Thuggee
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Thuggee (or tuggee, ठग्गी ṭhagī) (from Hindi ठग ṭhag ‘thief’, from
Sanskrit स्थग sthaga ‘cunning’, ‘sly’, ‘fraudulent’, ‘dishonest’,
‘scoundrel’, from स्थगति sthagati ‘he conceals’)[1] is the term for a
particular kind of murder and robbery of travellers in India.
Thuggery
The English word "thug" comes from the Hindi word "thag", meaning
"conman". It is one of many Indian words borrowed into English during
the British colonial period. The English connotation of 'thug' is
synonymous with terms like hoodlum and hooligan, indicating a person
(who may or may not be anti-social) who harasses others, usually for
hire.[citation needed] People regarded as thugs might commit assault
(or 'menace'), battery, even robbery and grievous bodily harm, but
they usually stop short of murder. Additionally, "thugs" usually
travel in pairs, though they can work alone or in groups of four to
six members, and are typically open about their presence (except to
law enforcement officials); while "Thuggee" were covert and operated
as members of a group, often called a "Thuggee cult" by the British.
Hence, the word "Thuggee" is capitalised while the word "thug" usually
is not; which enables distinction of a "Thug" (here, a short form of
"Thuggee") from a "thug".
In the heyday of Thuggee activity, travellers were typically part of a
travelling group, so the term Thuggee typically referred to killing of
a large number of people in a single operation. This aspect
distinguishes Thuggee from similar concept of dacoity, which means
simple armed robbery.
Dacoity has similarities with the terms brigand and bandit from
European and Latin American experience, but there appear to be no
exact Western parallels for Thuggee. Perhaps the closest concepts
would be the format of piracy, though this is solely maritime robbery
(usually with murder), and the earlier, but similar, format of raids
on coastal settlements by Viking seafarers. Some aspects, however, are
reminiscent of the Mafia group of organisations.
Between them, these classes of criminal activity illustrate some of
the mystique that attached to the Thugs and the complex mixture of
fear and dread of these murderous men that was felt by the ordinary
people who might well be their victims.
There is some question as to the extent of the religious dimension of
Thuggee. Most contemporary sources described Thuggee as being a
religious cult, but some modern sources feel it was merely a
specialized form of organized crime or paramilitary activity, with no
particular religious dimension beyond the normal piety of the
villagers from whom its members were recruited.
Time period
The concept of Thuggee is known from the 17th century, though the term
and/or activity possibly dates back as early as the 13th century.
Thuggee was actively practiced at least through the end of the 19th
century. If remnants of the Thuggee tradition survived into the 20th
and 21st centuries, they did so very covertly. The film Indiana Jones
and the Temple of Doom is based on the premise that Thuggee cults
survived covertly into the early 20th century.
Stern suppression by the British was important in reducing Thuggee
activity but more significant was the introduction of modern methods
of travel, in particular the displacement of travelling on foot or by
horse in groups by the railway, which effectively rendered Thuggee
obsolete.
The nature
The particular groups, as well as the general concept, were often
equally durable and would outlive the 'careers' of individual members
to develop into a crime family lasting generations. These groups
progressed from being simple gangs into becoming 'fraternities' or
even 'cults', featuring the initiation of new members, either through
the heredity of a criminal underclass, or through an apprenticeship,
such as normally associated with skilled or learned professions or the
training programs of elite military units. Other sources describe the
Thugs as a criminal 'tribe' or caste. Over the course of generations,
the secrets must be kept within the 'family'. The marriage of
offspring within the group both safeguards the secret knowledge,
allowing it to be imparted steadily to the children without the risk
of uninitiated neighbours overhearing, and reinforces the exclusive
and selective nature of the organisation. This preserves the mystique,
which is in itself part of the formula of success, and creates an
elite aura around it. At the moment of attack, the sudden revelation
of the identity of the assailants produces a shock that disables
defensive manoeuvres, at least for a few, vital moments, while the
reputation for invincibility engenders a defeatism that results in a
fait accompli.
The practice
Thugs were active all over the Bengal region of the Indian
subcontinent. Maps showing the possessions of the British East India
Company in 1765 and 1805Thuggee is described as a cult of people
engaged in the multiple murder and robbery of travelers. At the time,
most travelers in India would travel in caravan for mutual support and
security, since travel meant the crossing of difficult terrain before
the coming of metalled roads, the passing among different races,
religions and castes, at a period before police forces were formed. In
order to attempt the massacre of an entire caravan, the Thugs needed
to be numerous and well-coordinated. They also needed to be
sufficiently stealthy, at least in the early stages, to begin their
slaughter without rousing all at once. This required a high degree of
planning, organization – including props and patter – timing, teamwork
and discipline. With anything less than complete success a survivor
could escape to raise a hue and cry. These horrendous but
sophisticated operations lay somewhere between organized crime and
paramilitary activity and were far removed from the ordinary criminal
in the audacity, magnitude, and ruthlessness of the enterprise.
The modus operandi was to join a caravan and become accepted as bona-
fide travelers themselves. The Thugs would need to delay any attack
until their fellow travelers had dropped the initial wariness of the
newcomers and had been lulled into a false sense of security. The
Thugs first needed to befriend the travelers and win their trust. Once
the travelers had allowed the Thugs to join them and disperse amongst
them (a task which might sometimes, depending on the size of the
target group, require accompaniment for hundreds of miles), the Thugs
would wait for a suitable place and time before killing and robbing
them.
There were obviously variations on a theme. When tackling a large
group, a Thuggee band might disperse along a route and join a group in
stages, concealing their acquaintanceship, such that they could come
to outnumber their intended victims by small, non-threatening
increments. If the travelers had doubts about any one party, they
might confide their worries to another party of the same Thuggee band.
The trusted band would thus be the best placed to deal with these
members of the caravan at the appropriate time, but might also be able
to advise their colleagues to 'back off' or otherwise modify their
behavior, to allay suspicion.
The killing place would need to be remote from local observers and
suitable to prevent escape (e.g., backed against a river). Thugs
tended to develop favored places of execution, called beles. They knew
the geography of these places well—better than their victims. They
needed to, if they were to anticipate the likely escape routes and
hiding-places of the quicker-witted and more determined of the
travelers.
The timing might be at night or during a rest-break, when the
travelers would be busy with chores and when the background cries and
noise would mask any sounds of alarm. A quick and quiet method, which
left no stains and required no special weapons, was strangulation.
This method is particularly associated with Thuggee and led to the
Thugs also being referred to as the Phansigars, or "noose-operators",
and simply as "stranglers" by British troops. Usually two or three
Thugs would strangle one traveller. The Thugs would then need to
dispose of the bodies: they might bury them or might throw them into a
nearby well.[2].
The leader of a gang was called the 'jemadar': this is an ordinary
Indian word and is now used as the rank of an Army officer
(Lieutenant), who would command a similar number of men to a Thuggee
gang-leader. An English equivalent term might be 'the Boss' or 'the
Guv'nor' (Governor).
As with modern criminal gangs, each member of the group had his own
function: the equivalent of the 'hit-man,' 'the lookout,' and the
'getaway driver' would be those Thugs tasked with luring travelers
with charming words or acting as guardian to prevent escape of victims
while the killing took place.
They usually killed their victims in darkness while the thugs made
music or noise to escape discovery. If burying bodies close to a well-
traveled trade-route, they would need to disguise the 'earthworks' of
their graveyard as a camp-site, tamping down the covering mounds and
leaving some items of rubbish or remnants of a fire to 'explain' the
disturbances and obscure the burials.
One reason given for the Thuggee success in avoiding detection and
capture so often and over such long periods of time is a self-
discipline and restraint in avoiding groups of travelers on shorter
journeys, even if they seemed laden with suitable plunder. Choosing
only travelers far from home gave more time until the alarm was raised
and the distance made it less likely that colleagues would follow on
to investigate the disappearances. Another reason given is the high
degree of teamwork and co-ordination both during the infiltration
phase and at the moment of attack. This was a sophisticated criminal
elite that knew its business well and approached each 'operation' like
a military mission.
Use of garotte
The garotte is often depicted as the common weapon of the Thuggee. It
is sometimes described as a rumal (head covering or kerchief), or
translated as "yellow scarf". "Yellow" in this case may refer to a
natural cream or khaki colour rather than bright yellow. Most Indian
males in Central India or Hindustan would have a puggaree or head-
scarf, worn either as a turban or worn around a kullah and draped to
protect the back of the neck. Types of scarves were also worn as
cummerbunds, in place of a belt. Any of these items could have served
as strangling ligatures.
Religion and Thuggee
Thuggee groups might be Hindu, Sikh or Muslim, but Thuggee is
particularly associated with followers of the Hindu Goddess Kali (or
Durga), whom they often called Bhavani.[3][4][5] It was noted, even at
the time, that only a very small minority of the followers of Kali
were Thuggees. Many Thuggees worshipped Kali but most supporters of
Kali did not practise Thuggee.
Some Thuggee groups claimed descent from seven Muslim tribes[citation
needed], but the majority of Hindu followers only seem to be related
during the early periods of Islamic development through their
religious creed and staunch worship of Kali, one of the Hindu Tantric
Goddesses. At a time of political unrest, with changes from Hindu
Rajput rulers to Muslim Moghul emperors and viceroys, and possibly
back again, a wise group would display allegiance to both creeds, but
its ultimate loyalty was probably only to itself.
"There seem to have been very few Sikh Thugs. But Sahib Khan, the
Deccan strangler, 'knew Ram Sing Siek: he was a noted Thug leader - a
very shrewd man,' who also served with the Pindaris for a while and
was responsible for the assassination of the notorious Pindari leader
Sheikh Dulloo." Sleeman, Ramaseeana I, 239-40.
Some sources view the Thugs as a cult or sect. Given the extent of the
problem, in geographical scale and in the duration of time, it is
likely that many groups would wish to keep their secrets from betrayal
from within and from intrusion by outsiders and would have evolved
into secret criminal fraternities. It also follows that if they were
repeatedly successful, then they must have 'divine blessing' and would
wish to give thanks to, and worship, the deity to whom they ascribed
their support. In the West, as well, criminality and religious
observance are not always mutually incompatible.
Origin and recruitment
A group of thugs, ca. 1863The earliest recorded mention of the Thugs
as a special band or fraternity, rather than as ordinary thieves, is
found in the following passage of Ziau-d din Barni's History of Firoz
Shah (written about 1356):
In the reign of that sultan (about 1290), some Thugs were taken in
Delhi, and a man belonging to that fraternity was the means of about a
thousand being captured. But not one of these did the sultan have
killed. He gave orders for them to be put into boats and to be
conveyed into the lower country, to the neighbourhood of Lakhnauti,
where they were to be set free. The Thugs would thus have to dwell
about Lakhnauti and would not trouble the neighbourhood of Delhi any
more." (Sir HM Elliot's History of India, iii. 141).
Membership was sometimes passed from father to son, in what would now
be termed a criminal underclass. The leaders of long-established Thug
groups tended to come from these hereditary lines, as the gang
developed into a criminal 'tribe'. Other men would get to know a Thug
band and would hope to be recruited, in the way that one might aspire
to join an elite regiment or university: they were the best operators
in "the business" and, like a regiment or college fraternity, once in
the group, there was a camaraderie of numbers and shared experience.
The robbery became less a question of solving problems of poverty and
more a profession, like soldiering.
Sometimes the young children of the travelers would be spared and
groomed to become Thugs themselves, as the presence of children would
help allay suspicion. A fourth way of becoming a Thug was by training
with a guru, similar to an apprenticeship for a guild or profession,
during which the candidate could be assessed for reliability, courage,
discretion and discipline.[2]
The magnitude of the problem
Estimates of the total number of victims vary widely, depending on the
author's idea of the length of existence of the Thugs (for which there
are no reliable sources). According to the Guinness Book of Records
the Thuggee cult was responsible for approximately 2,000,000 deaths,
while British historian Dr. Mike Dash estimates that they killed
50,000 persons in total, based on his assumption that they only
started to exist 150 years before their eradication in the 1830s.
Yearly figures for the early 19th century are better documented, but
even they are inaccurate estimates. For example, gang leader Behram
has often been considered the world's most prolific serial killer,
blamed for 931 killings between 1790 and 1830. Reference to
contemporary manuscript sources, however, shows that Behram actually
gave inconsistent statements regarding the number of murders he had
committed. While he did state that he had "been present at" 931
killings committed by his gang of 25 to 50 men, elsewhere he admitted
that he had personally strangled "only" around 125 people. Having
turned King's Evidence and agreed to inform on his former companions,
furthermore, Behram never stood trial for any of the killings
attributed to him, the total of which must thus remain a matter of
dispute.[6]
Suppression
The Thuggee cult was suppressed by the British rulers of India in the
1830s.[2] The arrival of the British and their development of a
methodology to tackle crime meant the techniques of the Thugs had met
their match. Suddenly, the mysterious disappearances were mysteries no
longer and it became clear how even large caravans could be
infiltrated by apparently small groups, that were in fact acting in
concert. Once the techniques were known to all travellers, the element
of surprise was gone and the attacks became botched, until the hunters
became the hunted.
Civil servant William Henry Sleeman, superintendent, 'Thuggee and
Dacoity Dept.' in 1835, and later its Commissioner in 1839.Reasons for
British success included:
the dissemination of reports regarding Thuggee developments across
territorial borders, so that each administrator was made aware of new
techniques as soon as they were put in practice, so that travellers
could be warned and advised on possible counter-measures.
the use of King's evidence programmes gave an incentive for gang
members to inform on their peers to save their own lives. This
undermined the code of silence that protected members.
at a time when, even in Britain, policing was in its infancy, the
British set up a dedicated police force, the Thuggee Department, and
special tribunals that prevented local influence from affecting
criminal proceedings.
the police force applied the new detective methodologies to record the
locations of attacks, the time of day or circumstances of the attack,
the size of group, the approach to the victims and the behaviours
after the attacks. In this way, a single informant, belonging to one
gang in one region, might yield details that would be applicable to
most, or all, gangs in a region or indeed across all India.
The initiative of suppression was due largely to the efforts of the
civil servant William Sleeman, who started an extensive campaign
involving profiling and intelligence. A police organisation known as
the 'Thuggee and Dacoity Department' was established within the
Government of India, with William Sleeman appointed Superintendent of
the department in 1835. Thousands of men were either put in prison,
executed, or expelled from British India.[2] The campaign was heavily
based on informants recruited from captured thugs who were offered
protection on the condition that they told everything that they knew.
By the 1870s, the Thug cult was extinct, but it led to the
promulgation of the Criminal Tribes Act of 1871. Although it was
repealed upon independence of India, the concept of 'criminal tribes'
and 'criminal castes' is still prevalent in India.[7][8] The
Department remained in existence until 1904, when it was replaced by
the Central Criminal Intelligence Department (CID).
Possible misinterpretation by the British and scepticism about the
existence
In her book The Strangled Traveler: Colonial Imaginings and the Thugs
of India (2002), Martine van Woerkens suggests that evidence for the
existence of a Thuggee cult in the 19th century was in part the
product of "colonial imaginings" — British fear of the little-known
interior of India and limited understanding of the religious and
social practices of its inhabitants. For a comparison, see Juggernaut
and the Black Hole of Calcutta.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Juggernaut
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Hole_of_Calcutta
Krishna Dutta, while reviewing the book Thug: the true story of
India's murderous cult by the British historian Dr. Mike Dash in The
Independent, argues:[9]
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Independent
"In recent years, the revisionist view that thuggee was a British
invention, a means to tighten their hold in the country, has been
given credence in India, France and the US, but this well-researched
book objectively questions that assertion."
In his book, Dash rejects scepticism about the existence of a secret
network of groups with a modus operandi that was different from
highwaymen, such as dacoits. To prove his point Dash refers to the
excavated corpses in graves, of which the hidden locations were
revealed to Sleeman's team by thug informants. In addition, Dash
treats the extensive and thorough documentation that Sleeman made.
