.
Such reviews and fresh strategies had
been adopted by the government before,
and yet the Maoist movement has per-
sisted for five decades. This was mainly
because they have managed to win peo-
ple’s support in those areas, and the
state policies continued to alienate local
people, especially Adivasis.
In this article, I will first assess the
policies of the state followed thus far and
then propose an alternative perspective.
Assumptions Underlying
State Policy
There are three assumptions that have
guided government policy, both at the
central and state levels. In fact, the ten-
dency to exaggerate the differences
among the state governments and the
centre is misplaced. Right from 1969,
when the home ministry prepared its
report on the crisis in agrarian structure
and till the status paper on the Naxalite
problem in 2006, there was full coordi-
nation between the central and state
governments. The states needed the
CRPF and other central security forces,
and the Ministry of Home Affairs (MHA)
evolved many mechanisms capable of
tracking the Maoist movement and gath-
ering intelligence. The coordination cen-
tre at the MHA, with a revamped struc-
ture after 2009, periodically conducts
meetings of the state chief secretaries
and police chiefs in order to draw up
plans. There may have been people like
the late N T Rama Rao and Biju Patnaik,
both of whom described the Naxalites as
their “rebellious children,” or some cen-
tral ministers describing them as “our
brothers and sisters.” But the overall
perspective focusing on security meas-
ures was the common policy. They all
ordered the armed forces to “liquidate”
the Maoist movement.
Assumption 1: Maoist movement was en-
gaged in overthrowing the Indian state.
No doubt that is their ultimate goal and
that is what the party programme of
the Communist Party of India (Maoist)
[CPI(Maoist)] declares as their objective.
But they were engaged in concrete strug-
gles touching the lives of the people. The
Economic & Political Weekly EPW MAY 27, 2017
peasant uprising in Naxalbari in 1967 was
related to the rights of tillers over land
they cultivated. The Srikakulam struggle
during 1968–72 was over the Adivasis’
right to land and forest produce. Many
Naxalites joined the Janata Party move-
ment and campaigned against the Emer-
gency in 1974–77. From the 1980s on-
wards, almost all the Naxalite groups with
various names and political programmes
made land and forest rights their main
programme for political mobilisation.
Unequal land relations, with a high magni-
tude of poverty and social exploitation in
rural India, and the persisting trend of
extraction of forest resources and aliena-
tion of tribal land, were put at the centre
of political discourse by the Naxalites.
After India adopted economic reforms
and global capital began to enter mineral-
rich areas of India, the issues of land and
forest rights acquired new significance. The
three resource-rich states of central and
eastern India—Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand
and Odisha—attracted national and for-
eign capital. The Tatas and the Essar
Group, Jindal, Bhushan and Korean com-
pany, POSCO in steel, Vedanta in alumini-
um and many others, have entered into
MoUs (memorandum of understanding)
with the various state governments. The
central government under various re-
gimes—NDA, United Progressive Alliance
(UPA) and again NDA—and alongside re-
gional parties like the Biju Janata Dal
(BJD) in Odisha, has extended full sup-
port, economic and security related, to
make these investments possible. There-
fore, the central issue that engaged all
forms of people’s movements in Adivasi
areas was the dispossession of land and
forest. Instead of recognising this, policy-
makers keep referring to the ideology of
“overthrow by armed struggle.”
The Maoist movement, during the
reform period, grew as a strong force
against the industrialisation strategy of
the state—a strategy that caused displa-
cements, destroyed livelihoods, disrupted
the ecosystem by degrading the environ-
ment and our natural resources, and
alienated locals by disrespecting their
culture and knowledge systems. The
Adivasi struggle against this colonial policy
started long ago in the 19th century.
They had hoped that the Constitution
vol lIi no 21
NAXALBARI AND AFTER
would alter that process. But on the con-
trary, especially during the past three
decades, the process of expropriation of
Adivasi land and forest was accentuated.
The Maoists joined the ongoing struggle
and built up mutual support. Unless the
assumption guiding state policy is re-ex-
amined, and state takes into account the
reasons for the mass support behind the
Maoist movement, no amount of deploy-
ment of force will win over the Adivasis.
Assumption 2: Welfare policies such as
PESA, Forests Rights Act and rehabilitation
law should work.
All the rights-based, development-oriented
laws passed in recent years were very
important. In fact, each of them was the
result of sustained campaigns by social
movements such as right to information
(RTI) campaign and the Campaign for
Dignity. Some of them involved the efforts
of many legendary civil servants such as
the late B D Sharma, whose campaign for
Adivasi self-rule inspired the Panchayats
(Extension to Scheduled Areas) Act (PESA
Act), 1996, to some extent. The Mahatma
Gandhi National Rural Employment Guar-
antee Scheme (MGNREGS), the Right to
Education Act and the Food Security
Act, were also promulgated in response
to wider demands that addressed issues
related to the right to food and dignity of
the poor. Even during UPA rule, there were
differences of opinion among the policy-
makers over the desirability of these
programmes. But the dominant leader-
ship in the Indian National Congress (INC)
party favoured the implementation of
these policies. During the NDA regime
there was clear reluctance to pursue
these policies.
But our question is whether they were
adequate, or even the right answer to
the crisis of deprivation in rural and
tribal India. The answer is clearly no.
The struggle in Adivasi areas is about
political power, the power of self-gov-
ernance, power to control the resources
of the region and formulate plans to
develop in such a way that they would
not only end poverty, create employment
and protect the environment and natural
resources and their knowledge systems,
but one that would negotiate with out-
side forces, national and international,
67
NAXALBARI AND AFTER
to jointly set up programmes based on
mutually agreed terms. This is what I
have called elsewhere the struggle for
“right to earth” (Mohanty 2015). Again,
this should not be confused with “sei-
zure of state power” which is indeed the
long-term revolutionary goal of the
CPI (Maoist). But we are referring to a
process of local people exercising power
over their region. It may be said that
PESA ensured that. In fact, that was one
of the ideas behind the law. But in prac-
tice, as extensively documented, it was
routinely violated. Local gram sabhas
are nominally held and manipulated by
pro-corporate elements, protected by the
district administration, to get project
proposals passed. The Forest Rights Act
was also seen as securing Adivasi rights
over forestland, but the clearances for
industrial projects have violated the
spirit of the law. Ministers and regimes
may have shown degrees of difference in
implementing this law, but the trend is
clear. The NDA regime’s aggressive drive
for industrialisation illustrates this best.
Few cases of apparent victory of peo-
ple’s movements to stop certain projects—
such as Vedanta’s aluminium plant and
bauxite mining in Niyamgiri shutting
down because the 12 gram sabhas gov-
erning the region were against it, or the
withdrawal of the POSCO project as a re-
sult of a persistent campaign by the local
people—are not the defining features of
this situation. In Narayanpatna in Odis-
ha’s Koraput district, for example, a
peaceful campaign to restore tribal land
to the original owners, as per law, was
suppressed and the Chasi Mulia Adivasi
Sangh was banned and branded as a
Maoist organisation. The Niyamgiri
Suraksha Samiti led by socialists and
Gandhians has also been recently called
a front organisation of the Maoists—
indicating that Vedanta has now got
even greater support from the central and
state governments to pursue the project.
