Forgotten chapter from a hidden side of Goa (Writings from Rajaram Rangoji Paigankar, the son of a kalavantin)
By Anjali Arondekar [email protected] (831)459-4748 (Voicemail) An extract from Dr Anjali Arondekar's recent essay on the Gomantak Maratha Samaj. Dr Arondekar is Associate Professor Department of Feminist Studies, University of California, Santa Cruz. Devadasi is a compound noun, coupling deva, or god, with dasi, or female slave; it is a pan-Indian term (falsely) interchangeable with courtesan, dancing girl, prostitute, and sex worker. Members of this diaspora, also referred to as kalavants (literally carriers of kala, or art), shuttled between Portuguese and British colonial India for over two hundred years, challenging European epistemologies of race and rule through their inhabitation of two discrepant empires. Tracing its roots back to early eighteenth-century Goa, the Gomantak Maratha Samaj (henceforth the Samaj) is an OBC (Other Backward Caste) community and was established as a formal organization in 1927 and 1929 in the western states of Goa and Maharashtra, respectively. It officially became a charitable institution in 1936. The Samaj continues its activities to this day and has from its inception maintained a community of 10,000 to 50,000 registered members. Unlike more received histories of Devadasis in South Asia that lament the disappearance or erasure of Devadasis, the history of the Samaj offers no telos of loss and recovery. Instead, the Samaj, from its inception, has maintained a continuous, copious, and accessible archive of its own emergence, embracing rather than disavowing its past and present attachments to sexuality. The Samaj's archive (housed in Panaji and Bombay) constitutes an efflorescence of information in Marathi, Konkani, and Portuguese, ranging from minutes of meetings, journals, newsletters, private correspondence, flyers, and programs, all filled with details of the daily exigencies and crises that concerned the community. Often referred to as Bharatatil ek Aggressor Samaj (an aggressive community in India), this Devadasi diaspora is routinely lauded (by the left and the right in India) for its self-reform and progress. From the immortal Mangeshkar sisters (Lata and Asha) to the first chief minister of independent Goa, Dayanand Bandodkar, there are few sectors of Indian society where the presence of Samaj members cannot be felt. In obvious ways, the presence of this vibrant Devadasi diaspora in western India (spliced as it is between the borders of two competing colonial projects) disrupts established histories of sexuality through its survival and geography and holds much potential for a differentiated model of historiography. First, Devadasis are studied more in southern India and rarely in western India, suggesting a regional twist. Second, studies of sexuality and colonialism have overwhelmingly focused on the affective and temporal weight of British India, with Portuguese India lurking as the accidental presence in the landscape of colonialism. Leaving aside the startling point that the Portuguese occupied Goa for nearly 451 years, we have here a south–south colonial comparison. And last but not least, Goan historiography itself, long written off as an underdeveloped and undertheorized kin of Indian historiography, could find new flesh within the lineaments of the radical history of the Samaj. As one scholar writes, it is time for Goan history to move beyond a "kind of absence," to brush aside the "shadows that obstruct our attempt to access, retrieve and understand" our past. Yet even as such comparative modes (regional, south–south) enrich our understanding of sexuality's pasts, they could equally function in ways that are perilously additive, minoritizing the very histories they seek to make visible. That is, the story of the Samaj must not function as a singular parable of cathartic potentiality, nor of an abjured geopolitics, resolving historical ambivalence or loss through its success and emergence. Rather, I will argue, the archive of the Samaj must be read as an example of catachresis, an incitement to analytical reflection that produces more robust idioms of the historical. Here, the story of sexuality estranges settled readings of recuperative scrutiny, drawing us more into the queer forms of an archive's becoming, angled through lineages of the nonreproductive and the unfinished. Let me turn, then, to one such example within the Samaj archive. That Thrilling Dark Night “Bundachi tee romanchkari kaari raatr [A thrilling dark night of insurrection]. "25 May 1921. It is 10:00 p.m. and we are under attack. Our house has been surrounded on all four sides, and I can hear loud cries and whistles as stones and rocks pummel our doors and rooftop. I run to the courtyard to see all the women and children huddled together in fear. As the attack escalates, the children begin to lose control and defecate on themselves in fear. The women scream till their throats run dry, only to realize that there is no water left in the house. My wife, who is very ill, unable to bear the stress, falls to the ground in shock. I run to the rooftop, with my gun in hand, and shoot aimlessly into the darkness of the night, unsure if I am killing or will be killed. I scream out into the night, and suddenly the attackers retreat and an eerie calm returns. Thus writes Rajaram Rangoji Paigankar, the son of a kalavantin (literally, a term used for women with kala -- a subgrouping within the Goan Devadasi structure), in the first volume of his much-heralded autobiography, *Mee Kon* [Who Am I?]