Dash rejects the colonial emphasis on the religious motivation for
robbing, but instead asserts that monetary gain was the main
motivation for Thuggee and that men sometimes became Thugs due to
extreme poverty. He further asserts that the Thugs were highly
superstitious and that they worshipped the Hindu goddess Kali, but
that their faith was not very different from their contemporary non-
thugs. He admits, though, that the thugs had certain group-specific
superstitions and rituals.
Aftermath
The discovery of the thuggee was one of the main reason why the
Criminal Tribes Act was created.
In popular culture
This "In popular culture" section may contain minor or trivial
references. Please reorganize this content to explain the subject's
impact on popular culture rather than simply listing appearances, and
remove trivial references. (November 2009)
In literature
The story of Thuggee was popularised by books such as Philip Meadows
Taylor's novel Confessions of a Thug, 1839, leading to the word "thug"
entering the English language. Ameer Ali, the protagonist of
Confessions of a Thug was said to be based on a real Thug called Syeed
Amir Ali.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philip_Meadows_Taylor
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Confessions_of_a_Thug_(novel)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Protagonist
John Masters' novel The Deceivers also deals with the subject. A more
recent book is George Bruce's The Stranglers: The cult of Thuggee and
its overthrow in British India (1968). Dan Simmons's Song of Kali,
1985, features a Thuggee cult.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Masters
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dan_Simmons
The 19th century American writer Mark Twain discusses the Thuggee
fairly extensively in chapters 9 and 10 of "Following the Equator:
Volume II", 1897, THE ECCO PRESS, ISBN 0-88001-519-5.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Twain
Christopher Moore's novel, Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff,
Christ's Childhood Pal, describes a Thuggee ritual.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lamb:_The_Gospel_According_to_Biff,_Christ%27s_Childhood_Pal
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Moore_(author)
The 1976 science fiction novel Strangler's Moon by E.E. "Doc" Smith
and Stephen Goldin is based on the Thuggee (book #2 in the Family
D'Alembert series).
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strangler%27s_Moon
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E._E._Smith
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephen_Goldin
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Family_D%27Alembert
Sci-Fi/Fantasy author Glen Cook uses an India-like setting and Thuggee
as a plot vehicle in his books Shadow Games (June 1989), and Dreams of
Steel (April 1990). The books and later ones that continue the
storyline form part of Cook's Black Company series.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glen_Cook
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shadow_Games
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dreams_of_Steel
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Company
The Serpent's Shadow by Mercedes Lackey has a Hindu villain, whose
minions are Thuggee, almost without exception.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mercedes_Lackey
Author William T. Vollmann draws upon Sleeman in his story The Yellow
Sugar, which is one of two tales in his collection The Rainbow Stories
dealing with the colour yellow.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_T._Vollmann
In the pre-Holmes short story "The Mystery of Uncle Jeremy's
Household" (1887), Arthur Conan Doyle centres the narrative on a
beautiful female Thuggee in England who has "occasional fits of
fanaticism" and "horrible conceptions of religion".
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Conan_Doyle
Italian writer Emilio Salgari (1862–1911) wrote about thugs in I
Misteri della Jungla Nera (1895) and Le Due Tigri (1904) and other
short stories.
George Macdonald Fraser's novel Flashman in the Great Game (1975)
makes references to the "cult" of Thuggee, while the phrase: "pass the
tobacco" is used as a verbal signal for the killing to begin.
The DC Comics character Ravan is a Thuggee assassin who kills to delay
the return of Kali. He is the enemy of Kobra who seeks to bring about
her return.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DC_Comics
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ravan_(comics)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kali
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kobra_(comics)
In the novel The Thirteenth Manifestation: the Song of Kali Ma (2006)
by Josephine Dunne, thuggees appear as assassins who operate from an
ancient subterranean Kali temple under the mountains between the
Pakistan and Indian line of control in Kashmir.
In film
The two most popular depictions of the cult in film are the 1939 film,
Gunga Din, and the 1984 film, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.
The Indiana Jones movie is notable for Amrish Puri's villain, who is
shown chanting lines such as "maaro maaro sooar ko, chamdi nocho pee
lo khoon" - literally "Kill, Kill the pig, flay his skin, drink his
blood". Temple of Doom was temporarily banned in India for an
allegedly racist portrayal of Indians. Both films have the heroes
fighting secret revivals of the cult to prevent them from resuming
their reigns of terror, although Temple of Doom included features that
were never part of the Thuggee, such as cardiectomy.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indiana_Jones_and_the_Temple_of_Doom
In the 1956 film Around the World in Eighty Days, starring David
Niven, Passepartout rescues a princess captured by the Thuggee and
sentenced to burn to death in the funeral pyre with her deceased
husband. (In the original Jules Verne novel, Thuggee are mentioned
only briefly, and not directly in connection with this princess.)[10]
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Around_the_World_in_Eighty_Days_(1956_film)
In 1960 British horror studio Hammer Film Productions released The
Stranglers of Bombay. In the film, Guy Rolfe portrays an heroic
British officer battling institutional mismanagement by the British
East India Company, as well as Thuggee infiltration of Indian society,
in an attempt to bring the cultists to justice.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/British_East_India_Company
The 1968 Bollywood film Sangharsh, based on a story by Jnanpith Award
winner, Mahasweta Devi, presented a fictionalised account of vendetta
within a Thuggee cult in the holy Indian town of Varanasi.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sunghursh_(1968_film)
The 1988 film version of The Deceivers, produced by Ismail Merchant
and starring Pierce Brosnan, is a fictionalised account of the initial
discovery and infiltration of the Thuggee sect by an imperial British
administrator.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Deceivers
The 1954 film I Misteri della Giungla Nera directed by Gian Paolo
Callegari and starring Lex Barker, where a group of religious fanatics
in India, the Thugs, prey upon European and natives alike by capturing
and offering them up in sacrifice to their frightful goddess, Kali
(from imdb.) Adapted from Emilio Salgari's book by the same name.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emilio_Salgari
The 1965 film Help! directed by Richard Lester and featuring The
Beatles parodies the thuggee as the cult that tries to steal Ringo's
sacrificial ring.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Help!_(film)
In television
In an episode of Highlander: The Series, "The Wrath of Kali", Duncan
MacLeod deals with immortal Kamir (played by Indian actor Kabir Bedi),
last of the Thuggee.
The fifth episode of the short-lived Clerks: The Animated Series
featured a plot twist where the Little League World Champions were
kidnapped by the Thuggee, where they were forced to chip rock away
from walls (much like the Thuggee in Temple of Doom).
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little_League
In the episode "The Yellow Scarf Affair" of the series The Man from
U.N.C.L.E., Agent Napoleon Solo uncovers a revival of the Thuggee cult
while investigating a plane crash in India.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Man_from_U.N.C.L.E.
On It Ain't Half Hot Mum series 2, episode 8, "The Night of the
Thugs", the concert party take refuge from a rainstorm in a ruined
Thuggee temple. NB - Rare unscripted "giggle" from Captain Ashwood
when Colonel Reynolds discuss stealing the ruby from the statue
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Episodes_of_Highlander_(season_4)#The_Wrath_of_Kali
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/It_Ain%27t_Half_Hot_Mum
See also
Highwayman http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Highwayman
Notes and references
This article incorporates text from the Encyclopædia Britannica,
Eleventh Edition, a publication now in the public domain.
http://www.1902encyclopedia.com/T/THU/thugs.html
^ Thugs 1902 Encyclopædia Britannica'.Pali-sthag.
^ a b c d Dash, Mike Thug: the true story of India's murderous cult
ISBN 1-86207-604-9, 2005
^ Dash, pp. 284-286 in the Dutch translation of the book
^ Dash, pp. 247 in the Dutch translation of the book
^ Dash, page 329 of the UK edition - notes to Chapter 16
^ James Paton, 'Collections on Thuggee and Dacoitee', British Library
Add. Mss. 41300
^ "Thugs Traditional View" (shtml). BBC.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/religion/religions/hinduism/history/thugs.shtml.
Retrieved 2007-09-17.
^ Sinister sects: Thug, Mike Dash's investigation into the gangs who
preyed on travellers in 19th-century India by Kevin Rushby, The
Guardian, Saturday, June 11, 2005.
^ Dutta, Krishna (2005) The sacred slaughterers. Book review of Thug:
the true story of India's murderous cult by Mike Dash. In the
Independent (Published: 8 July 2005)text
^ Verne, Jules (August 18, 2005). Around The World in Eighty Days.
http://www.gutenberg.org/catalog/world/readfile?fk_files=34998. See
page 38, where the Thuggee chief is mentioned, and page 46, where the
bride is referred to as a suttee.
Bibliography
This article incorporates text from the Encyclopædia Britannica,
Eleventh Edition, a publication now in the public domain.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Encyclop%C3%A6dia_Britannica_Eleventh_Edition
Dash, Mike Thug: the true story of India's murderous cult ISBN
1-86207-604-9, 2005
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mike_Dash
Dutta, Krishna (2005) The sacred slaughterers. Book review of Thug:
the true story of India's murderous cult by Mike Dash. In The
Independent (Published: 8 July 2005) text
http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/reviews/thug-the-true-story-of-indias-murderous-cult-by-mike-dash-497902.html
Paton, James 'Collections on Thuggee and Dacoitee', British Library
Add. Mss. 41300
Woerkens, Martine van The Strangled Traveler: Colonial Imaginings and
the Thugs of India (2002),
External links
Acting in the "Theatre of Anarchy": 'The Anti-Thug Campaign' and
Elaborations of Colonial Rule in Early-Nineteenth Century India by Tom
Lloyd (2006) in PDF file format
http://www.csas.ed.ac.uk/fichiers/LLOYD.pdf
Parama Roy: Discovering India, Imagining Thuggee. In: idem, Indian
Traffic. Identities in Question in Colonial and Postcolonial India.
University of California Press 1998. (in html format)
Retrieved from "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thuggee"
Discovering India, Imagining Thuggee
Acknowledgments
This book owes a great deal to the critical perspicacity and
generosity of friends, colleagues, mentors, and institutions, whom I
am grateful to be able to name and thank. These pages would have been
impossible to bring to fruition without the encouragement and
intellectual support of Sandhya Shetty and Carole-Anne Tyler, who
consistently asked the difficult questions and who taught me through
the inspiration of their own scholarship. I am also grateful to
Lalitha Gopalan, who so often told me what I was thinking before I
knew it myself. I am grateful too to the many other friends and
colleagues who read the manuscript, either in full or in part, or who
responded to my work at conferences: Katherine Kinney, Joe Childers,
R. Radhakrishnan, Inderpal Grewal, Vincent Cheng, Daniel Boyarin, Kim
Devlin, Kalpana Seshadri-Crooks, Bette London, Ron Inden, Robert
Goldman, Aditya Behl, Gayatri Spivak, Jennifer Brody, George Haggerty,
Lawrence Cohen, Sue-Ellen Case, Philip Brett, and Susan Foster. I am
indebted to the readers for the University of California Press,
especially Caren Kaplan and Sangeeta Ray, for their meticulous,
constructive, and sympathetic evaluation of the project. My editor,
Doris Kretschmer, has been unfailingly helpful and patient. I am also
grateful to Dore Brown and Diane Jagusiak of the University of
California Press, and to Sarah Myers, for their scrupulous editing. I
am indebted above all to my parents, Amalendu and Ramola Roy, as well
as to Bharat Trehan for (among other things) his recall of a youth
productively spent watching Bombay films.
This project has been funded by a University of California President’s
Research Fellowship in the Humanities in 1991–1992, a fellowship in
the University of California, Riverside’s Center for Ideas and Society
in the spring of 1994, and by two pretenure faculty-development awards
from the University of California, Riverside. I am grateful for this
support.
2. Discovering India, Imagining Thuggee
I am a Thug, my father and grandfather were Thugs, and I have thugged
with many. Let the government employ me and I will do its work.
He had met hundreds of other Deceivers, and the notes were a complete
tale of all he had seen and heard and done; of all the Deceivers who
had engaged in any action, with their descriptions, habits, and homes;
of each murder, and how it had gone, and how it might have been
prevented—or improved upon. The words could be read for either
purpose, according to the spirit of the reader.
At the time that Burton was impersonating Mirza Abdullah in the
bazaars of Sind, another important narrative of disguise,
surveillance, and racial crossing was being written in the
subcontinent, this one under the auspices of the Thuggee and Dacoity
Department of the East India Company’s government. This was the
narrative of the exposure and extirpation of a form of hereditary
criminality called thuggee; it was to form a significant constitutive
component of the authoritarian and interventionary reform of the 1830s
and 1840s and to contribute to the still-emerging project of
“discovering India.” “It was with the flourish of mystery unveiled and
mastered,” writes a contemporary historian, “that a group of officers
of the Political Department had lobbied for special operations against
[a] ‘murderous fraternity’ and for special laws to deal with it.” [1]
It is that tale of thuggee that this chapter will take up, at least in
part as a counterpoint to the Burtonian record of the Englishman as
native. It examines the phenomenon designated thuggee by colonial
authority in nineteenth-century India, a phenomenon whose emergence,
codification, and overthrow was to become perhaps the founding moment
for the study of indigenous criminality, as a problem of
impersonation, visibility, and the transactions of reading. I use the
example of thuggee to explore one of the various and often mutually
discontinuous kinds of identities that were created, fixed, or
rendered ambivalent for Indian colonial subjects. In approaching the
problematic of thuggee in the colonial context through the optic of
identity formation and subjection, I broach a nexus of concerns that
cohere around the epistemes of representation and knowledge: the
problematic of the formation of colonial knowledge, the contested,
changing, and uneven definitions of law, order, criminality, and
reform in early-nineteenth-century India, the theorization of colonial
identities (Indian and British), and the discursive problems
associated with generating the moral subject of the civilizing mission
of British colonialism.
This chapter has three sections, with significant amounts of overlap.
The first examines the official records of the Thuggee and Dacoity
Department (first established in the 1830s), a cluster of documents
that I have perhaps rather arbitrarily designated the thuggee archive.
This includes first and foremost the files on thuggee and dacoity in
the India Office Library and the National Archives of India. Also
incorporated in this thuggee archive are the works (Ramaseeana, or a
Vocabulary of the Peculiar Language Used by the Thugs [1836]; Report
on Budhuk Alias Bagree Dacoits and Other Gang Robbers by Hereditary
Profession [1849]; Report on the Depredations Committed by the Thug
Gangs [1840]) of William Henry Sleeman of thuggee fame, as well as of
other officials associated directly or indirectly with the antithug
campaign: James Sleeman, Thug, or A Million Murders (1920); Charles
Hervey, Some Records of Crime (1892); Edward Thornton, Illustrations
of the History and Practices of the Thugs (1837); and the anonymously
authored The Thugs or Phansigars of India (1839), an abridged version
of the Ramaseeana for an American audience. This inventory of thuggee
materials also includes a number of biographies, fictionalizations,
and nonofficial accounts of the “discovery” of the phenomenon and its
eradication: James Hutton, A Popular Account of the Thugs and Dacoits,
the Hereditary Garroters and Gang-Robbers of India (1857); A. J.
Wightman, No Friend for Travellers (1959); George Bruce, The
Stranglers: The Cult of Thuggee and Its Overthrow in British India
(1968); Francis Tuker, The Yellow Scarf (1961); and Philip Meadows
Taylor, Confessions of a Thug (1839). These are collectively
designated the archive in this chapter, despite the incommensurability
in their generic status; this has been done because there appears to
be very little significant difference between one text and another in
this collection. Each seems to repeat the others in an uncanny
fashion; each narrates the same incidents in almost exactly the same
rhetorical mode; and each looks to W. H. Sleeman’s productions as the
founding texts of the thuggee narrative. (Meadows Taylor’s novel
differs from these only in its focus on a single thug and its
accumulation of additional [fictional] detail.)