Like the Saranda Development Plan in
Jharkhand, which was enthusiastically
pursued by Jairam Ramesh when he was
the union rural development minister,
the Integrated Action Plan (IAP) launched
by the UPA regime in 2009 was a good
example of how to address the situation
in the Maoist movement areas, from a
68
development-cum-security approach. The
ostensible perspective was to treat the
Naxalite question as a “developmental
challenge,” as was suggested by the
Planning Commission Expert Group led
by D Bandyopadhyay in 2008. Initially,
the IAP was launched in 60 out of 160
affected districts with a budget of `30
crore, which was later raised to `90
crore and the programme extended to
over 100 districts. At one time, the NIRD
(National Institute of Rural Develop-
ment) and TISS (Tata Institute of Social
Sciences) were bustling with bright young
IAS (Indian Administrative Service) offi-
cers and Prime Minister Fellows under-
going training, all of whom were formu-
lating policies and action programmes,
so as to win the confidence of people as
pro-poor administrators. But the ground
reality frustrated this approach. The dis-
trict-level committee that managed the
IAP—consisting of the district collector
(DC), the superintendent of police (SP)
and the divisional forest officer (DFO)—
was obviously dominated by the SP, as
law and order was declared to be the top
priority.
The overall strategy was the Green
Hunt strategy—to apply superior armed
forces that can suppress the Maoist
movement. Home minister P Chidam-
baram’s famous formulation, “clear, hold,
develop” shaped the policy framework.
First, the armed forces must clear the
area of the Maoists activities through
their militaristic operations, and that
they must establish the authority of the
civil administration, and only then can
they introduce development plans. The
progress in “area domination” was the
main concern, along with “neutralising”
(eliminating) Maoists. This totally chan-
ged the “developmental” intention which
was a key element of the policy. The
“security-centric” policy drove the state
policy (Saxena 2015).
Assumption 3: Counter-insurgency drive
with superior force can suppress the
Maoist movement.
This is the ruling ideology in counter-
insurgency worldwide, even though there
was much historical evidence questioning
it. Internationally, the far superior United
States Army was defeated by Vietnamese
MAY 27, 2017
guerrilla forces during 1965–75. After the
9/11 attacks in 2001, the US-led military
invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq has
failed to accomplish the stated goals of
US foreign policy. Civil wars continue in
both countries, and even fiercer militant
and terrorist groups have emerged in the
region. Besides, terrorism’s global net-
work has spread into new areas, making
the world even more dangerous and vio-
lent than it was before 2001. This was
mainly because in the past, local people
did not support the counter-insurgency.
Indian policymakers cite the Punjab
experience, saying that the massive
armed operations of the security forces
led by K P S Gill crushed the Khalistani
militants, resulting in a peaceful political
and economic environment in Punjab,
post the 1980s. There are other facts that
should be pointed out: one is that com-
mon people were so harassed by the
Khalistanis that they supported, or at
least, acquiesced with police action.
Two, more and more evidence convinced
the Sikh population that not only was
the dignity of the Panth safe, but also
that Sikhs exercised substantive political
power in Punjab and enjoyed a respect-
able place in the overall Indian power
structure. Mass support, cultural reas-
surance and power-sharing were the
crucial dimensions leading to peace and
democratic politics in Punjab. In other
words, the politics of self-determination
was the factor that worked. The grave
human rights violations in Punjab, the
most incredible instances of the mass
murder of militants and of burying them
in mass graves, unearthed gradually in
later years, will continue to mark the
Punjab experience as a point of debate.
But the fact that peace was re-estab-
lished in Punjab cannot be denied. In
fact, if politics of self-determination was
allowed to play out in a multi-ethnic
framework in Iraq or Afghanistan, the
course of politics would have been
perhaps different there too.
In the Maoist areas we are going to
witness an unprecedented deployment
of CRPF personnel and the newly recon-
stituted India Reserve Battalions. There
is clamour by some to bring the Army
into action which would be even more
disastrous. Actually, its units are already
vol lIi no 21 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

operating in Maoist-affected areas and
are providing various kinds of assistance.
There is a demand to enforce AFSPA
(Armed Forces [Special Powers] Act)
even in the Maoist movement areas. The
application of AFSPA in Manipur has been
a source of alienation in that region, as it
allowed indiscriminate shooting, killing,
search and seizure of the local population,
without any accountability. In Jammu and
Kashmir, AFSPA’s enforcement has been
one of the main sources of contention
between the Indian state and Kashmiri
youth. Irom Sharmila’s 16-year long fast
demanding AFSPA’s repeal failed to per-
suade successive governments to do so.
The Jeevan Reddy Committee had also
recommended its repeal. The fact is that,
even without AFSPA, the CRPF engaged
in armed actions with impunity in cen-
tral India. It is not only the big incidents
of attacks and killings, by the Maoists
and the CRPF, but the everyday experi-
ence of the villagers in Naxalite regions
that has seen a process of militarisation
of life, and of people.
No doubt every big incident gives rise
to a new wave of mobilisation by both
sides. The Maoist attack in April 2010 in
Dantewada, where 76 CRPF personnel
were killed, was followed by a massive
wave of arrests and killings in encoun-
ters, actual or fake. The figures of kill-
ings, showing the numbers of Maoists,
security personnel and civilians killed,
may indicate statistical trends, but on
the ground it is a highly militarised envi-
ronment: where people from all sections
feel insecure, armed police camps are
set up everywhere, including in school
buildings, and villages are deserted in
many areas. Society has turned into a
battle zone.
Just in 2016, up until July, the inci-
dents of encounters—police picking up
suspected Maoists and killing them, or
firing at them assuming that they were
Maoists—showed the true nature of the
grave situation. In Peddajojer village,
Bijapur district, Chhattisgarh four Adi-
vasis, including one young girl were
killed when they were on their way to
buy provisions.1 Civil liberty groups have
documented not only the encounter kill-
ings, but also the looting and sexual
harassment by security forces in the
Economic & Political Weekly EPW MAY 27, 2017
NAXALBARI AND AFTER
region.2 The Gumudumaha incident in Even though many of those who have
Odisha’s Kandhamal district on 8 July surrendered are actually arranged by
2016, in which three women, a man and the police, there are also genuine cases
a two-year-old child were killed, is the of disillusioned activists who wish to
most telling. The victims were returning change their path of life. Many of them
from a nearby town, after collecting have been killed by the Maoists. Some
their wages under MgNReGS, in an over- former women cadres of the CPI (Maoist)
crowded autorickshaw that got stuck in have complained of sexual harassment
mud. Police claimed that their death as well. The nexus between Maoists and
happened due to a cross-firing (GASS local contractors, industrialists, tendu leaf
and HRF 2016). dealers and other businessmen, involving
In this militarised region, the Maoists monetary extortion, has also been repor-
too have committed many excesses. In ted. That revolutionaries are expected to
almost all these areas there are frequent demonstrate their greater commitment to
cases of an Adivasi, or of an ordinary human values such as peace, dignity and
villager, sometimes a panchayat leader, equality was not always seen in practice.
being killed as they were accused of being Some bizarre cases such as Maoists
a police informer. Punishments given in putting a bomb on the body of a dead
jan adalats are conducted through sum- jawan, so that those who approach it
mary trials and can sometimes be very would be killed, showed an extremely
irrational. The attacks on politicians— negative side of the Maoist movement.
the killing of a Jharkhand Mukti Morcha There have been many instances of vio-
Member of Parliament in 2007 and the lence by local dalams, which the Maoist
attack on INC leaders in May 2013 in party leadership later came to regret.
which Mahendra Karma, the founder of The police too have been accused of
Salwa Judum, Chhattisgarh INC chief many atrocities, not only regarding their
Patel and veteran leader V C Shukla were behaviour towards common Adivasis,
killed—have been widely condemned. The but also their lack of respect towards
derailment of the Gyaneswari Express their own colleagues. A reported in-
on 28 May 2010, in which 150 passengers stance was the police carrying the corps-
were killed, was attributed to the Mao- es of their own men in garbage trucks.3
ists. Their attitude towards surrendered That the dead bodies should be treated
cadres also has been questionable. with respect, and that the injured be
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vol lIi no 21 69
NAXALBARI AND AFTER
given prompt medical attention no mat-
ter who they are, does not seem to work
in this conflict zone.