. The attack takes place in Paigin, a small village in the taluka (area) of Canacona, southern Goa, a key stronghold of the Goan Devadasi community. Once morning breaks, Paigankar recounts the events to the village headman, who accompanies him back home to inspect and corroborate the damage done to his household. In due course, Paigankar and his extended family of twenty-five women and children abandon their home and seek shelter in a neighboring village. There is, of course, as is to be expected in any narrative retelling, a prehistory to the *halla* (attack). Four days earlier, on May 21, 1921, Paigankar and his comrades held a general Satyanarayan pooja (a religious ritual that celebrates Lord Satyanarayana, an avatar of Lord Vishnu, and is often held to commemorate an auspicious occasion or to ward off impending evil), calling for a refusal of caste hierarchies and religious differences. An enthusiastic crowd of over a thousand people from five neighboring villages gathered, composed primarily of the Deuli and Bande castes (the lowest subgroupings of the Devadasi community), a smattering of curious Portuguese officials, and a few breakaway Saraswat Brahmins. Enraged by the repeated caste humiliation and sexual exploitation suffered by the Devadasi families at the hands of the Saraswat Brahmins, Paigankar demanded an end to Brahmin hegemony and spoke passionately at the pooja about the need for education and reform. Yet, despite all the excitement and support of the gathered crowd, the pooja remained unfinished. No purohit (priest) was willing to step forward to complete the rites, fearful of incurring the wrath of the powerful Saraswats. And the wrath of the Brahmins did follow. Paigankar and the larger Devadasi community in Paigin were immediately banned from all social functions, their lands were confiscated and their businesses shut down, and a general sanction was imposed against all of their interactions. Paigankar was seen as the key protagonist in an escalating drama of anti-Brahmin sentiment and was asked to appear before the ruling Brahmin council. Even worse, hundreds of Brahmin youth were rumored to have taken up arms in retaliation, threatening to attack and destroy Paigankar and his followers. There were signs that such anti-Brahmin activities were also spreading apace in southern Goa, as similar poojas were said to be taking place in nearby Lolegaon, a second stronghold of Saraswat Brahmin hegemony. The scene was set for the inevitable events of that thrilling dark night (*Mee Kon* 1: 73–80). After the attack, another extraordinary set of events followed. Paigankar, along with twenty-five kalavantins from his village, traveled to Panjim, acquired legal representation, and submitted a writ appeal to the Governador-General (Governor General) of Portuguese Goa, Jaime Alberto de Castro Morais (1920–25). In the appeal, Paigankar et al. wrote, We, a Gayak Kalavant Samaj (community of singers and artists), based in Paigin, are endeavoring to free ourselves. We aspire to be worthy citizens of Portugal by emancipating our women from prostitution and by advocating education and marriage. The Saraswat Brahmins find our goals objectionable and have attempted to punish us by confiscating our lands, levying fines, refusing us access to all basic services, and by attacking the houses we live in. They have done so in the name of the Portuguese state. If this is indeed your law, then we wish to leave our village and ask permission to migrate to British India. If we are asked to stay, we would like to petition the Saraswat Brahmins for damages and compensation. (*Mee Kon* 1: 84–87) In many ways, such a strategic appeal to the patronage of the Portuguese state is hardly surprising given the progressive political climate of the pre-Salazar era in Goa and the protracted geopolitical claims of the so-called Velhas and Novas Conquistas (Old and New Conquests) in Portuguese Goa. Often referred to as the Republican period in Goan history, the period between 1900 and 1926 has been heralded as a time of renaissance for Goan arts, culture, and politics (R. Pinto). Such a renaissance, however, must be understood within the economic, social, and political demarcations of the more developed coastal talukas of the Old Conquests: Ilhas, Bardez, Salcete and Mormugao, conquered first by the Portuguese in the sixteenth century and impacted more directly by the advent of Portuguese colonialism. The New Conquests, acquired from the Marathas in the eighteenth century, included the talukas not directly along the coast, namely, Pernem, Bicholim, Satari, Ponda, Sanguem, Quepem, and