The second section focuses on the special juridical procedures that
had to be instituted in order to deal with some of the most
intractable problems associated with a bizarre and enigmatic variety
of criminality. The final section provides a reading of the 1952 work
on the thugs by John Masters, The Deceivers, a novel that was
popularized in the 1980s in a film of that name by Merchant Ivory.
What sets this novel apart from the rest of the archive is the turn it
gives to the always already familiar narrative of thuggee through its
focus on the tensions of the investigating subject and its interest in
the English impersonation of Indianness and Englishness. It allows us
a way of (re)visiting and (re)inflecting the thuggee archive through
its stress on the colonizing male’s desires and identifications, and
thus forms an apposite corollary to the accent on Indian impersonation
that informs the discourse of criminal law.
At this point I should add a note about the limits of the enterprise
undertaken in this chapter. In the first place, I do not wish to
furnish another account of thuggee or to enter the traffic in
competing narratives of what might have constituted a material thug
organization or practice. Nor am I interested in reinscribing the
practices of the thugs in the register of subaltern insurgency,
though, given that subalternity is most properly construed as a
relational rather than an essential category,[2] I am not unwilling to
grant the thugs’ subaltern status. I am certainly sympathetic to
Ranajit Guha’s model of reading subaltern insurgency (as a “turning
things upside down”) through the texts of counterinsurgency.[3] But,
given the exclusions listed earlier in this paragraph, for me to read
thuggee as resistive, anticolonial, protonationalist, or even
antistate may be philosophically not discontinuous with the reading
practices that produced the thug as a demonized and completely
irrational entity. My object here is not to recuperate a subaltern
consciousness, even one that is acknowledged to be ineluctably
discursive, “a theoretical fiction to entitle the project of
reading,” [4] though I concede that the question of “subaltern
consciousness” cannot be completely bypassed.
I shall confine myself instead to examining the performative
subjectivity of the thug, as it is constructed in the discourse of
thuggee, as a way of teasing out, extending, and transforming some of
the implications of representation, mimicry, and visibility in the
colonial context. What I will engage are the models of reading that
are provided by the thuggee archives—how they are formed,
consolidated, or (partially) interrupted. And what I do argue is that
the reading of the uncovering of thuggee as an enabling moment for the
colonial state in its quest for the consolidation of judicial power
needs to be, if not displaced, at least complicated, by the
acknowledgment that thuggee forms an especially intransigent moment
within the colonial construction of criminality; it is a moment that
confounds and unsettles the received wisdom about identity formation,
truth production, and meliorative possibilities in early-nineteenth-
century India. What I also argue is that the discourse on and around
thuggee can be instrumental in opening up our present understanding of
the theorization of colonial identity, especially as it engages
questions of familiarity, visibility, and reproducibility. The text of
thuggee provides, for instance, a point of entry into a wider range of
mimic desires, identifications, and positions than someone like Bhabha
explicitly engages[5]—for instance, the colonizer’s fascination with
going native, the English miming of Englishness, or the indigenous
miming of indigenous subject positions—as well as foregrounding
questions of class, gender, and sexuality.
• • •
The Thug
The first thugs were not arrested by the British until 1799, after the
defeat at Seringapatam of Tipu Sultan, one of the most potent threats
to the expansionist ambitions of the East India Company; it was not
evident to the British at the time, though, that the stranglers were
thugs or hereditary killers. The first mention of the law-and-order
problem posed by thugs occurs in 1810, in the commander-in-chief’s
instructions to sepoys proceeding on leave about the dangers of
traveling at night and carrying large sums of cash instead of bills of
exchange;[6] but thuggee as a significant social arrangement or
discursive formation does not feature in this caution to the sepoys.
Thornton reproduces some correspondence between British magistrates
and police officials of the Western Provinces in the years 1814–1816
on the subject of thugs; at this point knowledge about them appears
very fragmentary, with no reference to shared religious rituals or
language or an idiosyncratic form of murder. It appears that the
notion of thuggee as a system rather than a disarticulated set of
violent acts was first broached in 1816 by Dr. Richard Sherwood, who
wrote an essay detailing its genealogy, organization, and argot for
the Madras Literary Gazette.[7] It proved, however, enormously
difficult to compel belief in the existence of such a fraternity (this
was to remain a problem in the decades to come), even among British
political officers, magistrates, and law-enforcement officials.
Meadows Taylor describes the capture of large numbers of thugs in
Bundelkhand and Malwa in the 1820s, an event that failed to “[excite]
more than a passing share of public attention.” [8] It was not until
Captain W. H. Sleeman undertook the exercise of decoding and exposing
thuggee in 1830, after the unexpected confession of the captured
bandit Feringheea, that a grand narrative of thuggee began to emerge.
Despite this relatively recent discovery, however, thuggee as praxis
and as identity was always represented as being of almost
inconceivable antiquity, conceived in the precolonial past and
sanctioned by long duration and popular Hindu mythology, if not
textual doctrine. A. J. Wightman, echoing his nineteenth-century
predecessors, asserts that though evidence of the existence of thuggee
is first found in records of the late thirteenth century, “it is
obvious that they must have been well-established at a much earlier
date.” [9] Some writers, like Sherwood, traced its origins to the
Arab, Afghan, and Mughal conquests of India of several centuries
earlier; James Sleeman and others traced the thugs back to the times
of Herodotus. The thug Feringheea is said to have claimed that the
sculptures at Ellora, which included representations of all the
professions on earth, featured a depiction of a thug plying his deadly
trade.[10] All the reports without exception demonstrate a tenacious
need to generate a creation myth, to locate not just a point of
discovery but a point of origin, and to establish a precolonial
genealogy. But at the beginning, as Geoff Bennington has said about
national histories, is also the myth of a beginning; and the origins
of thuggee keep receding into a more and more distant historical/
mythological point of inauguration.[11] In fact, several of the
accounts end up locating its beginning in a Hindu myth of creation.
The thugs, as they are represented in nineteenth- and twentieth-
century colonial representations, were a cult of professional
stranglers who preyed on travelers—though never on Englishmen—as an
act of worship to the popular Hindu goddess Kali. They were
represented as hereditary killers drawn from all regions, religions,
classes, and castes, united by their devotion to Kali and the act of
strangulation, which was, in this reading, quite literally sacralized.
The thugs were bound to their calling—and to each other—by shared
signifying systems: a language, a belief in the divine origin of the
practice, and a dizzying array of minutely observed rituals,
prohibitions, and superstitions. The thuggee system functioned as a
quasi-religious fraternity that, paradoxically, would accommodate just
about every Indian. It was defined as a compelling and
characteristically Indian form of social (ir)rationality, and the
practice was represented as resting upon an interlocking network of
constitutive contradictions.
Though the thugs robbed their victims and the confessions usually
demonstrate a very lucid recall of the division of the plunder,
thuggee was not conceived as having any economic base, particularly
because those involved in it appeared to have fixed abodes, peaceful
occupations, and a respectable place in the social and caste
hierarchies during those times when they were not engaged in killing
and plunder. While Sherwood does speculate, albeit briefly and
unevenly, on the proximate material causes of thuggee, the question
becomes progressively leached out of subsequent, and more hegemonic,
exegeses of thuggee. All the writers on the subject are insistent, to
greater or lesser degrees, that the thugs must not be regarded as
exigent, dispossessed, or rebellious subjects; they are unlike the
bandits of folk myth in being devious, unmartial (“cowardly” is the
adjective most often used), and almost obscenely respectable.[12] They
are characterized instead as hereditary killers whose “joyous
occupation” was, paradoxically, not only a matter of caste duty and
therefore ontological necessity but also a prime instance of
unalienated labor. By the time we come to James Sleeman’s hagiographic
account of his grandfather’s exploits, the act of strangulation has
not only been uncoupled from the usual motives for murder but has
acquired a quasi-libidinal charge: “The taking of human life for the
sheer lust of killing was the Thugs’ main object: the plunder, however
pleasant, being a secondary consideration.…Here was no body of amateur
assassins, driven to crime by force of circumstance, but men of
seeming respectability and high intelligence, often occupying
positions of importance and responsibility in their normal lives,
secretly trained from boyhood to the highest degree of skill in
strangulation.” [13] Sleeman is not alone in this reading of the
combined erotic and religious investment in murder. Taylor, in
Confessions of a Thug, hints at the homoerotic subtext of a thug’s
murder of a handsome lad; and George MacMunn explicitly couples the
left-hand Tantrism (including exorbitant and unauthorized sexual acts)
of Kali worshipers with behaviors like thuggee and nationalist
violence:
The murder trials that have followed on the sedition and secret murder
cult in Bengal, and indeed throughout India, show in their records how
the Hindu student depraved and often injured by too early eroticism,
turns to the suggestiveness of the murder-monger, and worships the
nitro-glycerine bomb as the apotheosis of his goddess [Kali].…The
student and the assistant editor of the rag, that but exists to
inflame students and pays its way by advertising the potent
aphrodisiacs among them, are the nidus of the bomb-cult.[14]
Katherine Mayo also locates the worship of Kali, premature and
excessive sexual activity, and acts of anticolonial terrorism within a
single perceptual grid.[15] This confluence of violence, illegitimacy,
and homoerotic desire is to resurface in The Deceivers.
Some twentieth-century scholars of colonial history have sought to
posit alternative, materialist histories of the phenomenon called
thuggee. Hiralal Gupta traces the development of thuggee or banditry
in the early nineteenth century to the success of the East India
Company’s expansionist policy, speculating that a significant number
of people captured as thugs by the Thuggee and Dacoity Department in
the 1830s and 1840s were erstwhile soldiers or officials in the employ
of rulers whose states had recently come under British control. These
people were among those who had lost their employment or fallen from
favor as a result of the annexation or reconfiguration of the Indian
princely states.[16] Sandria Freitag on the other hand points to the
displacement of peripatetic groups as a result of the ousting of local
settled rulers who had traditionally provided some protection to such
groups and to the establishment of the land-revenue-based state as a
possible explanation for the instances of collective acts of violence.
She also glosses the violence of dacoits—as of similar groups—as bids
for power and upward social mobility that would have been acknowledged
as such and accommodated by precolonial Indian state formations.[17]
Stewart Gordon argues that the large number of marauding groups that
were jockeying for political power in Malwa (where most of the thugs
seemed to be based) in the late eighteenth century posed a threat to
the stable sources of revenue in the region and necessitated the
creation of external sources of revenue. Those designated thugs were
“locally recruited, locally based” marauders hired to plunder outside
the neighborhood, as it were, in order to make up for revenue that
might have been lost to larger marauding groups.[18]
As I have already mentioned, Englishmen were never targeted by the
thugs; a few of the written accounts attribute the unsolved murder of
a Lieutenant Maunsell (or Monsell) in 1812 to thugs (as does the film
version of The Deceivers [1987], which opens with that killing), but
most of the thuggee texts point to the fact that the British had no
personal investment in the problem. Almost unfailingly these accounts
point to the antithug campaigns as exemplary instances of the active
benevolence of British rule, so often unjustly maligned or compared
unfavorably with indigenous rule. James Sleeman, who is particularly
apoplectic on this issue, argues that twentieth-century Indian demands
for independence were in effect a call for a return to the days of
thuggee: “Had this small handful of British officials, scattered like
poppies in a corn-field, shown the slightest timidity in grappling
with this gigantic task, they would surely have fallen victims to the
Thugs at the outset, in which case millions of Indians alive to-day
would never have been born, including possibly those who now agitate
for a restoration of the conditions under which Thuggee thrived and
battened.” [19]
Colonial accounts thus represent thuggee as outside a realm of
political and economic rationality (since it is religiously
sanctioned, grounded in caste, and linked to exorbitant pleasures).
Nonetheless, as the obsessive invocations of the Mutiny of 1857 and of
the Bengal revolutionaries of the twentieth century indicate, thuggee
was simultaneously addressed (even if not overtly acknowledged) as a
peculiarly potent threat to the authority and benevolence of the
empire in India. “To the colonial regime,” writes David Arnold, “crime
and politics were almost inseparable: serious crime was an implicit
defiance of state authority and a possible prelude to rebellion;
political resistance was either a ‘crime’ or the likely occasion for
it.” [20] Freitag points to the departures of British police action
from those of their Mughal predecessors; while the Mughals delegated
responsibility for containing collective crime to local functionaries,
the British felt such corporate criminal behaviors were nothing other
than a defiance of the state itself.[21] She points to the fundamental
distinctions, in terms of both the allocation of resources and the
formulation of legal procedures, that the Raj made between crimes
committed by individuals (“ordinary crime”) and those committed by
collectivities (“extraordinary crime”):
Elaboration of legal codes and police establishments to deal with
individual crime conveyed the impression that “the rule of law” had
been introduced into British India; yet the annual compilation of
crime and police statistics makes clear the minimal state resources
committed to policing individual crime. Unless such crime grew
alarmingly in a short period, or its policing fell significantly short
of what came to be seen as the norms of efficiency (for an inefficient
force), the state did not reckon individual crime to be of great
importance. By contrast, however, the British perceived collectively
criminal actions to be either directed against, or weakening, the
authority of the state. As a consequence, the British repeatedly felt
the need to launch centralized police forces against “extraordinary”
crime and viewed their inefficacy as a measure of the Raj’s impotence.
[22]
The thuggee records (including the confessions of thug approvers)
endeavor to provide—through the dominant tropes of ritualized,
religiously ratified, and libidinally charged slaughter—a tightly
knit, seamless, and self-validating account of an exceptional Indian
criminal practice. Yet, even as the record invokes the unvarying
trademarks of thug practice, it inescapably registers the
provisionality of its own categorization. The thug’s signature—murder
by strangulation, using a (silk) handkerchief—does not appear in every
act labeled thuggee; swords and poison feature as agents of
destruction quite as much as the talismanic rumal (handkerchief). Such
wide variations along a continuum of criminal activity were to lead,
after the 1830s, to an expansion of the provenance of thuggee: the
term came to include all kinds of organized and corporate criminal
activity (including poisoning and the kidnapping of children) that was
understood to be hereditary and/or itinerant. The confessions also
seem to demonstrate that at least some thugs were initiated into
professional practice not in adolescence or early manhood by older
male family members but later in life, most typically in response to a
situation of financial exigency.
Not only was it difficult to isolate certain crimes as the acts of
thugs, it was never easy either to establish the exceptional and
profoundly aberrant character of thuggee. The common complaint in all
the thuggee accounts without exception is that the activity of the
thugs seemed to mesh with exasperating ease into existing indigenous
networks of wealth and power, since they were supported by zamindars
(landowners), Indian princes, law-enforcement officials, merchants,
and even ordinary people. As Freitag suggests, “among organized
criminals the thags may have been the group most thoroughly embedded
in local society.” [23] The worship of Kali (also called Devi, or
Bhawani) could not easily be coded as an eccentric religious practice
either. Though some narratives do interpret the thugs’ invocation of
the goddess on the scaffold as proof positive of guilt (“Their
invocation of Bhawani at the drop was a confession of their guilt, for
no one in such a situation invokes Bhawani but a Thug, and he invokes
no other deity in any situation, whatever may be his religion or sect”)
[24], they also point to the widespread adoration of Kali across
regions and religions, among those identified as law-abiding as well
as those constituted as criminal.[25] Finally, while Thug beliefs and
rituals, especially those enacted at the start of an expedition, were
elaborately detailed, it was also asserted that in India expeditions
in quest of plunder were qualitatively no different from expeditions
undertaken for territorial aggrandizement; rulers and robbers alike
took the auspices after the Dasehra festival, before setting out on
their badshashi kam (kingly work).
Hence at least two contesting readings emerge: one defines the thugs
as a community apart, existing in enmity against law-abiding,
scrutable, and locally anchored subjects; the other identifies them as
natural to indigenous society, aided and abetted by all, and mirroring
and reproducing that society’s values. The uneasy fit between the
contextualizing move and the essentializing one was productive of an
aporia, which could only be resolved by invoking that most powerful of
all Indological epistemes—that of caste.[26] All the contradictions
and the seemingly endless heterogeneity of the subject category of the
thug are subsumed within that category, which is reified as coherent
and inflexible and emptied of any possibility of subjective freedom.