These abuses apart, the experience of
the past five decades has shown that
deployment of superior armed forces by
state agencies, has failed to curb the per-
sistence and expansion of the Maoist mo-
vement. They may have declined in some
areas, but have emerged in new areas.
Only when these three assumptions
underlying Indian state policy are revi-
ewed can we consider an alternative
perspective for responding to the Maoist
challenge. A shift from counter-insur-
gency to democratic politics would call
for an alternative, three-dimensional
approach involving the following:
Wider consultation: Policymaking sho-
uld ensure inputs from broader consulta-
tion with scholars, civil liberty activists,
civil servants, current and past, non-
governmental organisations and all
political parties. There is a tendency to
dismiss the civil liberty groups as front
organisations of Maoists. It should be re-
membered that the Janata Party had
been engaged in talks with Maoists, in
Mushahari in Bihar in the late 1960s to
early 1970s. But a Gandhian worker,
Himansu Kumar’s ashram was disman-
tled in Jagdalpur in 2010 as his organisa-
tion was accused of collusion with
Maoists. Social activist Soni Sori, now
an Aam Aadmi Party leader in Bastar
was tortured and is still constantly
harassed for she raised her voice in pro-
test against the human rights violations
taking place in Bastar. All viewpoints,
including those of the Maoists, must be
heard, and information assessed before
formulating a policy.
Panchayats for self-development: Pan-
chayats in the Maoist movement areas
must be enabled to function autonomous-
ly, without being forced to act as agency
of state repression. In many areas, the
Maoists did not interfere in the imple-
mentation of welfare programmes such
as MGNReGS, ICDS (Integrated Child
Development Services) and NRHM (Na-
tional Rural Health Mission). In fact,
they ensured that there was no corrup-
tion in the public distribution schemes.
70
That the opposition to the mining-based
industrialisation in this region is key to
the ongoing crisis has to be recognised.
It is not true that the Maoists are against
development. They support those local
industries, even some large industries
which do not involve displacement. The
panchayats should decide what kind of
economic development is needed in
their area. They can come up with a plan
for full employment by a certain date,
full implementation of the RTE up to
high school, and universal healthcare
among other things. The present top
down model, be it under the Planning
Commission or the NITI Aayog, with the
“Mission 2017” objective to clear the
region for industries, has to be replaced
by an Adivasi Self-Development Plan.
The Virginius Xaxa Committee’s recom-
mendations on tribal areas, submitted in
2014, should be taken seriously with
regard to this question.
People’s security: The present perspec-
tive of high-level deployment of highly-
trained forces—such as the Greyhounds
of Andhra Pradesh, or the Commando
Battalion for Resolute Action (CoBRA) of
the CRPF—with highly sophisticated
weapons, supplemented by hired per-
sonnel from the youth such as Salwa
Judum—now declared illegal, but which
exists in many forms across regions—to
combat Maoists, has to be replaced by a
new system of people’s security. On the
basis of negotiations between district
officials and panchayat leaders, mecha-
nisms of maintaining peace and security
should be worked out with minimum
involvement from outside. The panchayat-,
block-, district- and state-level joint com-
mittees, comprising a cross section of
expertise for peace and security in these
regions, may be set up to plan and
monitor the situation. Expertise ranging
from agriculture, forestry and water
engineering, locally relevant industrial
technology, cyber technology to modern
infrastructure buildings demanded by
the local committees, would be made
accessible to the panchayats.
It is not that Maoists did not want the
building of roads in Sukma, or a bridge
to the cut-off villages in Malkangiri. The
300-odd Adivasis who joined the attack
MAY 27, 2017
on 24 April 2017—many of them wom-
en—wanted to have roads for selling
their forest produce, for reaching hospi-
tals in time for treatment, and for the
youth to attend college, not for receiving
armoured vehicles on their doorstep to
evict them from their habitat. The spiral
of violence can stop if political parties,
civil society and academics put their
minds together and seek a fresh app-
roach recognising the surging demand
for Adivasi Swaraj. Then we can better
understand the legacy of the Naxalbari
uprising 50 years ago.
Notes
1 The rape and murder of 16-year-old Madkam
Hidme, on 13 June 2016, after personnel drag-
ged her out of her home in Gompad village,
Bastar district, Chhattisgarh; the killing of
three suspected Maoists in the Kollapally
forests, in Gadchiroli district of Maharashtra
on 19 June 2016; and the killing of four
Maoists in Bijapur district, Chhattisgarh on 16
July 2016.
2 Coordination of Democratic Rights Organisa-
tions (CDRO) and Women against Sexual Vio-
lence and State Repression (2016): “State of
Siege: Report on Encounters and Cases of Sex-
ual Violence in Bijapur and Sukma Districts of
Chhattisgarh,” 29 April, New Delhi.
3 Nandini Sundar puts it sharply: “Where even
the ‘martyrs’ have no dignity, what can we
hope for the living?” in Sundar (2016).
References
GASS (Ganatantrik Adhikar Suraksha Sangathan)
and HRF (Human Rights Forum) (2016): “Mas-
sacre of Civilians by Security Forces at Gumu-
dumaha,” 20 July, Human Rights Forum, http:
//humanrightsforum.org/press-2/.
Mohanty, Manoranjan (2015): Red and Green: Five
Decades of the Indian Maoist Movement, Kolkata:
Setu Prakashani, p 298.
Saxena, K B (2015): “The Naxalite Movement and
State Policy,” Countering Naxalism with Devel-
opment: Challenges of Social Justice and State
Security, Santosh Mehrotra (ed), New Delhi:
Sage Publications, pp 72–75.
Singh, Prakash and Ajit K Doval (2015): “Develop-
ment to Deal with Causes of Discontent, Unrest
and Extremism,” Countering Naxalism with De-
velopment: Challenges of Social Justice and
State Security, Santosh Mehrotra (ed), New
Delhi: Sage Publications.
Sundar, Nandini (2016): The Burning Forest: India’s
War in Bastar, New Delhi: Juggernaut, p 275.
Times of India (2017a): “Sukma Attack: Beefing up
Security and Addressing Tribal Grievances
Must Go Together,” 26 April, Times of India,
http://blogs.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/toi-
editorials/sukma-attack-beefing-up-security-
and-addressing-tribal-grievances-must-go-to-
gether/.
— (2017b): “Will Finalise New Strategy at Meet,”
26 April, Times of India, http://epaperbeta.
timesofindia.com/Article.aspx?eid=31808&ar-
ticlexml=Will-finalise-new-strategy-at-meet-
26042017019024.
vol lIi no 21 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

Adivasis and the Conversion
Conundrum
Some Lessons from History
Joseph Bara
The Adivasis of central India have
been vied by various religious
missions in history. Christian
missions are, however,
exceptionally blamed for duping
Adivasis and subverting their
society. The democratic ethos of
propagating one’s faith and the
sensibility of the adroit Adivasi
psyche must not be undermined
in the present age of missionary
competition on the brink of
communal conflagration.
Joseph Bara (jebara2003@yahoo.co.in) was
with Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi.
Economic & Political Weekly EPW OCTOBER 7, 2017
O
n 3 January 2017, Mohan Bhagwat,
chief of the Rashtriya Swayam-
sevak Sangh, accused Christian
missionaries in India of converting
Adivasis to Christianity. The allegation,
coming from the platform of a confer-
ence in the Adivasi-dominated Navsari
district of Gujarat, depicts the common
charge of the Hindu right-wing against
the Indian church in the central Adivasi
belt of India. In Jharkhand, such charges
have been most common. In October
2016, Chief Minister Raghubar Das
warned, twice within a week, of
imprisoning those found guilty in con-
verting Adivasis to Christianity by the
allurement of material means.