Paigankar's taluka, Canacona. These talukas lacked the density of population and economic heft of the areas under the Old Conquest. One positive by-product of such geopolitical demarcations, some scholars argue, was that the New Conquests were less affected by the brutal project of Portuguese conversion (1560–1812) and were, by and large, left alone to flourish or perish at their own peril, at least till the discovery of raw materials and the rise of the mining industry. This difference in rule also translated to language acquisition as the New Conquests had more Marathi speakers, while the Old Conquests had the monopoly on Portuguese and English speakers (Martins; Mendonça-Noronha). Goan Devadasis were to be found more predominantly in the New Conquests, where Hinduism (allegedly) thrived with less persecution and temples remained relatively unscathed (Axelrod and Fuerch; Newman). The Census of 1920, for example, the year before the *halla* on Paigin took place, notes that Goa officially had four hundred and five bailadeiras (dancing girls), mostly located within the talukas of the New Conquests (Censo). Thus, it came as less of a surprise when Governor Morais responded positively and in an unprecedented fashion to the submitted appeal. So moved was Morais by the plight of the distraught women accompanying Paigankar that he immediately censured the Saraswat Brahmin community of Paigin and ordered official protection for the kalavants. News of the appeal and its aftermath spread like wildfire all across Goa, and editorials appeared both in the Portuguese and vernacular press as the kalavantins appeared to have incited the beginning of a grassroots resistance against Brahmin hegemony. Notably, the Governor's judgment founded the basis of the first alleged legal case filed against Brahmins by a lower caste community in Portuguese Goa. I say "alleged" here because there are no available archival records of the case, either in the Goa state archive or in the Portuguese colonial archive in Lisbon. The case, Kalavantin Bhima v. the Saraswat Council of Paigin, however, is repeatedly referenced in Paigankar's biography as a mark of the community's successful campaign for reform. The Brahmins, we are told, were asked to return the seized lands and to monetarily compensate the kalavants for lost revenue and damaged property. But just as his readers are ready to settle into this rousing account of brave resistance, Paigankar reveals an even more thrilling twist to the tale. In the opening gambit of the second volume of his autobiography, titled *Mee gharavar halla ka ghadvoon aanla* [Why Did I Stage the Attack on My House?] (recall that the above-mentioned account appears in the first volume), Paigankar explains that the attack was in fact "ek saubhadr natak [a strategic drama]" directed precisely to protect and advance the interests of kalavantins. His words underscore the constant humiliation experienced by the male and female members of his community, a humiliation that precipitated the ritual of the reformist Satyanarayan pooja. Paigankar, for example, recounts his degrading experiences at the residence of a local Saraswat Brahmin where he was invited for a meal, only to then be asked to partake of the food on a soiled plate used to feed animals in the house. Such experiences were compounded by the fact that the yajemans (patrons) who frequented kalavantin houses were themselves Saraswat Brahmins. Paigankar's own biofather, a well-known Saraswat businessman in the village, aggravated the situation further by urging Paigankar to appear before a Brahmin village council and pledge contrition for his actions. Paigankar even attempted to contest a legal claim against the seizure of kalavantin lands by the Brahmins, but his efforts were thwarted by a lack of funds and a general fear of Brahmin reprisal. With the sanctions against the kalavantins worsening each day, a sense of urgency and desperation defined their every word and action. It is at this point in the drama, we are told, that Paigankar, at the behest of his best friend and lover, the kalavantin Bhima, and in complete secrecy, persuaded six comrades to attack his home on that fateful night. The comrades were given detailed instructions about when they should attack, from which vantage point, and for how long. Each individual was asked to recite prepared lines explaining their whereabouts at a neighbor's residence, were any of them to be questioned after the attack. Not a soul was told of the carefully orchestrated attack except those directly involved (as we have seen through the extreme physical discomfort experienced by all), and even Paigankar's family members remained in the dark. Such secrecy, writes Paigankar, guaranteed the narrative heft of the attack as the heinous work of frenzied Saraswat youth. Bhima, the young kalavantin who served as the director behind the scenes, set the stage perfectly for that fateful night of insurrection. Mobilizing established economies of rumor, fear, and humiliation, Bhima, along with her sister kalavantins, ensured that the larger village community