Once thuggee as social alliance was taxonomized as homologous to, if
not identical with (and the slippage from homology to identity occurs
without any apparent discursive strain), a caste, the thug could
simultaneously inhabit what had earlier been discrepant subject
positions: he could simultaneously be an exceptional criminal and a
representative Hindu, or Indian, since in the colonial imaginary the
territory of Hinduism is often coextensive with that of India.[27]
Even this reconciliation was not without its tensions, of course,
since thuggee as a philosophical system and a social formation seemed
to work strongly against the grain of the received colonial view of
India as irrevocably fractured along the fault lines of caste and
religion.
Nor was the caste explanation completely adequate to the great and, as
it seemed, illogical hybridity of thuggee. As a socioreligious
formation thuggee seemed to colonial investigators to be aligned with
popular, indeed demotic, forms of Hinduism in its reverence for Kali,
except that it attracted a large number of Muslim adherents, who
seemed to pay homage quite unproblematically both to the goddess and
to the strictures of the Koran. Here it is important to point to the
varied, contingent, and often irreconcilable constructions of Hindu
tradition in colonial discourse; the representation of Hinduism in the
discourse of thuggee is, for instance, quite discontinuous with that
which is operative in the discourse on sati, which was formulated in a
roughly contemporaneous moment. In the case of sati, as Lata Mani has
argued, colonial officials made energetic and systematic attempts to
establish Hinduism as a religion of the book; and Brahmanical readings
and textual authorities were privileged over custom and local
religious and social practice.[28] But in the instance of thuggee,
Hinduism is defined entirely as and by custom. Moreover, at the
popular or subaltern level, Hindu and Muslim forms of worship and
systems of belief may well have been less distinct than they were to
become (especially for more elevated castes and classes) later in the
century. The whole question in fact of Hindu doctrine and praxis and
its relation to thug identity is notoriously murky and ill defined.
Further complicating this discursive construction of thuggee was the
fact that professional thugs cultivated the appearance of the most
civic-minded of citizens and were conscientious about the discharge of
familial, social, and religious obligations. The very characteristics
that made them successful con men—their polish, their social and
rhetorical skills, their extraordinary capacity for duplicating
identities—also ensured their immense respectability in civil society.
But what rendered thuggee particularly elusive and frustrating to
British observers was its relative invisibility, its skill at
camouflage, and the difficulty of establishing it as a pervasive yet
eccentric form of lawlessness. Thug murders were typically performed
without shedding blood and without using identifiable offensive
weapons of any kind: they were performed far from the victims’ homes,
and the bodies were carefully buried. Because of the care exercised in
the killing and the disposal of the corpses (victims were buried with
great dispatch, and their graves were filled with rocks to keep out
any marauding animals) and the hazards attendant upon travel in
nineteenth-century India, these murders generally failed to register
as murders. Local landowners, rulers, and policemen connived at these
murders for their own benefit, or because they were prompted, it was
argued, by the heavy demands of superstition; and the peasantry, we
are told, simply ignored the bodies that occasionally appeared in
fields and wells. This raised the question of how far the circuit of
criminality actually extended: if local officials and the police
tolerated and even encouraged thuggee and ordinary folk made no
complaint about it, who could be said to remain unimplicated in it?
Under the circumstances, everything and everyone was liable to
suspicion, since the system of thuggee was both remarkably inclusive
and remarkably discreet in its operations. Hence British thuggee
inspectors were in the discomfiting position of focusing on crimes
that no one else acknowledged, certainly not (from the evidence of
these writers) most Indian princes or zamindars or even common folk
and generally not even the majority of the British magistracy or the
civil service. British scholars of thuggee were thus involved in a
detective project hobbled by an almost-fatal lack of empirical detail.
All natives were potentially thugs, since the system of thuggee was
remarkably inclusive; and the most seemingly innocent objects, like
handkerchiefs or gur (unrefined sugar, ritually consumed at the
commencement of an expedition), could participate in a diabolical
signifying system. And while British ignorance of thuggee (at least
until the 1830s) might contrast favorably with Indian knowledge—and
therefore complicity—it was susceptible of more objectionable
interpretations; in Masters’s novel, there is the danger that British
“ignorance” of thuggee can be read by the natives in a particularly
unflattering light: “In the nine years of the English Company’s rule
nothing had been done against the Deceivers. But William realized now
that most Indians knew at least of the existence of the Deceivers;
and, knowing, they could not believe the English did not also know;
therefore the English officials too were sharing in the spoils; so
what was the use of informing?” [29] (In the film version, the Indians
have good reason to be suspicious: George Angelsmith, the exemplary
servant of the East India Company, has full knowledge of the
activities of the thugs and profits from it.) Here it is not simply
the natives who are the object of investigation, codification, and
supervision; an alternative modality of interpretation is imaginable,
in which colonial authority is itself open to variant readings,
including those it has not authorized.
All these factors made the retrieval of information and the policing
of thuggee particularly vexing. And creating an archive and
standardizing reader response was not easy either. Though each thuggee
expedition and each act of thuggee was performed by the book, attended
by minutely detailed rituals and scrupulously observed omens, and was
immediately identifiable as such to those who could read the signs, it
was not immediately visible as such to those who could not or did not
see thuggee as a semiosis. Even in the 1860s, when knowledge about
thuggee had been codified, circulated, and reproduced and was
underwritten by wide-ranging institutional and legal support, Charles
Hervey complained that his subordinates were yet imperfect readers of
the complex and mysterious text of thuggee,
some correctly recognizing Thuggee in instances which were palpably
the deed of experts, although death should not have taken place;
others only doing so where death had resulted; some classing certain
murders as cases of “Thuggee” without reference to the means resorted
to in the perpetration thereof; others who wholly pass by cases of
poisoning whether followed by death or not, although they bore
evidence of being the acts of class criminals; some who restrict their
notice to selected cases only of its occurrence, passing by other
similar instances; some who endeavour to distinguish between different
degrees of poisoning, some calling “murder by poison” Thugee [sic],
others not doing so[;]…others who lump all such kindred offences under
round numbers without any narration of the attendant circumstances,
contented only with quoting against them the sections of the Penal
Code under which they were triable or were tried.[30]
With all the discrepant valences of this discourse, one factor
remained crucial in the determination of thuggee: the idea of
hereditary criminality. This was not a particularly novel reading of
corporate criminal activity in colonial India; as far back as 1772,
the dacoits of Bengal were strenuously and repeatedly characterized
not as individual or collective subjects responding to socioeconomic
transformations engendered by the sudden ascendancy of the East India
Company or indeed to any other material circumstance, or even to
chance, but as fulfilling a hereditary calling, if not a genetic
predisposition.[31] And, as Sanjay Nigam has convincingly
demonstrated, the colonial reification of caste as coherent and
inflexible, combined with the received notion of hereditary
criminality (most fully exemplified in the instance of thuggee), was
to have a long and ominous history in colonial and postcolonial India;
the Criminal Tribes and Castes Act of 1872 was to designate (without
any possibility of appeal) a number of vagrant and impoverished
“communities” as “criminal by birth” and thus subject to surveillance,
control, and attempted rehabilitation.[32] I am struck here by the
considerable (though not complete) overlap of this discourse with
Michel Foucault’s description of the emergence of the homosexual as a
distinct ontological category in the nineteenth century:
The nineteenth-century homosexual became a personage, a past, a case
history, and a childhood, in addition to being a type of life, a life
form, and a morphology, with an indiscreet anatomy and a mysterious
physiology. Nothing that went into his total composition was
unaffected by his sexuality. It was everywhere present in him: at the
root of all his actions because it was their insidious and
indefinitely active principle; written immodestly on his face and body
because it was a secret that always gave itself away. It was
cosubstantial with him, less as a habitual sin than as a singular
nature.…The sodomite had been a temporary aberration; the homosexual
was now a species.[33]
Because thuggee was such a slippery issue, a kind of legal,
disciplinary, and discursive apparatus was brought to bear on it that
did not occur in the case for instance of sati, another retrograde and
horrific practice apparently authorized by Hinduism. This is not of
course to assert that sati as a discursive formation was unproblematic
for colonial administrators and reformers; Lata Mani has pointed that
the abolition of sati in colonial India was preceded by its
legalization and has drawn attention to the valorization of the
“voluntary” sati in colonial and nationalist discourses. But thuggee
was not so much spectacular—as sati was (at least until 1829)—as
invisible. As a result it was much more difficult to discursively
track its trajectory and to determine the success of the pacification.
Sati was abolished in 1829, and there are no official records after
that date of the practice; it was presumed that it had simply been
legislated out of existence. But in the instance of thuggee, such
faith in the efficacy of legislative sanction is much more uncertain.
In the juridical domain, thuggee was defined as an “exceptional case”
in the name of a colonial contingency, since thuggee by definition was
exorbitant to standard law-and-order discourse and marked at all
points by immoderation.[34] This enabled the establishment of a
discursive and juridical system that was entirely self-referential and
self-validating, in which it was sufficient to be identified as a thug
or “hereditary criminal” through an approver’s testimony, without
actually being convicted of a specific crime, to be liable to arrest,
trial, and, almost inevitably, conviction. I will return to this
shortly.
Knowledge of thuggee as an essence then had to be constructed,
crucially, around an absence; and all the confessions, all the subject
effects produced by the testimony of approvers, were a strenuous
effort to recover a “consciousness,” a consciousness that would
provide the foundation for the revelations that ratified the antithug
campaign. But if thuggee was as far-reaching and as subtle as W. H.
Sleeman and his associates insisted, and if thug ontology and practice
was determined by birth, how could an Englishman ever hope to know the
whole truth and nothing but the truth? How could one verify the
confessions of the approvers and establish checks over their control
of the official record? Thornton registers exasperation at the
contaminated nature of the confessions: “Few things are more difficult
to a native of India than to tell the truth, under any circumstances;
and the confessions of criminals, in all countries, may be expected to
contain a mixture of truth and falsehood. The deposition of Moklal is
not consistent with the rest; nor even with another statement made by
himself, made in conversation with Captain Sleeman.” [35] He also
cites (as do other accounts of thuggee) the instance of an approver
who functioned as a double agent, beguiling his English employer into
believing him committed to the capture of thugs while providing
information and English passes [documents authorizing unimpeded travel
within, and between, designated territories] to his criminal comrades.
[36]
While James Sleeman claims that W. H. Sleeman and his colleagues, in
the 1830s, “resolved that this trade of Thuggee should no longer be
any more a mystery than tailoring or carpentering, began to initiate
themselves into all the secrets of the craft, and were soon, in their
knowledge of the theory of the profession, little behind the
professors themselves,” [37] the “secrecy” of thuggee never
disappeared as a threat. W. H. Sleeman—speaking of course with the
superior wisdom of his newfound knowledge—records a state preceding
revelation with combined horror and incredulity:
While I was in the Civil charge of the district of Nursingpore…no
ordinary robbery or theft could be committed without my being
acquainted with it; nor was there a robber or a thief of the ordinary
kind in the district, with whose character I had not become acquainted
in the discharge of my duty as magistrate; and if any man had then
told me, that a gang of assassins by profession resided in the village
of Kandelee, not four hundred yards from my court, and that [in the]
extensive groves of the village of Mandesur, only one stage from me…
was one of the largest Beles, or places of murder in all India; and
that large gangs from Hindustan and the Deccan used to rendezvous in
these groves, remain in them for many days altogether every year, and
carry their dreadful trade along all the lines of road that pass by
and branch off them, with the knowledge and connivance of the two
landholders by whose ancestors these groves had been planted, I should
have thought him a fool or a mad man; and yet nothing could have been
more true.[38]
Indeed, the entire discourse of thuggee is troped by figures of
darkness, mystery, inscrutability, unpredictability, and unexpected
menace, even as W. H. Sleeman and his assistants are inserted into a
heroic narrative of battle against evil. “Secrecy is indispensable”
for thug ceremonies, and “[a]n impenetrable veil of darkness is thrown
over their atrocities”;[39] “danger was everywhere, unseen and
unexpected” [40] for the Englishmen involved in the anti-thuggee
enterprise (even though Englishmen were known never to be attacked by
thugs); they were like “men isolated in the midst of a dangerous,
trackless and gloomy jungle, without map or compass”;[41] and “[the]
old Thug Associations, which have been now effectually put down in all
parts of India,…would assuredly rise up again, and flourish under the
assurance of religious sanction,…were the strength of the special
police, employed in the suppression, hastily reduced, or its vigilance
relaxed.” [42] Once again, Foucault on the discourse of sex and
sexuality is apropos: “What is peculiar to modern societies, in fact,
is not that they consigned sex to a shadow existence, but that they
dedicated themselves to speaking of it ad infinitum, while exploiting
it as the secret.” [43]
This very obscurity, this elusiveness that characterizes the thug as
discursive object, could and did function as an enabling moment for
the colonial law-and-order machine. Since it could never be decisively
established—given the terms of the discourse—that thuggee had been
extirpated, the need for endless vigilance was ratified. The moral
viability of the civilizing mission, indeed the very ground of its
possibility, is the never-satisfied, endlessly proliferating need for
reform. In the case of thuggee, colonial officials were confirmed in
their belief that the work of civilizing is never done. Thus many
writers warn repeatedly of the dangers of celebrating the demise of
thuggee prematurely; in 1893, Charles Hervey, successor to Colonel W.
H. Sleeman of thuggee fame, was still chasing after thugs. These
officers point not only to the hypnotic lure of thuggee for its
practitioners but also to the fact that native policemen and landlords
are only too anxious to conceal evidence of thug crimes from credulous
British officials overeager to congratulate themselves on the
cessation of this practice and overoptimistic about the all-
encompassing vigilance of colonial power. Thuggee never really goes
away as a present problem as sati might be said to do; it may almost
be said to function as a trope for all that is uncontrollable in the
law-and-order situation. In fact, the construction of hereditary,
pervasive, and socially or religiously sanctioned criminality
inaugurated in the discourse on thuggee reappears throughout the
nineteenth century in the discourse on dacoits, buddhuks, dhatoora
poisoners (all of whom came to occupy the same criminal category as
the thug), and specifically designated criminal tribes and castes.
How else might we understand this absence or unknowability that tropes
the discourse of thuggee? Certainly this simultaneous fear of and
pleasure in the duplicity and omnipresence of the thug deserves some
consideration, especially in light of the questions it raises about
the status of knowledge, subject positions, and representation in the
colonial state. Bhabha’s model of the emergence of shifty civil
subject of the colonial polity through mimicry can be extended here,
it seems to me, to some of the other possibilities of mimicry in the
colonial theater.[44] The situation of the thug is analogous to but
certainly not identical to that of the not quite/not white native—the
thug after all is not mimicking colonial ontology—though his capacity
for traffic in identities and positions is staggering. The instance of
thuggee intimates, I think, that the colonized subject’s mimicry need
not necessarily have the colonizer as its focus in order to function
as menace; mimicry, even if it is mimicry of indigenous subject
positions, frustrates the colonial desire for homogenized, duplicable,
and knowable native subjects in whom subalternity is sought to be
reproduced through the authorized version of mimicry. If there is one
thing that characterizes the thug of the archives, it is the
multiplicity and unpredictability of his manifestations. As we have
seen, it was what was perceived as this faculty for disguise and
invisibility that had to be criminalized by the laws designed to
convict thugs; theoretically there was no such entity as an honest
thug, and many so-called thugs were convicted who were, according to
the official records, engaged in “honest labour.” There is an ongoing
and strenuous endeavor in the discourse of thuggee to interpellate the
thug as an essence, a move which attests to the anxiety of rupture
that subtends the totalizing epistemologies of colonialism. Yet the
thug as discursive object is strikingly resistant to such fixity; he
is all things to all people. If native identity can be staged, can be
plural, then what are the implications for colonial authority and
colonialism’s project of information retrieval? Thuggee, I would
suggest, introduces a disturbance in the paradigm of information
retrieval that often seems dominant in texts like Kim and A Personal
Narrative of a Pilgrimage to Al-Madinah and Meccah, as well as the
notion of native authenticity and ontological purity that is a
governing trope of colonial discourse. The thug, through his capacity
for disguise and impersonation and his skill at negotiating multiple
and competing identities, usurps the colonizer’s privilege of complex
subjectivity and of movement between subject positions and thus can be
read to assume some control over both the construction and flow of
colonial knowledge. So he never becomes fully naturalized as the
disciplinary subject or, in other words, the knowable subject, of the
colonial polity. And thuggee, later rewritten as dacoity, continues to
function within the law-and-order context in the colonial and
postcolonial state formations as a trope for the unruly and
unreformable energies that cannot easily be accommodated to the needs
of the civilizing mission.[45]
• • •
The Law
The writings and reports of W. H. Sleeman, which form the core texts
around which the tale of thuggee is orchestrated, represent a
concerted and monumental effort to illuminate and classify the
obscurity of thuggee. Sleeman emerges, in both nineteenth- and
twentieth-century accounts of thuggee, as the hero of his own story.