The Present Context
The chief minister’s assertion was app-
arently prompted by an intelligence dos-
sier suggesting that foreign funds were
funnelled through 106 Christian non-
governmental organisations (NGOs) for
Adivasis’ conversions (Murty 2016). Since
then the activities of the NGOs in question
have been under the scanner. Meanwhile,
in August 2017, the Jharkhand legislature
passed the Religious Freedom Bill to curb
Christian missions generally. With this
bill, Jharkhand joins its neighbouring
states of Chhattisgarh, Madhya Pradesh,
Odisha, Gujarat and Rajasthan in central
India—all with sizeable Adivasi popula-
tions—to introduce this measure.
The Jharkhand government’s move was
politically timed. It came at a point when
the Jharkhand Adivasi Sangharsh Morcha,
a new political outfit, forged a united
front of the Christian and Sarna (indige-
nous faith) Adivasis to protest the gov-
ernment move of amending the Chota-
nagpur Tenancy Act, 1908 and Santhal
Pargana Tenancy Act, 1949 to facilitate
the acquisition of Adivasi agricultural
land for “development” purposes. In the
vol lIi no 40
COMMENTARY
face of heated public debate, the two his-
torical acts—considered the Magna Carta
of Adivasi rights in central India—were
finally amended in November 2016. The
amendment, fiercely opposed by Adivasis,
was recently withdrawn.
Alongside, the conversion conundrum
has heated up. A serving senior civil
servant of Jharkhand suggested, in res-
ponse to the above-mentioned chief
minister’s statement, on Facebook that
the Adivasis should be left alone to
choose their faith. However, the state
government took objection to this com-
ment and registered it as a breach of
service norms, which further inflamed
the debate. Large sections of general so-
ciety seemed to be supporting the chief
minister. This is because the society at
large is convinced that Christian mis-
sionaries, indeed, indulge in wrongful
conversion of Adivasis. The Hindu right-
wing has hyped this perception. It
received a shot in the arm when a sec-
tion of the Sarna adherents came for-
ward in support of the hypothesis and
the chief minister’s position that the
church has hatched a conspiracy to
break Adivasi society.
The local church leaders rose to de-
nounce the chief minister’s charge. They
blamed him for creating internal cleavages
and tensions in Adivasi society. Defensive
in their rebuttal, the church leaders high-
lighted the contribution of the church in
the state through its chain of 3,500 edu-
cational and medical institutions. How-
ever, the charge of forceful conversions,
the crux of the controversy, was left
unaddressed. Church leaders clarified,
albeit sparingly, that the church believed
in conversion of the individual mind
and not of the masses. Even the recent
petitions to the governor of Jharkhand
by the National Council of Churches and
others against the Religious Freedom
Bill, 2017 merely protest “harassment”
and contest the government blame of
mass conversion based on fuzzy statistics
without explaining the substance of con-
version. It has resulted in a polarisation
of society in general and Adivasis in
particular. The present situation is vola-
tile and potent for communal conflagra-
tion, an otherwise alien phenomenon in
Adivasi society.
27
COMMENTARY
As tempers flare, there is a tendency
to shut one’s eyes to certain basic facts of
history. The facts are with respect to both
Christianity as a missionary religion and
Adivasis as its audience. Recalling some
of these may help in reading the impasse
objectively. The whole wrangle spawns
two fundamental questions: first, does
Christianity, as a religion, come among the
local backward people with the singular
evil design of conversion through mis-
sionary mediators? Second, are Adivasis,
on their part, so naïve as to fall easy prey
to the dupes of subversive forces?
Facts and Fiction on Missions
Addressing the first question, let us note
that all established religions are mission-
oriented. Buddhism, Christianity and
Islam in particular are organically mis-
sionary creeds. Even Hinduism, whose
missionary feature is not so pronounced,
has acquired it successively. Ancient and
medieval history is replete with instances
of how missions worked vigorously and
transported religions throughout the
world. Even as they were disseminated in
various parts of the world, the mission-
ary religions assimilated their respective
elements with local cultures. This gave
them local shades, at times with certain
idiosyncratic traits. The Adivasis, there-
fore, have a local church with certain
distinct features.
Christianity has acquired considerable
missionary property in recent times. It
found a powerful conduit in Western
colonialism (Studdart-Kennedy 1998).
Colonialism actually made Christianity the
most universal religion by the early 20th
century. Since Christian missions gener-
ally followed colonialism, it is commonly
believed that the two were intertwined.
In India, this idea was academically vali-
dated by scholars such as K M Panikkar
(1959) who famously gave the well-
known maxim of Christianity being “the
handmaid of imperialism.” There is some
truth in it. Instances such as the clear
combination of Portuguese colonialism
and Jesuit missions preceding British co-
lonialism, or the complicity of Christian
missions with American imperialism in
the early 20th century (when, inciden-
tally, the United States became the leader
of both Western imperialism and the
28
Christian missionary movement) make
the close ties between colonialism and
Christianity evident. But, let us not over-
look the fact that the colonialists and
Christian missionaries possessed differ-
ent and at times, contradictory interests.
Colonialism was primarily concerned
with political control and exploitation of
the colonial people. Evangelism, the spring
of the missionary movement, on its part
stood for harvesting rich souls for the
“Kingdom of God” by Gospel preaching
(Stokes 1982). There were occasions when
the two interests colluded. Collusion often
hinged on the mentality of individual
colonial authorities. T B Macaulay, a key
official and architect of English education
in India, for instance, kept the mission-
aries at arm’s length, whereas his boss,
Governor-General William Bentinck,open-
ly supported them. The personal atti-
tude of high officials apart, at the level of
the colonial state, the collaboration with
the missionaries was always tactical. Re-
ligion was a highly sensitive matter. This
had actually contributed to the outbreak
of the Mutiny of 1857. The colonial autho-
rities would never take the risk of sacri-
ficing colonial priorities at the altar of
missionary interests.
Among the Adivasis of Jharkhand,
where the conversion movement was in
progress, history witnesses instances of
both collusion and collision of the colonial
and missionary interests (Bara 2007). As
part of collaboration, the first Gossner
Evangelical Lutheran missionaries were
invited to Chhotanagpur by the colonial
authorities in 1845. The colonialists
wanted to tame the Adivasis, who were
restless against colonial exploitation, by
employing the missionaries as some sort
of colonial social workers. But the mis-
sionaries coveted to win over the Adiva-
sis as Christians, ever since they encoun-
tered the Uraon Adivasi coolies in the
streets of Calcutta and worked out their
own conversion project. The govern-
ment–missionary partnership fissured
within a decade. The Gossner mission
pursued Christian humanitarianism, as a
missionary method, to help the exploited
Adivasis and acquired followers in large
numbers. The step inevitably pitched them
against the Adivasis’ adversaries, the
landlords, causing widespread brawls.
OCTOBER 7, 2017
The incident invited the ire of the British
authorities from the 1850s onwards. The
government–missionary rift worsened
after three decades, when Belgian Jesuit
missionary, Constant Lievens, also known
as the “Apostle of Chhotanagpur,” revived
humanitarian help for the Adivasis for
conversion. The government officials’
objection cost Lievens his missionary
career. He was forced to leave the
mission field he had assiduously built.
Irrespective of such a see-saw relation-
ship, the idea of Christian missionaries
being permanent partners of Western
imperialism was firmly fixed in the na-
tional mind by the time of independence
(Shourie 1997). The statements of various
missionary churches, since the early 20th
century, that they were now “national”
churches were inconsequential. The sus-
tenance of the belief was partly aided by
the fact that resources still flowed from
the West, which was not commonly seen in
the case of other missionary faiths then.