truly embraced and anticipated the fiction of the attack. Guns were mysteriously set off around kalavantin homes prior to the night of the attack, and a general fear of Saraswat retaliation suffused all conversation (*Mee Kon* 2: 43–56). Thus an attack on Paigankar's home provided the necessary climax to calculated and frenzied fear, so perfectly scripted were the conditions of its production. And the staging, as we already know, did produce its desired effects. In addition to the alleged case against the Saraswats, a school was established for the kalavantin community in Paigin (through the support of the Portuguese state) that exists to this day. Does the revelation that the halla was so deftly staged denude it of salvific historical value, or does its narrative veracity inaugurate a different orientation to archival production?... As we have already seen, initial efforts to organize the community were primarily led by Rajaram Rangoji Paigankar as early as 1902. Paigankar particularly rallied youth members of the community and staged multiple successful conferences all over Goa and Maharashtra. Based primarily in Panaji, Shiroda, Malvan, and Bombay, the Samaj championed itself as caste-reformist, describing its shift in name from Gomantak Kalavant Samaj (Goan Artist Collectivity) to Gomantak Maratha Samaj (Goan Maratha Collectivity) as a primary indication of its commitment to a progressive pan-caste politics. The term kalavant privileged a specific professional identity (linked to the arts), whereas Maratha engaged a field of membership that encompassed all subcastes of Devadasi labor, emphasizing affiliations of language and culture (Marathi). The shift in name occurred in 1927 after much heated debate over other possible names, such as Neethivardhak Samaj, Gayak Samaj, Pragati Samaj, all of which focused solely on the project of reform rather than caste and region. For example, the name Neethivardhak Samaj called forth the idea of truth (neethi) as the guiding principle behind the Samaj's emergence, eschewing any reference to the Sama'’s attachments to sexuality and/or to Portuguese India (evident in Gomantak [from Goa]). In many ways, the Samaj's early struggles around self-nominalization anticipate many of the paradoxes that have become the mainstay in discussions of rights and representation. At issue is the reification of a name such as Gayak (singer) that at once secures visibility even as it strengthens the very category that founds its marginalization. In the first official conference, held on May 5, 1929, in Shiroda, a small village in central Goa, 750 delegates from all over Goa, Maharashtra, and Karnataka gathered to discuss the future of the Samaj -- an extraordinary event given the difficulties of traveling between the borders of Portuguese and British India. Speech after speech made at the conference highlighted a commitment to education, caste reform, and the abolition of the sexual exploitation of Samaj women. Sexuality featured heavily in all discussions of reform as the structuring mode through which to forge futures, a space of radical possibility for opening up larger avenues for the Samaj's development. Members were urged to strategically mobilize their Devadasi histories as pedagogical tools to create much-needed societal discussions on sexuality and morality and, in so doing, to sudhaar (improve) not just themselves but society at large. Despite such expressed zeal for large-scale social change, no salutary reference or connection was made to the ongoing liberation struggles, either in British or in Portuguese India. Indeed, the early absence of any collective involvement by the Samaj in the resistance movements outside of their local interests speaks to yet another twist in the tale of the Samaj. For a large part of their emergence in Portuguese India, the Samaj relied on the benevolence of the Portuguese state for a wide array of causes: from the building of schools and libraries to the funding of small businesses. But given that this essay is also a rumination on the unmooring of attachments to revered lineages (may they be of loss, opposition, or resistance) within histories of sexuality, the Samaj's refusal to join liberation struggles -- a refusal that frustrates contemporary expectations of subaltern oppositionality -- is hardly surprising. The Samaj, for example, had and still continues to have no interest in aligning with any other project of social reform. Its members are now largely and resolutely middle class, with the Samaj offices in Bombay and Panaji now used to host monthly meetings as well as to accrue revenue through wedding celebrations. In fact, one of the recursive and fascinating features of this Samaj's story is its refusal, or rather sidelining, of any social project outside of its own historicity. ### This is an extract from the paper titled In the Absence of Reliable Ghosts: Sexuality, Historiography, South Asia by Dr Anjali Arondekar. Volume 25, Number 3 doi 10.1215/10407391-2847964 (c) 2015 by Brown University and d i f f e r e n c e s : A Journal of Feminist Cultural Studie