Even those works, like George Bruce’s The Stranglers and James
Sleeman’s Thug, or A Million Murders, that purport to be histories of
the thugs rather than biographies, present the account of thuggee as
coextensive with the life of Sleeman. Sleeman emerges from these texts
(and his own, of course) as an exemplary figure in nineteenth-century
criminal and judicial procedures, who undertakes a self-appointed
messianic task of uncovering and reading. Nothing in his story happens
by chance. The discovery of the scope of thuggee as a result of
Feringheea’s confession is (re)written as an inevitability in the task
of reconstructing thuggee, and Sleeman’s anti-thuggee efforts traced
back to the moment of his arrival in India in 1809. All of Sleeman’s
life and work before 1830 is thus written as a prelude to the
climactic scenes of thug hunting and as a preparation for reading the
mysteries of this esoteric Indian cult. Sleeman above all is
transformed in this telling into an almost Saidean figure of
knowledge; he is the shikari (hunter) who, with his gift of languages,
long residence in India without being “Orientalized,” and experience
in war and in settling newly conquered territories, can present an
ideal model of the exegete. Though a crime like thuggee is quite
literally inconceivable to those “living under an efficient
government,” Sleeman is no Inspector Clouseau, no naive Englishman who
stumbles unaware upon a vast organized conspiracy. He knows what he is
looking for; indeed, Tuker’s biography imagines Sleeman becoming the
butt of his colleagues’ jokes during his early years in India because
of his eagerness to “discover” thuggee.[46] In this telling, thuggee
predates Sleeman; indeed, it is as old as India itself. Yet the text
of thuggee remains unread until Sleeman, the reader-as-savior,
provides the hermeneutic key to the mystery. He establishes the
exceptional quality of thuggee, distinguishing it from outlawry,
banditry, and other illegalities necessitated by privation; he
establishes the story of thuggee as a moral narrative and embeds it in
the culture of an Orientalist India.
The man whose ideal was, like that of a Sherlock Holmes, “to be
everywhere, and to see everything,” [47] proved phenomenally successful
—in his own terms—at cracking the code of thuggee. He showed a
remarkable capacity—far greater than that of Sherwood or even that of
the few officers who had harassed the thugs in the early decades of
the century—to globalize and codify discrete accounts of crimes in
different times and places into a metanarrative of hereditary crime.
On the evidence of approvers, he created gigantic and detailed “family
trees” of captured and uncaptured thugs that provided copious details
of each man’s crimes, place of origin, place in the caste hierarchy,
and personal and professional antecedents; he also mapped out all the
bhils (places of slaughter and burial) in central India. Every thug
could then be located on Sleeman’s gigantic grid, and information and
operations were centralized. The local knowledge of the approvers now
became part of a giant signifying chain. For the thug, there was no
escape: his history and his nature were always already known to the
all-seeing eyes of the colonial bureaucracy and criminal-justice
system; his experience formed a narrative even before he made his
confession and was in no way dependent on it. As Ameer Ali says in
Confessions of a Thug, “The man unfolded a roll of paper written in
Persian, and read a catalogue of crime, of murders, every one of which
I knew to be true; a faithful record it was of my past life, with but
few omissions.” [48] Sleeman also prepared a dictionary of Ramasee,
the secret language of the criminal fraternity, with a vocabulary made
up entirely of descriptions of criminal actions. This linguistic,
geographic, and genealogical grid left out little that was germane to
the needs of criminal justice in colonial India:
I have, I believe, entered in this vocabulary every thing to which
Thugs in any part of India have thought it necessary to assign a
peculiar term; and every term peculiar to their associations with
which I have yet become acquainted. I am satisfied that there is no
term, no rite, no ceremony, no opinion, no omen or usage that they
have intentionally concealed from me; and if any have been
accidentally omitted after the numerous narratives that I have had to
record, and cases to investigate, they can be but comparatively very
few and unimportant.[49]
The doctrine of thuggee was not simply a novel yet apposite way of
reading Indian criminality at a moment when the pressures to reform
the East India Company by reforming India were particularly marked.
The consequences of the discovery of thuggee were, in other words, not
simply a philosophical reconstellation of Indian criminality. Thuggee
also gave rise to a veritable cottage industry of policing and
surveillance techniques, as well as ethnographic documentation. Like
the system it purported to study, the discourse on thuggee was
totalizing in its scope. In the juridical domain, thuggee was defined
as an “exceptional case”; this enabled the establishment of a
radically new machinery of arrest, conviction, and punishment in thug
trials. The production of penal truth in thug trials proved, as we
have seen, notoriously difficult. Since thugs were peripatetic
operatives, who always committed their crimes far from home and
disposed of their plunder quickly, evidence was not only destroyed but
questions were raised about jurisdictional authority. Local
functionaries were not just uncooperative; many were allegedly bound
by a utilitarian calculus to thug gangs. In addition, the relatives of
the putative victims displayed no zeal in the punishment of crime or
the redress of wrongs; the vast majority refused to identify those
missing as murdered at all. This uncooperative behavior was attributed
to their fatalistic acceptance of all disasters (including,
apparently, cholera, poisonous snakes, and sudden death). Even when
thugs were captured, convicting them was rendered even more
troublesome by the fact that Muslim criminal law disallowed the
testimony of approvers.
The lack of independent witnesses, the unavailability in many cases of
both bodies and booty—the sheer paucity of positivist evidence, in
other words—could only be resolved in one way. The most important
criminal conspiracy of the century (of all time, some of the authors
claimed) could be adequately engaged only by a new conception of law.
Many of the tactics adopted by those spearheading the antithug drive
were not novel but had been pioneered earlier in Bengal; however, it
was the Thuggee and Dacoity Department’s use of these tactics that
proved not only successful but replicable.[50] Since the law as
currently defined made the complicity of individuals in particular
crimes almost impossible to establish, specific criminal acts were no
longer punishable as such. Instead, it was a subject position, or
rather, an ontology, that was criminalized. It was enough to be a
thug, without actually being convicted of a specific act of thuggee,
to be liable to the exorbitant measures of the Thuggee and Dacoity
Department. As Radhika Singha wrote, “The strangest feature of this
enactment was the use of a cant term ‘Thugs’ without explaining what
precisely the offence of ‘Thuggee’ was. That such a term was
acceptable at a time when a penal code upholding precision and
exactness was on the agenda is an indication of the success of a
publicist campaign in official circles.” [51] Act XXX of 1836 directed
that any person who was convicted of “having belonged to a gang of
Thugs, [was] liable to the penalty of imprisonment for life; and
[that] any person, accused of the offence, made punishable by the Act,
[was] liable to be tried by any Court, which would have been competent
to try him, if his offence had been committed within the district
where that Court sits.” [52] (Act XXIV of 1843 extended the punitive
sanctions of the thuggee laws to those found guilty of belonging to
dacoit gangs.) Act XXX also dispensed with the last vestiges of Muslim
criminal law (which is said to have provided greater protections for
the accused and greater clemency for the convicted than the Thuggee
and Dacoity Department thought advisable for those standing trial as
thugs) by doing away with the necessity for the fatwa (formal legal
opinion) of the Muslim law officer. It applied with retrospective
effect, and it established special courts for the trial of thugs—
including those captured outside company territory, within the
kingdoms of the Indian princes—often with special magistrates
appointed by the governor-general. It permitted the arrest of entire
families, including women and children, as legitimate means of
entrapping active (male) thugs; since thuggee was supposed to be a
family affair anyway, transmitted in the genes and passed on from
father to son, wives and children were also fit targets for the
colonial state’s punitive and corrective measures. The act admitted
the testimony of approvers in lieu of the testimony of independent
witnesses (which had been disallowed under Islamic law), a move which
created a remarkable mechanics of truth production and conviction.
(Act XIX of 1837, under the direction of Macaulay, did away with this
“dual standard of evidence” in criminal law by making the testimony of
approvers admissible in all courts of law, not just those prosecuting
cases of thuggee.)[53] Yet it is by no means to be assumed that
empiricism and observation were peripheral to the process, though it
was observation of a very carefully demarcated kind; there is in the
colonial archive an overwhelming weight given to the experiential
dimension of the knowledge of such canonical figures as Sleeman. All
disagreements encountered on the British side are attributed to
inexperience, to the lack of a proper interpretive framework within
which to place certain kinds of discoveries, or to a willful
ingenuousness about the success of British rule.
The definition of thuggee as a form of hereditary, corporate, and
religiously sanctioned identity allowed for no appeal by a thug
convicted under its special decrees; in theory—and in practice—there
was no such entity as an innocent thug. All those identified as thugs
by approvers’ testimony were automatically guilty, even if no specific
crimes could be proved against them and even if there was no (other)
evidence of their ever having associated with other thugs. Once the
thug hunts began, criminal activity was not always necessary for
arrest and conviction; even those “thugs” engaged in “honest
labour” (a theoretical impossibility, given the terms of the
discourse) were rounded up, tried, convicted, and imprisoned since the
compelling, hereditary lure of thuggee was always latent in the thug.
An overwhelmingly high proportion of those arrested were convicted, a
fact which validated, the Thuggee and Dacoity Department believed, the
thoroughness of its efforts and the justice of its cause.
Confessions were key to the discursive constitution of thuggee; not so
much at the actual thug trials as in the manifold accounts of thuggee
that were produced in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Meadows
Taylor’s novel, as far as structural organization is concerned, reads
not very differently from the nonfictional official accounts of
thuggee: a brief introduction followed by hundreds of pages of
confession, interspersed more and more intermittently by the
narrator’s moral commentary. The confessional mode lent itself nicely
to the narrative conventions and imperatives of the nineteenth-century
English novel, which encompassed both the Newgate novel and the
spiritual autobiography.
One of the best approvers, Bukhtawar, provided a confession (which I
quoted at the beginning of this chapter) that was a model for all thug
confessions: “I am a Thug, my father and grandfather were Thugs, and I
have thugged with many. Let the government employ me and I will do its
work.” [54] The confessions serve not to elicit what is not already
known but to authenticate and authorize official knowledge of thuggee
in general and specific crimes in particular, as well as to produce
the thug as (colonial) criminal subject. For Foucault, the confession
“transcend[s] all other evidence; an element in the calculation of the
truth, it [is] also the act by which the accused accept[s] the charge
and recognize[s] its truth; it transform[s] an investigation carried
out without him into a voluntary affirmation. Through the confession,
the accused himself [takes] part in the ritual of producing penal
truth.” [55] In the eyes of the Thuggee and Dacoity Department, a
failure to confess was evidence less of innocence than of hardihood
and an acquaintance with the byzantine ramifications of Indian
criminal law.
And yet these confessions that dominate and drive all accounts of
thuggee are not confessions as such, but approver’s testimonies; the
two, as Shahid Amin so appositely reminds us, are not identical. For
while the confession proper seeks to dilute the guilt of the
confessing subject, the approver’s testimony, to be fully credible in
the eyes of the law, must implicate its speaker as fully as possible
in the illegality being described.[56]
The fact that approvers’ testimony was “tainted” and that they might
either wittingly or unwittingly implicate the innocent was undeniably
an issue, though anxiety on the score was aired only to be promptly
shown up as unfounded. The thuggee records continually stress the ways
in which the truth of each approver’s testimony was tested against all
the others. But even in these official accounts, it does not escape
remark that the approvers’ testimony regarding dates and other details
do not always match,[57] though all discursive contradictions are
always sought to be smoothed away. Bruce, who is the only one to raise
overtly the possibility of the conviction of the innocent, blames not
the system but its most visible instruments, the approvers: “Were
innocent men convicted upon the evidence of revengeful informers?.…
Those Thugs who were no longer free to strangle on the roads may have
conspired together to send victims to the gallows instead, for by
killing in this way they could at once show Kali their continued
devotion and save their own lives.” [58] These testimonies were not
required, under Act XXX, to be matched against the reports of
independent witnesses or against the weight of circumstantial
evidence; and none of the accused had the benefit of counsel, so the
approvers were never cross-examined by anyone other than the officers
of the Thuggee and Dacoity Department.
Even though the approvers were indispensable for forming the text of
thuggee and for prosecuting thugs, their own status remained somewhat
nebulous. On making “a full and ingenuous confession,” an approver
would be eligible to have his sentence of hanging or transportation
commuted. But an approver could never be released, since the lure of
the rumal made him irreclaimable for honest society. It was also
necessary that all approvers be convicted (not just arrested) thugs,
since it was contrary to the nature of British justice to hold its
subjects indefinitely without trial. How, though, could the government
convict approvers when it had no evidence except for what they
provided? The solution was to advise approvers to plead guilty to the
general charge of being thugs, under the provisions of Act XXX, rather
than to plead guilty to the charge of committing specific capital
crimes (which could result in the death penalty); this would ensure
their conviction, and then they could be held for life without
questioning the authority that held them.[59] It was easier and more
useful to hold approvers than to hang them; and they needed to be held
forever in order to ensure the uninterrupted production of truths
about thuggee. The above proceeding did away with the necessity of a
regular trial (that is to say, one conducted under the special courts
established by Act XXX) by having one whose outcome was known in
advance; and it guaranteed that there would be no escape from the
government’s mercy.
Truth production and conviction was only part of the job of the
Thuggee and Dacoity Department. Rehabilitation was also part of the
program, though the official wisdom on rehabilitation was marked by
considerable ambivalence. To be a part of a moral narrative, the
antithug campaign could not be purely punitive in nature, especially
in the instance of those prisoners who had not been convicted of
particular capital crimes. At the same time, if thugs were hereditary
murderers who found the call to blood irresistible, they were not
reformable subjects. The government’s response to the problem of
identity and rehabilitation was, even in its own terms, a markedly
uneven and patently hierarchized one. Some of the most distinguished
among the thugs were recruited into the police force. Some others were
rewarded by W. H. Sleeman by being allowed to live near him with their
families and followers in his compound, an arrangement about which
Freitag observes: “The similarity between the spatial and
psychological configurations of his compound and those of thag-
landlord relations in a village is not coincidental.” [60] Other thug
approvers and prisoners and their families were settled in colonies
and put to manual labor; from being dishonest and itinerant, they were
compelled to be poor and settled. The focus of reform was the children
of the thugs: they were taught various skills, though not taught to
read and write (because it would make them dissatisfied with their
condition). The sexuality of the sons of the thugs was strictly
regulated; they were not allowed to marry and breed a new generation
of thugs. (A female thug was a rarity and was, presumably, a less
potent conduit of the genetic material of hereditary criminality than
was a male.)
Mature thugs, however, were less easily assimilable into a regime of
morality and normalcy. Even captured thugs and informers emerge in the
reports as notoriously impervious to all efforts at moral
transformation. They repudiate repentance and reform, ascribing their
cooperation entirely to pragmatic motives and describing their
activities in professional terms, without the obligatory change of
heart normally central to the confessional narrative. Not only that,
they understand their present circumstances in terms of their failure
to observe omens and follow proscriptions and to be fully professional
about their work; the official success against themselves is simply
the result of the East India Company’s iqbal (good fortune), not its
moral or religious superiority or even its greater strategic skill.