After independence, the belief further
fashioned the view that the Indian church
was a Western imperialist outpost. This
inspired the Government of Madhya
Pradesh (GoMP) to institute an enquiry
into the activities of Christian mission-
aries in 1956. The centres of the storm,
in the GoMP’s view, were the Adivasi
regions of Surguja and Jashpur adjacent
to Chhotanagpur, where the Jharkhand
movement was raging. The report of the
Christian Missionary Activities Enquiry
Committee, 1956 chaired by Justice
M B Niyogi, reaffirmed the notion of the
missionary–imperialist liaison and left a
deep impact on the Indian psyche.
Adivasi Agility
On the other hand, the Adivasi society
has always attracted religious missions.
Much before the Christian mission, Hindu
missions were active among the Adivasis
in central India. Hindu myths and leg-
ends indicate that, at times, Hindu gods
themselves descended among the Adiva-
sis with the missionary object. Thus,
Mahadev and Parvati are said to have
come among the Gonds and the Bhils,
supposedly the crudest humans, in order
to reclaim and refine them as “civilised.”
It was out of a missionary urge that Lord
Rama is said to be delighted on hearing
vol lIi no 40 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

Raja Dasharath’s decree of vanavaas
(exile). The vanavaas would afford him
an opportunity to serve and civilise the
Adivasis, referred to as vanaras (monkeys
or subhuman) in the Ramayana. At
times, Hindu gods deputed ambassadors
for the civilising task. A mythical Brah-
min called Lingo was, thus, made to ap-
pear out of a petal for edifying the Gonds.
In later days, Bhakti saint Chaitanya
Mahaprabhu preached Krishna worship
among the Adivasis of Chhotanagpur
while en route to Benares from Odisha.
The Hindu and Christian missions
rationalised their presence among the
Adivasis through two claims. First, the
Adivasis were rough primitives with
beastly emotional and mental make-up;
to retrieve them as proper human beings
necessitated arduous reformatory meas-
ures. Second, even though subhuman,
the Adivasis were considered amenable
to the reform agenda of the “advanced”
non-Adivasis. Based on these, respective
Hindu or Christian missionary schemas
were devised. It was supposed that as
“noble savages” the Adivasis could be
imposed with any missionary programme.
Closer scrutiny of history hints that the
Adivasis acted otherwise. Over centu-
ries, the Adivasis had evolved their own
cultural standards. Based on those, they
assessed things coming in the bogey of
the missionary agenda. At times, they
spurned missionary overtures. Thus, from
the trail of Buddhist artefacts dispersed
in Jharkhand, one may surmise that mis-
sionary Buddhism addressed the Adivasis,
the sole occupant of this land then, but the
Adivasis were not impressed. Similarly,
Brahminical Hinduism was not acceptable
to the Adivasis either. Even Christianity,
with a most aggressive missionary canvas
in history, took five years to attract the
first converts. Still very large Adivasi
masses remained indifferent.
Further, while accepting the mission-
ised faiths, Adivasis had certain terms of
their own. For instance, they opted for
the popular version of Hinduism, like
Kabir Panth, moderated by the medieval
Bhakti movement (Bara 2007). The most
successful late 19th century Catholic Jesuit
mission wanted the Mundas and Uraons
to discontinue their clannish habit and
drinking indigenous brew—hanria (rice
Economic & Political Weekly EPW OCTOBER 7, 2017
beer). Both were unacceptable to the
Adivasis and the missionaries were com-
pelled to compromise. More importantly,
the acceptance of Hinduism or Christianity
by the Adivasis was not without some
object in mind. Historian B B Chaudhuri
tells us that the Santhals adopted Hin-
duism in the aftermath of the 1855–56
revolt phase in order to empower them-
selves against their enemies (Chaudhuri
2002). During the same time, the Mundas
and Uraons appraised the European
missionaries to be as influential as the
European authorities in the existing
power structure (Bara 2007). This was
depicted in their saying, topi topi ek topi
(hat donning White men, whether
government officer or missionary, were
the same). With this appraisal, they ap-
proached the missionaries for help in
their agrarian distress. The missionar-
ies responded with legal consultancy in
their dispute with the landlords. The
Adivasis then reciprocated, as barter, by
accepting Christianity.
Besides material gain, the way Christia-
nity was presented was likeable to many
Adivasis. They integrated Christianity with
the Adivasi culture and soon, the fusion
defined their way of life (Bara 2007).
Thus, during the Sardari Larai in the late
19th century, when some of the Adivasis
were disenchanted with the missionaries,
they floated an independent church. Yet,
the association with Christianity and
Christian missionaries was not permanent
with many others. When missionaries
failed to deliver in land recovery cases,
they were dumped by the Adivasis. This
was not the end of the missionaries’
misery. The missionaries were even
snubbed by the colonial authorities for
destabilising peace among the Adivasis.
Blinks for a Way-out
Deducing from the above details, Christi-
anity in India by virtue of its Western
origins does not per se qualify being
subversive to the nation. Its Western
derivation was closely interrogated by
Indian nationalism. The nation, led by
Mahatma Gandhi, came to recognise the
valuable service of Christianity, especially
among the weaker sections. But conver-
sion by material benefit was disapproved
and hence, an anti-conversion law was
vol lIi no 40
COMMENTARY
enacted. The spirit of the anti-conversion
law is to check the blatant use of money
for conversion. While appreciating this, it
is unfair to presuppose the Adivasi audi-
ence as torpor. Adivasis always estimated
various missionary offers deftly in the
past. Over a century of established
Christianity shows that the Adivasis
have harmonised Christian adherence
and patriotism well. They are today better
equipped to decide for themselves and
are well aware of the national limits.
All the same, this is the age of mission-
ary competition where enumeration of
Adivasis in terms of religion is often
manipulated. If, according to a claim,
Christian Adivasis have grown by 63%
between 2001 and 2011, the Adivasi
Hindus’ growth rate of 39% is no less
significant. How far such numerical rise
in Christianity or any other religion owes
to foreign funding is a difficult question
in the present context. Foreign funding
is no more an exclusive domain of Chris-
tian agencies. All religions have some or
the other sort of foreign linkages. There
is now matching funding from national
sources for religio-cultural programmes
among the Adivasis. In such a scenario,
perhaps the plausible course is a healthy
democratic competition between different
faiths and leaving the Adivasis to judge
for themselves what to receive or reject.
References
Bara, Joseph (2007): “Colonialism, Christianity
and the Tribes of Chhotanagpur in East India,
1845–90,” South Asia, Vol 30, No 2, pp 195–222.
Chaudhuri, B B (2002): “Society and Culture of the
Tribal World in Colonial India: Reconsidering
the Notion of ‘Hinduisation’ of Tribes,” Perspec-
tives on Indian Society and History: A Critique,
Hetukar Jha (ed), New Delhi: Manohar,
pp 23–79.
Murty, B Vijay (2016): “Jharkhand to Probe NGOs
for ‘Diverting’ Foreign Funds for Religious Con-
versions,” Hindustan Times, 22 October, http://
www.hindustantimes.com/india-news/jhar
khand-to-probe-ngos-for-diverting-foreign-
funds-for-religious-conversions/story-7JsWyi-
cadlo58cRXi7ybUI. html.
Panikkar, K M (1959): Asia and Western Dominance:
A Survey of the Vasco da Gama Epoch of Asian
History, 1898–1945, London: Allen & Unwin.
Report of the Christian Missionary Activities Enquiry
Committee, Madhya Pradesh, 1956, Vol I,
Nagpur: Government Printing.
Shourie, Arun (1997): Missionaries in India: Conti-
nuitities, Changes, Dilemmas, New Delhi:
Harper Collins Publishers.
Stokes, Eric (1982): The English Utilitarians and
India, Delhi: Oxford University Press, reprint.
Studdart-Kennedy, Gerald (1998): Providence and
the Raj: Imperial Mission and Missionary Impe-
rialism, New Delhi: Sage Publications.