They seem to refuse in other words to be drawn into the moral
narrative of the civilizing mission (though it must always be
remembered that the production of the thug as unreformable subject was
not necessarily contrary to the aims of the discourse on thuggee). The
following is a typical exchange; the questioner is presumably W. H.
Sleeman, the respondents thug informers:
Q:
If Davey’s displeasure visits all who punish Thugs, how is it that you
all escape so well?
Moradun:
Davey’s anger visited us when we were seized. That was the effect of
her resentment; she cast us off then and takes no notice of us now.
Q:
And if you were to return to Thuggee, she would still guide and
protect you?
Moradun:
Yes, but what gang would now receive us?
Q:
And are you not afraid to assist in suppressing Thuggee?
Moradun:
No; we see God is assisting you, and that Davey has withdrawn her
protection on account of our transgressions. We have sadly neglected
her worship. God knows in what it will all end.
Q:
True, God only knows; but we hope it will end in the entire
suppression of this wicked and foolish system; and in the conviction
on your part that Davey has really nothing to do with it.
Nasir:
That Davey instituted Thuggee, and supported it as long as we attended
to her omens, and observed the rules framed by the wisdom of our
ancestors, nothing in the world can ever make us doubt.[61]
• • •
The Englishman
This section, on The Deceivers, John Masters’s novel about thuggee,
serves as a (deconstructive) supplement to the official narrative of
the thug, in taking up some of the questions and figures that occupy a
recessive status in that account. Here we see that if the thug of the
archive provides one (admittedly slippery and fixed at the same time)
model of staging identities, there is another model that is crucial
for a comprehension of the thug-English engagement. This model is the
obverse of the process that generates the mimic man of colonial
discourse; it is the lure of going native. The term here both
resonates with and fails to correspond to the mimetic model provided
by Burton in the last chapter.[62] The will to mimicry governs
(Indian) thug and Englishman alike, as we shall see in The Deceivers,
where the plot is driven—as is the thug archive—by a fascination with
the absent and never fully recuperable thug. In engaging this
scenario, the novel also recasts the paradigmatic narrative of
mimicry, in which the native may mimic the colonizer but without any
access to essential Englishness, while the colonizer can trade
identities freely, with no strings attached, without actually being
interpellated as a colonized subject. The Deceivers makes manifest the
precariousness of such self-possession.
The dialectical dependence of the fantasy of complete knowledge on the
paranoid fear of native inscrutability is staged in this novel, where
there is a suturing of the ostensibly antithetical figures of the
English policeman and the thug approver. This novel allows for an
examination of the tension between the received wisdom about thuggee
and some of the marginal issues located at the pressure points of the
official discourse. This novel tells the story of William Savage, a
mediocre and distinctly unheroic English magistrate. Wracked by sexual
and professional anxieties, an alienated subject of the British
colonial machine in India, and sneakingly sympathetic to such Indian
customs as sati, he transforms himself into the exemplary colonial
officer by taking on—albeit temporarily—the calling of the thug. At
the urging of his young wife, Mary, he initially takes on the persona
of the absent Gopal the weaver in order to save Gopal’s wife from
sati; he, however, meets the renegade thug Hussein and decides to
continue as Gopal in order to track down the thugs. Once he assumes
the role, he finds himself powerfully drawn to the practice and goes
on to become a noted thug leader. He does not continue as a thug, of
course—even though at one point Hussein suggests to Savage that the
East India Company become a sponsor of thugs, like the other rulers of
the land; with a little help from his newly (re)constructed
Englishness and his friends, he returns to propriety at the end. (The
Merchant Ivory film production is even more skeptical than the novel
is of the progressivist teleology of the civilizing mission, as well
as of its “success”: in the film, George Angelsmith is led off in
chains, but Savage, estranged from his wife and his Christian god and
unable to prevent the sati that he has actually made possible, is
destined to be perpetually haunted by Kali.)
The Deceivers considers the unspoken and unspeakable possibility that
subtends so much of colonial discourse: what if identity can be
unhinged from race and national origin? And if (racial/national)
identity is unstable and subject to negotiation with each crossing of
a frontier, then in the name of what telos or destiny does Englishness
speak? What if, as R. Radhakrishnan so compellingly asks, on the
subject of diasporic, transnational culture, “identities and
ethnicities are not a matter of fixed and stable selves but rather the
results and products of fortuitous travels and recontextualizations?…
Is ethnicity nothing but, to use the familiar formula, what ethnicity
does?” [63] In the more lurid enactments of this alternative history,
a Kurtz, representing the loftiest intellectual and ethical
possibilities of the Enlightenment, can “go native” in the Dark
Continent. But, closer to “home,” there were, as Arnold has revealed,
more troubling English subjects—those poor white orphans and vagrants
(who were to have their own moment of glory in Kim) who lived lives
not often distinguishable from those of lower-class Indians.[64]
William Savage, the protagonist of The Deceivers, is located somewhere
between these two subject positions.
Despite the putative restoration to wholeness, Englishness, and
legality of William Savage at the close of the story, the narrative
nonetheless opens up a space for investigating the “double and split
subject” of the colonial enunciation, for what Bhabha calls—in the
context of the nation’s fissured enunciation—“dissemi-nation”: “a
space that is internally marked by cultural difference and the
heterogeneous histories of contending peoples, antagonistic
authorities, and tense cultural locations.” [65] As in the case of so
many other Englishmen, Savage will have to turn to Indianness in order
to return to or consolidate or improve his English self; in doing so,
he will come back as a new and more English Englishman, but he will
also, temporarily at least, be transformed into a border subject,
changed by his experience of Indianness, surrendering illusions of
full autonomy and Englishness in the crossing of boundaries. Here I
invoke Burton again as a point of reference. Burton had an
occasionally vexed relationship with national identity: his ancestry
was partly Irish and Welsh, and he grew up on the Continent, only
coming to live in England in his late teens. Yet for him identity,
whatever guises it might assume and however far it might roam, is
usually more persuasively anchored than is that of Masters’s
protagonist in an imperial Englishness. Burton can be, at different
times, a West Asian merchant or a Muslim hajji, but his identities are
clearly hierarchized and more manipulable than Savage’s. While the
success of his passing is always, in a sense, conditional upon his
being a man from elsewhere/nowhere, he can also claim nativeness as
his own production, wrenching an (imaginary) autonomy from the
dominion of necessity. Savage passes through Indianness en route to
Englishness, but, unlike Burton, he cannot pass in and out without
constraint. Indianness, while indispensable to Englishness, must also
be violently cast out if Englishness is to be secure(d). In The
Deceivers, identity is the locus of strain and contradiction. For
Savage, identity cannot be expansive, assimilationist, and pluralist;
each new identity competes with and displaces the last. That is why
Savage can at the end afford to take no prisoners or recruit any
approvers from among his erstwhile comrades; the thugs whom he has led
and who are now pursuing him must be wiped out in an act of punitive
and frenzied brutality that not only precludes the need for approvers
but also does away with any witnesses against, and rem(a)inders of,
his own thug self.
The Deceivers stages, indeed foregrounds, the positionality and
politics of that ordinarily self-effacing hero of thug narration, the
investigator, and the plurality of determinations that produces him.
In this context, Gayatri Spivak’s cautionary reminders about the
urgent necessity of disallowing the neutrality of the intellectual or
investigator should be borne in mind. In “Can the Subaltern Speak?”
she proffers a critique of the sanctioned myopia of the Foucault and
Deleuze of “Intellectuals and Power,” who are unable or unwilling to
acknowledge the complicity of the intellectual in the mechanisms that
produce representations of subaltern subjects and groups and who fail
to recognize that subaltern subjects are constrained to fashion
themselves in terms of already scripted epistemologies.[66] Her
introduction to Mahasweta Devi’s “Draupadi” resonates with, and
provides another useful point of entry into, this problematic of
reading and engagement; the usefulness of deconstruction, she tells
us, lies in “the recognition,…of provisional and intractable starting
points in any investigative effort; its disclosure of complicities
where a will to knowledge would create oppositions; its insistence
that in disclosing complicities the critic-as-subject is herself
complicit with the object of her critique; its emphasis upon ‘history’
and upon the ethico-political as the ‘trace’ of that complicity—the
proof that we do not inhabit a clearly defined critical space free of
such traces.” [67] Where in the archives the English scribe was
progressively effaced from the scene of the crime as well as the scene
of writing, no such modesty is permitted the protagonist of Masters’s
novel. The novel accents above all his position of enunciation. He
cannot be, as in the normative thug account, the neutral conduit of
something clearly identified as a thug consciousness: the thug’s voice
cannot but inscribe Savage as both subject and object of his own
discourse.
The central aspect of Savage’s mission is not merely to bear witness;
he must above all produce a record, transform that irreducible
obscurity, that absence that is Indian corporate criminal activity,
into what Spivak terms an “interpretable text.” This of course was the
primary gift of Sleeman and his associates to the criminal justice
system in colonial India—to synthesize various and discrepant
occurrences as a semiosis under centralized control; against thuggee—
conceived of as a vast, well-articulated, and centralized conspiracy—
could be opposed the concentrated power/knowledge of the state. What
is required is a text and a model of reading that is reproducible in
the different temporalities and contexts of the colonial polity in
India. However, the novel intimates the limitations and complexities
of authorial intention. Savage produces his account in a condition of
profound subjective instability, opening his text up to multiple and
mutually contentious readings: “He had met hundreds of other
Deceivers, and the notes were a complete tale of all he had seen and
heard and done; of all the Deceivers who had engaged in any action,
with their descriptions, habits, and homes; of each murder, and how it
had gone, and how it might have been prevented—or improved upon. The
words could be read for either purpose, according to the spirit of the
reader” (p. 223). Above all, Savage’s account draws attention to the
transactional nature of reading. What ought to be a classic of
information retrieval and a master text on thuggee for colonial
authority is also a text for other thugs, a manual for reproducing
thug practice. Savage’s text (within the text of the Masters novel),
even though cast in the model of strict representational realism, is
susceptible of an Other reading; its meanings are ambushed, deflected,
and augmented en route to a destination it can never reach. The
Thuggee and Dacoity Department strove to produce, in its extensive
records on thug affiliation and activity, a text without nuances or
fissures, something that was not susceptible of any misreadings or
contesting interpretations. It sought, in its meticulous record
keeping and its attempts to square all the approvers’ testimonies with
each other and make them speak with one voice, to produce a record
that would have what was presumed to be the authority of material
fact. But for Savage, at least, it is impossible to engage in such an
enterprise without also inscribing his own complicity in his
testimonial. In this respect, he does approximate the classic approver
of the Thuggee and Dacoity Department, who cannot bear witness against
others without simultaneously bearing witness against himself.
While the novel insists that only impersonation can yield the truth,
it also illuminates the heterodox desires that underlie the exercise
of going native. Moreover, this impersonation is quite detached from
any agency on the part of William Savage and from any sense of
originary identity. Forced into the disguise of the Indian weaver
Gopal (by the patel [village headman] Chandra Sen) in an unwilling and
ultimately fruitless attempt to save a would-be sati, he is recognized
as an impostor by Hussein. Hussein is ideal material for an approver:
he has brains, courage, and resourcefulness, and he is remarkably
eager to undo the institution of thuggee, but his testimony alone is
not enough to compel belief in the practice. So he recruits an
Englishman to the anti-thuggee cause, knowing that only he can be
fully convincing as a figure of knowledge. And this knowledge can only
be acquired experientially, and by going outside the law as currently
constituted, as Savage learns when he follows the more conventional
methods of information retrieval. As Hussein says,
Several times some English official or other has got hold of
information about us. Then he has chased us out of his district, and
reported, I suppose. But they’ve never worked together, and it always
blew over. They’ll never destroy us until one of them finds out
everything, and forces the Lat Sahib [the governor-general] to believe
everything, and plans a campaign to cover all India. And that one who
finds out must fear Kali, or he will not understand her. But he must
not love her. (p. 208)
Unable to ignore the thugs as the other English functionaries are
ready to do, eager to discard the Englishness he so uncomfortably
inhabits, and pressured by Hussein and Mary, Savage decides to
continue as Gopal the weaver, who, as it turns out, is also Gopal the
thug. For an unsuccessful and insecure man like Savage, wracked by
anxieties about (heterosexual) masculinity and Englishness, it is the
very abdication of authority involved in playing a thug that is
peculiarly attractive; inhabiting the subject position of the most
criminalized and most scrutinized indigenous subject holds out the
promise of psychic satisfactions not ordinarily available to colonial
authority.
The novel dallies with the idea (as many crime fictions often do,
though less explicitly) of the fragility of the barriers that separate
the custodian of law and morality from the criminal. It actually makes
available the proposition (though it has to drop it at the end) that
Savage is at heart a thug and that his initiation into thuggee by
Hussein is no accident. He takes naturally to the trade, is attended
by good omens, and enjoys a facility of thought, speech, and action
that is alien to his English self. The idea of mimicry itself is
transformed in his performance of it and begins to assume to assume
the contours of possession, if not those of originary identity. There
is no difference for him between the mimicry of an identity and the
identity itself.
In order to pass for an Indian or a thug (ultimately these two
categories are collapsed, as we have seen in the other narratives of
thuggee) Savage must slough off certain normative aspects of
Englishness in the tropics—the militant Christianity, the revulsion
against disease and cruelty, the reforming impulse. He must instead
embrace what is described as the nondualistic moral economy of
Hinduism that sees both creation and destruction as suffused with the
divine. Needless to say, the psychic territory of “India” is always
coextensive with Hinduism, despite the fact that Muslims as well as
other religious groups are shown to practice thuggee as much as do
Hindus; and this Hinduism is consistently and exclusively fetishized
as blood lust and hyperbolic sexuality. As an Indian, and Hindu, and
thug, Savage must participate in a series of paradoxes. He must be
Indian, and thug, to return more securely to Englishness, and
legitimacy; he must allow evil to be done in order to do good; and,
since the contexts of legality are always shifting and are
particularly in need of redefinition in India, he must go outside the
law in order to uphold the law. Always relatively indifferent to the
finer points of legal procedure and defendants’ rights (here written
as an inaptitude for “paperwork”), the antithug drive allows him to
rethink the concepts of justice and legality in the colonial context,
where it is notoriously difficult to punish crime anyway:
“What does justice mean?”…“Fair trial, the rules of evidence, no
double hazard, no hearsay, and so on and so on? Or protection against
injustice, against violence? The means, or the end?.…Oh, I know we
have no evidence about them yet. That’s just what I mean. I tell you,
sir, they cannot be run down within our rule of law. Indians aren’t
English. “No man dies by the hand of man,” they think, so they won’t
give evidence because they are not angry with the murderers. They
think men who kill are driven by God to kill. And there are too many
jurisdictions, too far to go to give evidence, too long to wait. We’ve
got to go outside the law to catch them, to prevent more
murders.” (pp. 128–29)
Caught between a colonial government and an Indian populace unwilling,
for different reasons, to do what is necessary to end thuggee and
pressured, moreover, by Hussein, Savage becomes Gopal again, only more
completely in earnest this time. In his new role Savage discovers that
passing for a thug involves a radical (re)contextualization of his
once and future Englishness. Moreover, as Gopal he has to inhabit a
role and a history that is already in place. Impersonation involves
not freedom but strict adherence to a scripted identity; he cannot
start afresh, or make himself up as he goes along. He discovers that
as Gopal, he is already an expert strangler and strategist, destined
to be “the greatest the Deceivers have ever known” (p. 218). And once
he participates in the sacramental ritual of gur-sharing and tastes
the transubstantiated body of the goddess, his allegiance and destiny
are fixed. Savage is born to thuggee, as his comfort in his role of
thug demonstrates; indeed, his story undoes the usual weighting of
“self” and “role” in the Englishman’s subjectivity, since he is more
convincing (to himself, and apparently to Indians and Englishmen
alike) and comfortable as Indian and thug than as Englishman and
Christian. Hussein, who is more percipient than he about the
complexities of subject formation, reminds him that “free will” is an
adjunct (or an illusion) of Englishness alone. Savage must find out
that intentions guarantee nothing; not even the Englishman, once he
has decided to play the Indian, can escape the formulaic constraints
of Indian/thug ontology: “You are a Deceiver, from this dawn on for
ever. A strangler. Only stranglers may stand on the blanket: you stood
on it. Only stranglers may take the consecrated sugar of communion:
you took it. It doesn’t matter what a man thinks he is. When he eats
consecrated sugar, on the blanket, in front of the pick-axe, he is a
strangler, because Kali enters into him.” (p. 182)
Such a script also demands of course that he confront his double, the
original Gopal. In order to protect himself and in order to wrest some
autonomy for himself, Savage strangles Gopal and thus becomes Gopal
himself. But strangling the “real Gopal” only makes him more fully
Gopal, for he can now develop into his predestined role. From this
point on, all paradoxes are held in abeyance. From being complicit in
murder through inaction Savage proceeds to strangulation himself and
becomes, in an extraordinary take on the man-who-would-be-king vision
that tropes so much colonial discourse, a noted leader of thugs. Like
Burton the Muslim, Savage the thug is characterized not simply by
mastery but by an extraordinary surplus of subject effects. (Unlike
Burton, though, he is tempted, and he is corrupted—although not
irredeemably.)