29
COMMENTARY

30 OCTOBER 7, 2017 vol lIi no 40 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

ALTERNATIVE STANDPOINT
Coercive ‘Development’
Virginius Xaxa
The tribes, especially of mainland
India, have lost their lands and
livelihoods to development
projects which have not brought
them any benefits. In fact, they
have been displaced without
rehabilitation and adequate
compensation.
Virginius Xaxa (virg1978@gmail.com) is
Professor of Eminence at Tezpur University,
Assam.
10
F
or nations that were born after
World War II following the disman-
tling of the colonial rule, develop-
ment became an important concern in
the state’s agenda making. In the case of
India, this was evident in the adoption of
the strategy of the five year plans. While
development has remained the overri-
ding concern since then, the key thrust
has kept on shifting. In the years preced-
ing the dismantling of the five year plans
and institutions associated with them,
the idea of inclusive development had
become a dominant theme of the states’
strategy for development. “Sabka sath,
sabka vikas” (collective efforts, inclusive
growth), the current slogan of the pre-
sent regime since 2014, in a sense entails
this idea though it goes beyond as well.
Inclusive development meant develop-
ment of all but did not necessarily mean
cooperation of all, that is, sabka sath.
Without cooperation from all, there
could still be policies and programmes
that aim at development of all. Sabka
sath is an added phrase. This slogan has
kept on echoing in television debates
and public rallies. Does the cooperation
(sath) lent by people invariably lead to
their vikas? Paradoxically, it is not so
and in the case of Adivasis, and India
bears witness to this.
Paying the Price
Tribes, spread over the length and breadth
of the country, are concentrated in
certain contiguous regions. A little over
80% of the tribal population lives in the
contiguous regions of eastern, central
and western India. Another nearly 12%
inhabits the north–eastern region, over
5% is in southern India, 2% in northern
India and much less than 1% in the
island region of India. At the dawn of
independence, tribes along with the
erstwhile untouchable castes stood as
two of the most disadvantaged groups in
India. Accordingly, special provisions
NOVEMBER 17, 2018
were provided in the Constitution for
their protection, development (social and
economic) and integration. While this
was so, they were forced out of any
claim in the larger stake of India’s rapid
economic and social development that
formed part of the nation-building pro-
cess. The latter entailed massive infra-
structure development in the form of
power, dams, irrigation projects as well
as industrialisation and institution build-
ing. Interestingly, many such projects
then as well as now have come up in the
tribal areas of mainland India. No region
illustrates this better than the states of
Jharkhand and Odisha. Odisha saw the
establishment of a large number of pub-
lic sector undertakings like the Rourkela
Steel Plant, National Aluminium Com-
pany (NALCO), Indian Aluminium Com-
pany (INDALCO), Hindustan Aeronautics
Limited (HAL). There have also been a
number of coal firepower projects besides
dams like Hirakud, Upper Kolab, Indra-
vati, etc. Similarly, Jharkhand saw a
large number of public sector enterprises
such as the heavy engineering factory,
Bokaro Steel Plant, Sindri Fer tiliser
Plant, the Hindustan Copper Mines,
INDALCO besides many others. Of course,
these regions also witnessed large-scale
mineral exploitation.
The projects led to acquisition of reve-
nue land, forestland and common prop-
erty resources resulting in massive dis-
placement of tribals and poor who lived
off such resources. Data available for the
period 1951–90 point to a little over 21
million estimated to have been displaced
by development projects such as dams,
mines, industries and other infrast-
ructure projects. Of the total displaced,
as many as 8.54 million have been enu-
merated as tribals. Tribals have thus
come to constitute 40% of the displaced
though they comprise only about 8% of
the total population.
During construction the labour for
these projects was provided by tribals.
However, once the construction phase
was over, the many benefits and oppor-
tunities that resulted did not accrue to the
tribes who had made way for these pro-
jects at the cost of their land and livelihood
vol lIiI no 45 EPW Economic & Political Weekly

and without any rehabilitation and
resettlement. They found themselves
out of the labour market, even for jobs
that required little skill. Many were
thrown out without any compensation,
and those who did get it, found that the
amount was meagre. Benefits that came
in the form of irrigation and electrifica-
tion did not touch their lands and homes,
but went to non-tribals. There were, of
course, special development programmes
and schemes for tribes. Yet what good
have these special schemes and pro-
grammes done? As late as 2004–05, the
share of the tribal population living
below poverty line (BPL) was as high as
46.5% as compared with 27.6% for the
country as a whole. In the case of states
that have seen massive development
and mineral exploitation projects, the
level of poverty has been much higher
than the national average. In 2004–05,
the proportion of tribal people living
BPL stood at 54.2% in Jharkhand while
it was as high as 75.6% in Odisha. Their
educational and health status was
no better.
Coercion for Development
In view of what development has done to
the tribes, there is now stiff resistance to
“development” projects in tribal India.
Interestingly, the nature and type of
development discussed above took place
under a regime that aimed at building a
socialistic pattern in society. Hence laws,
policies and programmes were mainly
oriented towards safeguarding and pro-
tecting the interests of the common
people, including the tribal people. Such
protectionist arrangements are no lon-
ger the ethos. In 1991, India adopted a
new economic policy, aimed at major
structural economic reforms encompas-
sing almost all sectors of the economy.
The thrust of the reforms was the inte-
gration of the economy with the global
economy, dismantling controls, welcom-
ing foreign investment and technology,
promoting productivity and restructuring
public sector. An important aspect of the
reform was the programme of deregula-
tion, which increased the scope of the
private sector in the economy.
Given this, what kind of development
have the tribal regions seen? As noted
Economic & Political Weekly EPW NOVEMBER 17, 2018
above, most of the states with a high
concentration of tribal population have
rich mineral and other resources and
have opened up for private investment,
including the multinational corpora-
tions. Memoranda of understanding
(MoUs) have been signed with private
investors. In Jharkhand, for example,
between 2003 and 2007, 67 MoUs were
signed with different companies. The
figure stands at 51 in Chhattisgarh for
the period between 2001 and 2005. In
Odisha it was 80 MoUs by the end of
2009. Most of these MoUs are to do with
either the steel or aluminium or power
projects. In Odisha, for example, of the
80 projects as many as 57 were steel pro-
jects, six were aluminium and 15 were
power projects. In Jharkhand, an over-
whelming number are sponge iron, steel
and power projects and so is the case
with Chhattisgarh. These are now at dif-
ferent phases. The projects require land
and those tied to mining lease, require
much more land than others. In fact, the
six aluminium projects in Odisha have
shown requirements of lands as high as
over 12,350 acres. Similarly power pro-
jects, which again happen to be another
mode of important development pro-
jects in tribal areas, require vast tracts of
land. In Odisha, for example, 15 power
projects have made demands of as much
as over 19,200 acres of land. The result is
that private land belonging to tribals
and other cultivators is increasingly
being acquired by the state for such pro-
jects and has resulted in large-scale dis-
placement of the population.
The tribes did not resist these projects
when they first started as they are doing
today. The genesis of their resistance in
a nascent form could be traced back to
the late 1970s, which gained momen-
tum in the course of time and has
become wide-spread post 1990s. Till
then, they cooperated and lent support
to these projects as a part of their con-
tribution to the nation-building process.
They suffered displacement all through
the post-independence era of the nat-
ional reconstruction process without
any proper resettlement and rehabilita-
tion or adequate compensation. If devel-
opment turned out to be exclusive even
when its overall ethos and objective was
vol lIiI no 45
ALTERNATIVE STANDPOINT
that of “development of all”, as manifest
in the socialistic pattern of society that
India aimed to build, the same seems to
be far distant in a new economic order
where the corporate world has assumed
the key role and the state has actively
aided them in the process by trampling
every safeguard and protection pro-
vided in the Constitution and law. The
widespread restlessness that one encoun-
ters in the tribal areas of the mainland
since the 1990s must be seen against
this backdrop.
A Myth
Is the development we talk of invariably
inclusive? The people who have suffered
the most on this path of development are
the tribes, especially of mainland India.
Their resistance is not against develop-
ment but development of a kind that is
antithetical to their very existence as the
people. It is against the state’s model of
development that the tribes are resisting
and the state is using all the measures at
its disposal, including the monopoly of
the use of physical force. What this
means is if cooperation is not forthcom-
ing, coercion and violence are the means
through which the state’s development
agenda is to be pursued. Contrary to the
spirit of and the provisions provided for
the tribes in the Constitution, the devel-
opment pursued by the regime is not
only contrary to its proclaimed agenda,
it also points to the hollowness of the
slogan “sabka sath, sabka vikas.”
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to a wider audience.
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11

Minor Forest Produce and
Rights of Tribals
Vidhya Das
For the ostensible purpose of protecting the right of the tribals to their
livelihood, government policies have in fact been dispossessing the
tribals from access to local resources and maintaining their own
economy. The struggle waged by Mandibisi Mahila Mandal in Orissa
for control over minor forest produce is just one case of tribal assertion
against unjust government machinery.
IN 1953, 1,000 tribal women went to meet
the then chief minister, Nabakrushna
Choudhury to demand that the tamarind tree
leases to private parties be withdrawn in the
interests of people living in tribal areas.
Verbally, the chief minister agreed, but
nothing happened in practice. Four decades
later history repeated itself, when women
went and demanded of Biju Palnaik that they
be allowed to collect and sell minor forest
produce (MFP) to which the chief minister
agreed but then nothing happened. So the
struggle for rights over MFP is an old one,
and will probably continue for time to come.
The government of India and the state
governments have taken up the
implementation of numerous anti-poverty
programmes in tribal areas. While the
objectives of these programmes may be
commendable, their actual impact for poverty
alleviation and development of marginalised
groups is severely undermined by the role
of many non-monetary policies which are
quite insensitive to the ground realities in
tribal areas. The policies of the Orissa
government regarding collection, sale and
processing of MFP are a case in point. Though
these items provide a sizeable revenue to the
state, the tribal people who spend long hours
to collect it are not allowed to stock, process
or sell it in the open market. The government
controls these activities through a system of
leases and permits which are granted on the
whim of political leaders with no clearly
defined criteria. Beyond the levy of a fixed
amount of royalty there are no terms and
conditions either. The lease from the
government amounts to a virtual sanction to
exploit and loot the people in tribal area with
regard to the particular item of forest produce.
The lessee with the authority of his lease
calls the tune as per the prices, the method
of procurement (with quantity measurement
units ranging from improvised volume units
to weights using rock pieces), as well as the
stage of processing required before the
primary collector can sell it. All this is
Economic and Political Weekly December 14, 1996
enforced with the able assistance of the
forest department. On the other hand, where
government corporations like the tribal
development co-operative corporation
(TDCC) have taken the lease for certain
items, the normal practice is to sublet their
lease to the local businessmen, who then
carry on in their usual exploitative manner.
STRUGGLE OF M A N D I B I S I M A H I L A M A N D A L
Confronting this every day, and after
having gone for dialogue with the chief
minister, the women of Mandibisi G P,
Rayagada district took a brave step: they
formed the Mandibisi Mahila Mandal and
started collecting the MFP item, hill brooms,
by buying it from the primary tribal collectors
assuring fair price and exact weighing to
them. They thus effectively prevented
exploitative private traders and crooked sub-
agents of the TDCC from operating in the
area and cheating the tribal people. They had
repeatedly petitioned the district and state
administration for permission of collection
and sale of the hill brooms.
They look this step with the firm conviction
that the government would legalise their
collection, ensuring a fair deal to them,
unlike the TDCC, whose offer of sub-
agentship allowed the Mahila Mandal but
a 2 per cent commission, with no margin
over the government's fixed procurement
price. This incidentally was also the deal
with the sub-agents who usually operated in
the area, and which gave these agents a free
licence to exploit and cheat the tribal people.
Admittedly though, under the terms and
conditions offered by the TDCC, the traders
had few other options, even if they had
wanted to be fair to the people.
The government did consider other options
in favour of the Mahila Mandal. But it was
hampered by the legal constraint of the TDCC
having the lease for the hill brooms till the
end of a period, hitherto unspecified. Though
ostensibly working for the welfare of the
COMMENTARY
tribals, the TDCC was loath to relax its lease
in favour of the Mahila Mandal (whose
membership is more than 80 per cent tribal).
On the other hand, there is evidence to show
that the TDCC permitted the sub-agents to
carry on trade at their own terms and
conditions. After numerous meetings and
discussions, the department of panchayati
raj government of Orissa issued a letter to
the Mahila Mandal that the TDCC shall
appoint the registered DWCRA groups as
additional agents in their locality and grant
licences to them for collection and marketing
of finished MFP items through Orissa Rural
Marketing Apex Society (ORMAS) which
was ready to buy the Mahila Mandal's stock
at Rs 7 per kg. The letter further invited the
concerned groups to become members of the
DSMS, the district branch of ORMAS. This
appeared to be a positive action on the part
of the state. The Mahila Mandal members
responded by taking a loan for training of
hill broom binding so that they could sell
to ORMAS.
But they were shocked when on May 28,
1995, the stock of brooms collected by the
Mahila Mandal was forcibly taken away by
the forest department in the presence of
official representatives of the TDCC. Several
months passed by. Numerous officials made
enquiries into the case. The Mahila Mandal
members were told that they would have to
accept payment for 70 quintals of broom
stock when more than double the quantity
(174 qtls) had been collected. Even if the
weight loss due to drying, wastage on storing,
etc, is taken into account, the eventual weight
would reduce by 20-30 per cent at the most.
Why were the departments and TDCC
indulging in cheating? What happened to
the brooms taken away?
On August 19,1995 the revenue divisional
commissioner (RDC), southern division
came for an enquiry. The forest department
officials and the Kashipur branch manager
of the TDCC stuck to their statement of 70
qtls, and claimed the Mahila Mandal
members wrong. On this point of contention
it was decided that brooms would be returned
to the store from where they had been
removed, as the exact quantity of stock could
not be determined. A deadline of August 31
was given, but went unheeded. After a long
wait, the conservator, Koraput, took up the
case. In January 1996, he personally went
to Mandibisi and gave an assurance to the
members of the Mahila Mandal that their
stock would be returned as per the decision
of August 19. Two truckloads of brooms
were off-loaded in the storehouse. The store
was only partially filled. The members
refused to receive the brooms till the stock
was returned as per the decision taken during
3227
the meeting with the RDC. The forest
department locked the storehouse.
The women went for a public interest
litigation to the Orissa High Court. The
court, too, chose not to consider rights
of tribal people, and referred the matter to
the secretary of the department of forests
"to dispose of the application of the peti-
tioner in accordance with the provisions of
the Act and the rules and communicate the
order to the petitioner within two months
of the receipt of intimation of the order".
On September 28,1995, a letter was issued
by the department to the secretary of
Mandibisi Mahila Mandal informing that it
was not possible to give lease for those MFP
items which had already been leased out to
the TDCC. Yet, the letter continued, the
Mahila Mmandal may apply for 10 items
(listed out in the letter, and most of them
not available locally) which had been
leased out to the Utkal Forest Produce (UFP).
The letter further states that after the end of
the lease period of the TDCC, the Mahila
Mandal may apply to the department of
forest and environment for consideration.
The letter, however, does not state when the
3228
period of lease held by the T D C C terminates,
nor the MFP items held in lease by the
TDCC.
T D C C AND SELLING OF TRIBAL RIGHTS
The TDCC has been set up with the stated
and explicit purpose of facilitating market,
and ensuring a fair price, for tribal products.