The desire for Gopal, which is closely articulated with the desire to
be Gopal, is mediated, interestingly enough, through the figure of the
sati who frames the novel and who foregrounds the question of gender
that has been bypassed or placed under erasure in the thuggee
archives. I find the entry into thuggee through sati to be a
particularly productive conjuncture for the problematic of mimicry,
identity, and the colonizer’s desire. The sati, most obviously,
provides an occasion for access to Gopal. The sati has to be set up in
the beginning so that Savage can play Gopal; and then it has to be
deferred so that he can continue to play Gopal and go in search of
Gopal. Her presence in the novel displaces homoerotic desire and
returns Savage to heterosexuality. It also ensures his successful
miming of Indianness and Englishness. But the consolidation of
heterosexuality, masculinity, and Englishness demands not simply her
presence but her death. She is insistently narrativized as a voluntary
sati; she is a romanticized figure, whose sacrifice Savage has no
desire to thwart. He desires her, and his desire for her takes the
form of wanting her to die for him, which he ensures by killing Gopal.
In this way, he can enjoy the satisfactions of Indian as well as
English masculinity. As an Indian, he can have the woman die for him
(and deliver him of his sexual anxieties); but being fully Indian also
means that he himself must die, for the sati requires a dead husband.
As an Englishman, therefore, he can distance himself from the violent
implications of Indianness. The sati’s death releases him from the
exigent identity of the Indianness into which he had temporarily
descended and frees him to enact the rituals of Englishness with
greater plausibility. The most convincing Englishman—as indeed the
most expert thug—turns out to be the mimic man after all.
• • •
Afterword
Masters’s novel serves in many ways as the most apt of epilogues to
the colonial accounts of thuggee, given its excavation of the erotic/
affective and metaphysical seductions of that institution—and of the
thug—for English masculinity in the tropics and given its suggestion
that the lure of the thug for the Englishman may be as compelling as
that of thuggee for the (Indian) thug. It charges the project of
unveiling and chastisement with a profusion of guilty, even delirious,
appetites and obsessions that call for continual incitement and
consummation. It does not, of course, fail to play upon the received
colonial narrative of thuggee as timeless Indian duplicity; but it
also reconfigures it as an erotic tale of the fraternal, closeted, and
homicidal desire that drives Indian and English impersonation. Perhaps
most remarkably, it showcases the seamless self-referentiality of the
discourse on thuggee (as evidenced in an archive composed of
biographies, histories, novels, legal records, and rumors) by
collapsing the thug and the thug hunter into a single figure; with a
literalism quite unprecedented in any of the other texts it confirms
that wherever there is an Englishman there is a thug.
Notes
1. Radhika Singha, “‘Providential’ Circumstances: The Thuggee Campaign
of the 1830s and Legal Innovation,” Modern Asian Studies 27 (February
1993): 83.
2. Guha, “Historiography of Colonial India.”
3. Ranajit Guha, “The Prose of Counter-Insurgency,” in Subaltern
Studies II: Writings on South Asian History and Society, ed. Ranajit
Guha (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1983). Also see Ranajit
Guha, Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency in Colonial India
(Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1983).
4. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Deconstructing Historiography,” in In
Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics (New York and London:
Routledge, 1987), 204.
5. This is not to suggest that Bhabha forecloses on any of these other
possibilities.
6. James Hutton, A Popular Account of the Thugs and Dacoits, the
Hereditary Garroters and Gang-Robbers of India (London: W. H. Allen,
1857), 90–91.
7. Reproduced in George Bruce, The Stranglers: The Cult of Thuggee and
Its Overthrow in British India (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World,
1968), 13–26.
8. Philip Meadows Taylor, “Introduction,” in Confessions of a Thug
(London: Richard Bentley, 1858 [1839]), 5.
9. A. J. Wightman, No Friend for Travellers (London: Robert Hale,
1959), 15.
10. See Francis C. Tuker, The Yellow Scarf: The Story of the Life of
Thuggee Sleeman (London: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1961), 197–98.
11. Geoff Bennington, “Postal Politics and the Institution of the
Nation,” in Nation and Narration, ed. Homi K. Bhabha (London and New
York: Routledge, 1990).
12. Sandria Freitag argues that thugs were—in contrast to members of
criminal castes and tribes—regarded as “admirable and awesome
opponents.” See her “Crime in the Social Order of Colonial North
India,” Modern Asian Studies 25, no. 2 (1991): 227–61. While some of
this horrified admiration does inform Wightman and Meadows Taylor’s
representations, such admiration is more usually carefully repressed;
there is, in fact, an interesting tension between the awe-inspiring
(if damnable) thug of these texts and the contemptible figure that the
other texts strenuously accentuate.
13. James Sleeman, Thug, or A Million Murders (London: Sampson Low,
Marston, 1933 [1920]), 5.
14. Sir George MacMunn, The Religions and Hidden Cults of India
(London: Sampson Low, Marston, 1931), 172–73. See, too, Meadows
Taylor, “Introduction,” i:
At the present time it [the novel] may deserve a more attentive study;
recent events will have too well prepared the Reader’s mind for
implicit belief in all the systematic atrocities narrated.…It will
scarcely fail to be remarked, with what consummate art such numerous
bodies of men were organized, and for a long time kept absolutely
unknown, while committing acts of cruelty and rapine hardly
conceivable;…Captain Taylor’s Introduction…may…furnish some clue to
the successful concealment of a rebellion, in the existence of which
many of our oldest and most experienced officers, and men high in
authority, absolutely withheld belief, till too late and too cruelly
convinced of their fatal error.
15. Katherine Mayo, Mother India (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1927).
16. Hiralal Gupta, “A Critical Study of the Thugs and Their
Activities,” Journal of Indian History, 37, part 2 (August 1959),
serial no. 110: 169–77.
17. Sandria B. Freitag, “Collective Crime and Authority in North
India,” in Crime and Criminality in British India, ed. Anand Yang
(Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1985), 158–61.
18. Stewart N. Gordon, “Scarf and Sword: Thugs, Marauders, and State-
Formation in 18th Century Malwa,” Indian Economic and Social History
Review 6 (December 1969): 403–29. It should be noted that Gordon does
not ascribe the activities of the marauding groups to “Oriental
anarchy” or oppose “marauders” to “states,” arguing that both entities
had the same ends in view and were using the same methods of
legitimation, though with differing degrees of success.
19. J. Sleeman, Thug, 108.
20. David Arnold, Police Power and Colonial Rule: Madras 1859–1947
(Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1986), 3. He notes the transformation
of the Thuggee and Dacoity Department into the Central Intelligence
Department in 1904; this body shifted its initial focus on wandering
gangs and criminals to “the collation of political intelligence,
relaying information about political leaders and organizations to the
various provinces concerned” (p. 187).
21. Freitag, “Collective Crime and Authority,” 142.
22. Freitag, “Crime in the Social Order,” 230.
23. Ibid., 234.
24. Fanny Parks, Wanderings of a Pilgrim in Search of the Picturesque
(Karachi and London: Oxford University Press, 1975 [1850]), 1: 153.
25. Kali became a figure of increasing respectability in the
nineteenth century; before this she was a deity adored (in Bengal at
least) largely though not exclusively by tribal and other subaltern
subjects, including thugs and dacoits. It is not clear if Kali was
identical with other female deities addressed as Devi or Bhawani.
26. See, for instance, Nicholas B. Dirks, “Castes of Mind,”
Representations 37 (Winter 1992): 59: “It is increasingly clear that
colonialism in India produced new forms of society that have been
taken to be traditional, and that caste itself as we now know it is
not a residual survival of ancient India but a specifically colonial
form of civil society. As such it both justifies and maintains the
colonial vision of an India where religion transcends politics,
society resists change, and the state awaits its virgin birth in the
postcolonial era.”
27. This had not, of course, been entirely true for Burton, perhaps
because of his sojourn in Sind or his early studies in Arabic. As
might be expected, the particular discourse being engaged would
determine the Hinduness, or otherwise, of the territory designated
“India.”
28. Lata Mani, “Contentious Traditions,” in The Nature and Context of
Minority Discourse, ed. Abdul JanMohamed and David Lloyd (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1990).
29. John Masters, The Deceivers (New York: Carroll and Graf, 1952),
240. All further references to this novel will be incorporated
parenthetically into the text.
30. Charles Hervey, Some Records of Crime (Being the Diary of a Year,
Official and Particular, of an Officer of the Thuggee and Dacoitie
Police) (London: Sampson Low, Marston, 1892), 1: 50–51.
31. Ranjit Sen, Social Banditry in Bengal: A Study in Primary
Resistance, 1757–1793 (Calcutta: Ratna Prakashan, 1988), 2–3.
32. Sanjay Nigam, “Disciplining and Policing the ‘Criminals by
Birth,’” Indian Economic and Social History Review 27, no. 2 (1990):
131–64; 27, no. 3 (1990): 259–87.
33. Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality, trans. Robert Hurley
(New York: Vintage Books, 1978), 1: 43.
34. Radhika Singha argues that “the introduction of laws dealing with
ill-defined ‘criminal communities’ introduced certain fissures into
the ideology of the equal, abstract and universal legal
subject” (“‘Providential’ Circumstances,” 86, n. 10).
35. Edward Thornton, Illustrations of the History and Practices of the
Thugs (London: W. H. Allen, 1837), 145–46. This frankness is
relatively rare in the writings on thuggee; the issue of the
genuineness of the confessions, though, is an issue in all, judging
from the unfailing vehemence with which the method of conviction
through approvers’ testimony is defended as just, if not
unexceptionable.
36. Ibid., 374.
37. J. Sleeman, Thug, 120.
38. William H. Sleeman, Ramaseeana, or a Vocabulary of the Peculiar
Language Used by the Thugs (Calcutta: G. H. Huttmann, Military Orphan
Press, 1836), 32–33.
39. Thornton, Illustrations, 70, 11.
40. Wightman, No Friend for Travellers, 112.
41. J. Sleeman, Thug, 106.
42. William H. Sleeman, Report on Budhuk Alias Bagree Dacoits and
Other Gang Robbers by Hereditary Profession (Calcutta: J. C. Sherriff,
Bengal Military Orphan Press, 1849), 2–3.
43. Foucault, History of Sexuality, 1: 35.
44. Homi Bhabha, “Sly Civility” and “Of Mimicry and Man,” in The
Location of Culture.
45. See Mala Sen, India’s Bandit Queen: The True Story of Phoolan Devi
(New Delhi: Indus/HarperCollins, 1991) for an example of the way in
which the colonial discourse of thuggee (in this instance, Tukar’s
Yellow Scarf) continues, in contemporary India, to frame the way in
which certain forms of collective violence are understood by the law-
and-order machinery of the state.
46. Tuker, Yellow Scarf, 38.
47. William H. Sleeman, Rambles and Recollections of an Indian
Official, ed. Vincent A. Smith (London: Humphrey Milford, Oxford
University Press, 1915), 555.
48. Taylor, Confessions of a Thug, 330.
49. W. H. Sleeman, Ramaseeana, 3.
50. Freitag, “Collective Crime and Authority,” 146.
51. Singha, “‘Providential’ Circumstances,” 84.
52. W. H. Sleeman, Report on Budhuk, 173. The thuggee act had the
following provisions:
1.Whoever shall be proved to have belonged, either before or after the
passing of this Act, to any gang of Thugs, either within or without
the Territories of the East India Company, shall be punished with
imprisonment for life, with hard labour.
2.And…every person accused of the offence…may be tried by any court,
which would have been competent to try him, if his offence had been
committed within the Zillah where that Court sits, any thing to the
contrary, in any Regulation contained, notwithstanding.
3.And…no Court shall, on a trial of any person accused of the offence…
require any Futwa from any Law Officer.
53. Singha, “‘Providential’ Circumstances,” 136–37.
54. J. Sleeman, Thug, 117.
55. Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish, trans. Alan Sheridan (New
York: Vintage Books, 1979), 38.
56. Shahid Amin, “Approver’s Testimony, Judicial Discourse: The Case
of Chauri Chaura,” in Subaltern Studies V: Writings on South Asian
History and Society, ed. Ranajit Guha (Delhi: Oxford University Press,
1987).
57. William H. Sleeman, Report on the Depredations Committed by the
Thug Gangs of Upper and Central India (Calcutta: G. H. Huttmann,
Bengal Military Orphan Press, 1840). [BACK]
58. Bruce, Stranglers, 154.
59. W. H. Sleeman, Report on Budhuk, 303–5.
60. Freitag, “Crime in the Social Order,” 236. It is said that thugs
had routinely existed in a symbiotic relationship with landlords,
providing military protection and supplying booty from expeditions in
return for land and respectability. [BACK]
61. W. H. Sleeman, Ramaseeana, 186–87.
62. I should add here that the phrase going native is vested in my
paper with a multiplicity of valences; for instance, it encompasses
both the colonialist desire to “pass for” the native and the condition
that signifies racial regression.
63. R. Radhakrishnan, “Ethnicity in an Age of Diaspora,” Transition 54
(1991): 106.
64. David Arnold, “European Orphans and Vagrants in India in the
Nineteenth Century,” Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 7,
no. 2 (1979): 104–27.
65. Homi K. Bhabha, “DissemiNation: Time, Narrative, and the Margins
of the Modern Nations,” in Nation and Narration, 299.
66. Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” See Michel Foucault,
“Intellectuals and Power: A Conversation between Michel Foucault and
Gilles Deleuze,” in Language, Counter-Memory, Practice: Selected
Essays and Interviews, by Michel Foucault, trans. Donald F. Bouchard
and Sherry Simon (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1977), 205–
17.
67. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Translator’s Foreword to ‘Draupadi,’
by Mahasweta Devi,” in In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics
(New York and London: Routledge, 1987), 180.
http://publishing.cdlib.org/ucpressebooks/view?docId=ft8s20097j&chunk.id=ch2
http://publishing.cdlib.org/ucpressebooks/view?docId=ft8s20097j&chunk.id=ch3&toc.depth=1&toc.id=ch3&brand=eschol
turn of the century, is a highly unusual diary of one disciple’s
encounters with his guru and with other disciples over the last four
years (1882–1886) of Ramakrishna’s life. In this text, which is
written in Bengali, Ramakrishna is referred to as thakur, which is
both a common way of designating a Brahman as well as a word meaning
god; “M,” who was a schoolteacher, is called “master” in this work. In
the English translation of 1942 by Swami Nikhilananda, The Gospel of
Sri Ramakrishna (New York: Ramakrishna-Vivekananda Center, 1973
[1942]), “the Master” is the standard appellation for Ramakrishna;
this usage may have been popularized by Vivekananda.