Its objectives arc as follows:
To procure surplus agricultural produces
and minor forest produces from the tribals
at a fair and remunerative price, and arrange
for their marketing.
To supply essential commodities to the tribals
at fair price.
To arrange for processing of procured
commodities to add value to the product
with the view to increasing profitability and
thereby providing employment to them.
Advancing for consumption-cum-
production loan to the tribals to meet their
resource requirements for crop raising and
also for meeting their consumption needs
And further, the role of the corporation
is enumerated as below:
The main role of the corporation is to uplift
and boost the tribal economy and safeguard
Economic and Political Weekly December 14, 1996
the interest of the tribals by marketing the
tribal produces through the TDCC by way
of giving a good support price for their
surplus agricultural products and MFP.
Despite this clear purpose, the actual
working of the TDCC is achieving just the
opposite. The government constitutes a price
fixation committee at the district level every
yearto fix procurement prices of MFP items.
The agency which has the lease has to pay
these minimum prices to the collectors. Yet
surveys indicate that most MFP items are
sold by the primary collectors at rates less
than 50 per cent of the fixed procurement
price. In the case of hill brooms, the actual
price varies between one-third and half the
procurement price. Most transactions with
the primary collectors are made using
approximate volume measurements.
Standardised weights are almost never used.
In many cases, people report, stones are
substituted for the standard weights.
Though TDCC would like to project an
image of the benign arm of a protective state,
there has been consistent failure of the TDCC
to give the primary collector the declared
price. The TDCC's inefficiency in
procurement has enabled the petty traders
and the local businessmen to secure a major
market, amounting to more than two-thirds
for most of the items held in lease by the
TDCC. According to the reports of the
corporation, "Owing to continuous loss
sustained by it, the corporation's share capital
has been completely eroded and the business
activities at present are being carried on by
borrowing". The interest on loans taken by
the TDCC as working capital, comes to
about two crore rupees annually. Running
losses since inception, its cumulative loss up
to the year 1993-94 amounts to Rs 31 crore.
The corporation has an overhead cost of
Rs 1.81 crore annually, against which the
government releases a managerial subsidy
of Rs 20 lakh per annum, which is not even
enough for one month's salary. The TDCC
is inefficient, which has forced it to surrender
six MFP items; Siali leaves, soap nuts, patal
garud (a medicinal herb), sabai grass, siali
fibre and lac. But additionally, the TDCC
is costing the state substantially for its
maintenance. The TDCC also owes several
crores of royalty to the stale government.
A series of other products have been
contracted by private parties. The UFP has
a 10 year lease for 29 MFP items. Thus,
despite the existence of the TDCC, the tribal
is mostly left at the mercy of the private
trader. These agencies holding the lease for
various items over the entire state, play
havoc with the pricing. In many divisions,
sal seeds, which have been leased out to UFP
and Preeti Oils have not been procured since
1995. The government has also chosen to
cut down the procurement price for sal seeds
from Rs 2.50 to Rs 1.75 per kg to facilitate
the operations of these companies. The
tamarind lease for the entire Koraput division,
which had been held by the TDCC till 1994,
was handed over to a private businessman
in 1995. But the Mandibisi Mahila Mandal,
which have been requesting permit for hill
brooms for the last three years, has been
refused permit this year too.
In a study titled 'Forest Policy and the
Rural Poor in Orissa'. N C Saxena, the director
of National Academy of Administration,
notes, "the present arrangement in Orissa of
leasing entire forest divisions to private
industry is even worse than the system of
appointing labour contractors, which was
abolished in the late 1960s". Stating the case
of Orissa government's decision to assign
bamboo forests to industry, appointed as
sub-agents of the OFDC, Saxena points out,
"the order appointing industry as 'raw
material procurer' goes to the extent of stating
that other terms and conditions may be settled
on consultation with the industry. This must
be the only case in government, where lessees
are appointed first and then left free to lay
down their terms." The study points out that
the poor and the landless are forced to meet
Economic and Political Weekly December 14, 1996
their demand for bamboo by stealing while
the industry gets subsidised bamboo. The
cost of bamboo for the industry works out
to 15 paise per piece, while local cultivators
who own land have to buy at Rs 4.30 per
piece. To the landless, even this facility is
denied.
The commercial importance of MFP has
led the state to nationalise almost all the
important MFP items. This has effectively
cut down the number of legal buyers, and
denied a fair price to the gatherers. However,
contractors, who must now operate with
higher margins to cover uncertainties with
the government agencies, and underhand
deals with the police and other authorities,
still manage entry through the backdoor. On
the other hand, across-the-border smuggling
operations enable a higher pricing as these
do not have to deal with state controls. This
smuggling goes on unchecked and
extensively in most border areas.
The case of Mandibisi Mahila Mandal is
not an isolated case. In numerous instances
across the state, there is a persistent struggle
of tribal and other indigenous communities
to access and use their forest and land
resources. Government policies and their
misuse is increasingly denying the tribals
the access to their livelihood needs. As a
sequel, the government has been able to
ensure neither the due revenue, nor the
conservation and protection of the forest
resources. All this amounts to a blatant
violation of the human rights of these
communities. The government needs to
answer how it can talk of and promote
liberalisation, while at the same time throttle
its own people with policies of unjust
controls, biased completely in favour of
private sector interests.
Presently, a collective and concerted
movement born out of the experiences of
past attempts of various local groups and
voluntary organisations is on to consolidate
the numerous efforts and highlight the
negative impact of present state policy on
MFP on tribal communities. Thus, dialogues
have been initiated in all the tribal districts,
and a sharing of the experiences of different
groups concerning the demand for rights
over MFP is being taken up. District and
block level committees have been formed,
and it has been proposed that as a next step,
the campaign should be carried out at the
state level. One of the significant outcomes
of this struggle is the formulation of an
alternate policy document concerning MFP.
The main points of emphasis of this document
are: A clear and transparent policy concerning
minor forest produce which ensures that the
primary collectors get no less than the
equivalent of the declared minimum daily
wage rate on the sale of MFP items; stops
the monopolistic leasing out of MFP items
to private interests and corporations and
enables Mahila mandals, village groups and
panchayat level organisation to collect and
sell minor forest products in the open market
for a competitive prices; provides support
to village level organisations for training,
for skill development and marketing, and for
the setting up of processing units for minor
forest produce items; enables the formation
of a district level board that acts as a channel
of information regarding market, pricing,
government programmes and schemes for
MFP marketing and processing; prohibits
entry to large-scale corporations into those
areas of processing of minor forest produce
which can be taken up by small-scale
industries.
That this policy statement has the backing
of the people in tribal areas was amply
demonstrated on March 29, the anniversary
of martyrdom of Lakshman Nayak, a tribal
freedom fighter from Koraput, when
thousands of people in the tribal districts of
Rayagada, Koraput, Phulbani, Kalahandi,
Nuapada, Angul and Gajapati, demonstrated
in front of their respective collectorates,
demanding rights for collection and
marketing of minor forest produce and
showed solidarity with the Mandibisi
Mahila Mandal and the numerous other
groups that have been harassed by the forest
department.
Monopolistic trade policies are the surest
way to kill initiative and the market, and
deny justice to the producers. What is the
justification for a democratically elected
government to liberalise its economy for
inviting foreign companies, while it persists
in destroying the economies of its own
indigenous communities?
If, as has been suggested in the policy
alternative, people are allowed rights over
their MFP and are enabled to access the
technology and skills required to process it
then the tribals would get requisite prices
for their items. Local processing units would
ensure that resources remain within the
community. Rather than talking of exit
policies and running after investments
from multinational corporations to give a
false boost to the economy, the government
should consider how best it can use the
skills and resources of the people for the
wholesome and balanced growth of the
economy.
3229