3. Partha Chatterjee, “A Religion of Urban Domesticity: Sri
Ramakrishna and the Calcutta Middle Class,” Subaltern Studies VII:
Writings on South Asian History and Society, ed. Partha Chatterjee and
Gyanendra Pandey (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1992), 65.
4. Tapan Raychaudhuri, Europe Reconsidered: Perceptions of the West in
Nineteenth Century Bengal (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1988),
219.
5. Quoted in ibid., 231. For further details, see Swami Saradananda,
Sri Ramakrishna: The Great Master, trans. Swami Jagadananda, 2 vols.
(Madras: Sri Ramakrishna Math, 1978 [1952]).
6. There were many references to the Paramhansa in Keshab’s journal,
the New Dispensation, and in the late 1870s Keshab published
Paramhanser Ukti, a ten-page Bengali booklet of Ramakrishna’s sayings.
7. Christopher Isherwood, Ramakrishna and His Disciples (London:
Methuen, 1965), 141. [BACK]
8. Quoted in ibid., 124.
9. Cited in Brian K. Smith, “How Not to Be a Hindu: The Case of the
Ramakrishna Mission,” in Religion and Law in Independent India, ed.
Robert P. Baird (New Delhi: Manohar, 1993), 343–44.
10. Sumit Sarkar, “The Kathamrita as Text: Towards an Understanding of
Ramakrishna Paramhamsa,” Occasional Paper 22 (New Delhi: Nehru
Memorial Museum and Library, 1985), 21 and passim. Also, see Sumit
Sarkar, “‘Kaliyuga,’ ‘Chakri’ and ‘Bhakti’: Ramakrishna and His
Times,” Economic and Political Weekly, 18 July 1992, 1543–66.
Ramakrishna’s disciples claimed that he had gone through his “Muslim”
and “Christian” phases before he met Keshab; please note that all the
dates in Ramakrishna’s life are culled from accounts by devotees and
admirers.
11. The term heterosexuality is here used catachrestically, since
Ramakrishna seems to be obviously outside the formations within which
we would situate “modern” Indian subjects, including Vivekananda. The
very terms homosexuality/heterosexuality (and, indeed, transsexuality,
which may also be said to resonate for Ramakrishna) are too western
and modern to be completely adequate to the task of analysis. I use
them very provisionally, in the absence of another vocabulary and
epistemology that might enable me to understand premodern, Indian/
Hindu conceptualizations of sexuality. In this context, I am reminded
of Diana Fuss’s generous and sensitive reading of Fanon’s claim (in
Black Skin, White Masks) that there is no (male) homosexuality in the
Antilles (“Interior Colonies,” 33):
Fanon’s insistence that there is no homosexuality in the Antilles may
convey a more trenchant meaning than the one he in fact intended: if
by ‘homosexuality’ one understands the culturally specific social
formations of same-sex desire as they are articulated in the West,
then they are indeed foreign to the Antilles.…Can one generalize from
the particular forms sexuality takes under Western capitalism to
sexuality as such? What kinds of colonizations do such discursive
translations perform on ‘other’ traditions of sexual differences?
Such a caution must be borne in mind, even as one cannot but deploy,
however hesitantly, the idioms of modern western sexualities. See
Jeffrey Kripal, Kali’s Child: The Mystical and the Erotic in the Life
and Teachings of Ramakrishna (Chicago and London: University of
Chicago Press, 1995) for a careful and fascinating reading of the
relationship of Ramakrishna’s “homosexuality” to his mysticism. I
regret that I have not been able to make fuller use of the Kripal
text, which was published after this chapter was written.
12. Chatterjee, “Religion of Urban Domesticity”, 60–61.
13. S. Sarkar, “Kathamrita as Text,” 50–71.
14. Chatterjee, “Religion of Urban Domesticity”, 45. Sumit Sarkar
claims, moreover, that the period of Ramakrishna’s popularity
coincided with a “kind of hiatus in bhadralok history,” when dreams of
social reform had been frustrated, official racism was marked, and
liberation through the overthrow of British rule not really
conceivable (“‘Kaliyuga,’ ‘Chakri’ and ‘Bhakti,’” 1547).
15. It is interesting to note that the disciples of Ramakrishna,
notably Vivekananda, preferred the term kamkanchan, “lust-and-gold,”
over the Master’s kaminikanchan and went to great lengths to explain
that the sage’s “symbolic” use of the term did not imply any
misogyny.
16. Nikhilananda, Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, 701. All subsequent
references will be incorporated parenthetically into the text.
17. This insight derives in a general way from Carole-Anne Tyler’s
reading of the ambivalent politics of gay drag (“Boys Will Be Girls:
The Politics of Gay Drag,” in Inside/Out: Lesbian Theories, Gay
Theories, ed. Diana Fuss [New York: Routledge, 1990]) as well from
Kaja Silverman’s account of the mastery permitted by T. E. Lawrence’s
reflexive masochism (“White Skin, Brown Masks”). In The Inner World: A
Psychoanalytic Study of Childhood and Society in India (Delhi: Oxford
University Press, 1978), 103, Sudhir Kakar characterizes Hindu
transvestism thus: “Rituals such as these represent not only the boy’s
attempt to identify with his mother but also the man’s effort to free
himself from her domination. By trying to be like women—wearing their
clothes, acquiring their organs, giving birth—these men are also
saying that they do not need women (mothers) any longer.” For a
sympathetic psychoanalytic reading of Ramakrishna’s assumption of
femininity, see Kakar, “Ramakrishna and the Mystical Experience,” in
The Analyst and the Mystic: Psychoanalytic Reflections on Religion and
Mysticism (New Delhi: Viking, 1991), 1–40.
18. Cited in S. Sarkar, “Kathamrita as Text,” 9.
19. D. S. Sarma, Studies in the Renaissance of Hinduism in the
Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries (Benares: Benares Hindu University,
1944), 237.
20. I am grateful to Gayatri Spivak for pointing out to me the
numerous, and discontinuous, ways in which the English term woman
translates into Bengali (and/or Sanskrit). Even so, it is interesting
to note how often other forms of femininity threaten for Ramakrishna
to collapse into the figure of the kamini. Hence his warning to one of
his young male disciples to beware of women who claim to be actuated
by maternal feelings towards him.
21. Isherwood, Ramakrishna and His Disciples, 113.
22. I put this term in quotation marks to indicate that is placed
under erasure. One cannot assume that transvestism was inflected in
the same way for a nineteenth-century (straight?) Hindu male as it
might be for, say, a contemporary straight North American male. One
has to concede that his masculinity might have been constituted
differently, and in a different relationship to femininity, than might
be the case for our hypothetical North American male.
23. I am thinking here of N. T. Rama Rao’s assumption of feminine
attire, makeup, and jewelry, on one-half of his body in the days of
his chief ministership of Andhra Pradesh, apparently in a bid to
consolidate his political/spiritual power. Philip Spratt also provides
detailed anthropological evidence of religious transvestic ceremonies
all over India (Hindu Culture and Personality [Bombay: Manaktalas,
1966]). See, too, Kathryn Hansen’s splendid essay, “Making Women
Visible: Female Impersonators and Actresses on the Parsi Stage and in
Silent Cinema” (unpublished manuscript).
24. Ashis Nandy, At the Edge of Psychology: Essays in Politics and
Culture (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1990), 38.
25. Wendy Doniger, Women, Androgynes, and Other Mythical Beasts
(Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 319.
26. Ibid., 331.
27. Women could, on occasion, function as gurus; the Bhairavi
Brahmani, for instance, was Ramakrishna’s first guru. Other historical
and contemporary figures like Andal, Mahadeviakka, Mirabai, and
Anandamoyi Ma come to mind as well. Sharada Devi (Ramakrishna’s wife)
herself had several (female and male) disciples. I do not think,
however, that this militates against my understanding of the guru-
disciple relationship as functioning for the most part for and among
males nor against my reading of its gendered significance in early
nationalism.
28. I am obliged to Sandhya Shetty for pointing this out to me. The
gurudakshina (the gift to the guru) is situated outside (economic)
exchange and functions in a symbolic capacity only. The instance of
Drona the archer and his low-caste disciple Eklavya, who had to
sacrifice his thumb to ensure the superiority of the guru’s favorite
pupil Arjuna, only demonstrates that in the guru-shishya configuration
what is offered by the disciple is incommensurable with what is given
by the guru.
29. Life of Sri Ramakrishna, Compiled from Various Authentic Sources
(Calcutta: Advaita Ashrama, 1964), 296.
30. Swami Vivekananda. Vivekananda: The Yogas and Other Works, ed.
Swami Nikhilananda (New York: Ramakrishna-Vivekananda Center, 1953),
13.
31. There is no “secular,” critical biography of Ramakrishna except
that by Max Mueller, Ramakrishna: His Life and Sayings (New York:
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1899). While this inveighs against the
miraculizing tendencies of Ramakrishna’s disciples, not excepting
Vivekananda, and refuses to take Ramakrishna’s avatarhood seriously,
it is nonetheless entirely reverential about the man himself.
32. Life of Sri Ramakrishna, 117.
33. Ibid., 144–45.
34. Ibid., 294.
35. Swami Chetanananda, ed. Ramakrishna as We Saw Him (St. Louis, Mo.:
Vedanta Society of St. Louis, 1990), 110.
36. Sumit Sarkar notes: “Girish Ghosh confessed that seeing
Ramakrishna ‘playing’ with a young disciple made him recall a
‘terrible canard’ that he had once heard about the saint” (“Kathamrita
as Text,” 103).
37. Sister Nivedita [Margaret E. Noble], The Master as I Saw Him
(Calcutta: Udbodhan Office, 1910), 64.
38. Isherwood, Ramakrishna and His Disciples, 204.
39. This is not, of course, to assert that the conflicts were unique
to Naren; as we have seen, in terms of class position and intellectual
training he appears to have been no different from the majority of the
disciples. The others, however, appear to have been less outspoken in
their skepticism than he was. I hardly need add that the memory and
the narrative of these conflicts is overdetermined; if Naren had not
become Vivekananda, we would probably have heard far less of his
interactions with his guru. As it is, in The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna
his iconoclasticism is not as evident as that of, say, Bankim or Dr.
Mahendralal Sarkar (neither of whom was a disciple). Nonetheless, he
does seem to have been the unequivocal favorite of Ramakrishna. And it
also seems clear that he was accorded a degree of freedom of speech
and behavior not permitted most of the other disciples. (Girish Ghosh,
who was notorious for his drinking, patronage of prostitutes, and
occasional foul-mouthed invectives against the guru, was one of the
very few others who was granted such a license.)
40. Chatterjee, “Religion of Urban Domesticity.” Sumit Sarkar
emphasizes the saint’s determined pursuit of bhadralok disciples as
well as his reticence about religious practices (of the Baul,
Kartabhaja, and vamachari Tantric varieties) that might have offended
their sensibilities (“The Kathamrita as Text,” 36).
41. Chetanananda, Ramakrishna as We Saw Him, 385–90.
42. My thanks to Inderpal Grewal for suggesting this possibility to
me.
43. Hervey De Witt Griswold, Insights into Modern Hinduism (New York:
Henry Holt, 1934), 58.
44. Nationalism’s dependence on colonialism has been extensively
documented, to some degree by Nandy, Intimate Enemy, but most notably
by Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought. Certainly nationalism-and-
colonialism seems to function as one category for Vivekananda.
45. Not all Brahmos were as skeptical as Shibnath Shastri, who, much
though he admired Ramakrishna, believed that the saint’s austerities
at the beginning of his spiritual career had had deleterious effects
on his mental state; Keshab for one seems to have been less
incredulous of the spiritual nature of the saint’s trances. Sumit
Sarkar points out, interestingly, that while Ramakrishna’s family and
neighbors in Kamarpukur and Dakshineshwar attributed the trances to
madness or “possession,” his bhadralok disciples and admirers
described them as the samadhi state extolled by high Hindu doctrine.
46. Ramakrishna himself made conflicting assertions about his own
avatarhood; at points he dismissed the possibility derisively, while
at other times he claimed to be an avatar of Krishna, Chaitanya, and/
or Kali.
47. Swami Nikhilananda, Vivekananda: A Biography (New York:
Ramakrishna-Vivekananda Center, 1953), 42.
48. It is not possible to establish whether any of the swami’s
supporters were simply admirers or actually disciples. It is not
inconceivable that they may have become disciples retroactively,
following Vivekananda’s success in the west.
49. Sankari Prasad Basu and Sunil Bihari Ghosh, eds., Vivekananda in
Indian Newspapers 1893–1902 (Calcutta: Dineshchandra Basu
Bhattacharya, 1969), 9.
50. It should be noted that the swami’s Indian reputation was—to some
degree, at least—induced by himself, as a defensive measure no doubt
against the criticisms he encountered not only from Christian
ministers in the United States but also from members of the Brahmo
Samaj and perhaps the Theosophical Society as well. His early letters
to his disciples in Madras were full of exhortations to them to hold a
meeting in his honor and to proclaim him to the west as a true
spokesperson of Hinduism. He was also careful to keep them informed
about favorable reviews in the U.S. press.
51. Rakhal Chandra Nath, The New Hindu Movement 1886–1911 (Calcutta:
Minerva, 1982), 126.
52. Ibid., 129.
53. Chatterjee, “Religion of Urban Domesticity.”
54. Nath, New Hindu Movement, 115.
55. Vivekananda was rarely consistent in this view; this was typical
of him. At times he deployed the rhetoric of free trade to imply
mutual and equal advantage to east and west; at other times he
insisted that Indians were superior to the west in their indifference
to material things and that in fact the west called out for spiritual
conquest by an “aggressive Hinduism.” In this vacillation Vivekananda
was not untypical of the bourgeois neo-Hindu nationalists of his time.
[BACK]
56. He also enjoined his brother monks in India not to insist on the
acceptance of Ramakrishna’s avatarhood in would-be devotees and
disciples of the new order.
57. Harold W. French, The Swan’s Wide Waters: Ramakrishna and Western
Culture (Port Washington, N.Y.: Kennikat Press, 1974), 58.
58. Raychaudhuri, Europe Reconsidered, 230.
59. Chatterjee, “Religion of Urban Domesticity.”
60. Nath, New Hindu Movement, 114.
61. Ibid., 17. Note that Bankim’s novel was undoubtedly the product of
a distinctly westward-looking nationalism. Nath describes Aurobindo’s
“Bhawani Mandir” as derived from Anandmath (and remarkably similar to
Vivekananda’s own cult of the warlike monk) in its emphasis on
manliness and in its devotion to Kali. [BACK]
62. Chatterjee, “Religion of Urban Domesticity,” 61.
63. Vivekananda, Vivekananda: The Yogas and Other Works, 151.
64. The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh’s cult of physical fitness and
martial arts training has a great deal in common with Vivekananda’s
endorsement of “beef, biceps, and Bhagavad-Gita.”
65. Reminiscences of Swami Vivekananda, by His Eastern and Western
Admirers (Calcutta: Advaita Ashrama, 1964 [1961]), 347.
66. At this point in Indian history, bourgeois and Hindu nationalisms—
the first represented by “moderates” in the Congress Party calling for
secular and constitutional reforms, the latter by Tilak, Bankim, and
others—have assumed the status of two distinct categories, though
quite often they function as one. I bear in mind also Sudipta
Kaviraj’s important caveat against the conflation of distinct
nationalisms (his own concern is with “early” and “mature”
nationalisms), which must be seen as disjunct rather than articulated
phenomena in Indian history; see Sudipta Kaviraj, “The Imaginary
Institution of India,” in Subaltern Studies VII: Writings on South
Asian History and Society, ed. Partha Chatterjee and Gyanendra Pandey
(New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1991).
67. Basu and Ghosh, Vivekananda in Indian Newspapers, 27.
68. Nivedita, The Master as I Saw Him, 231.
69. Ibid., 388 (emphases in the original). [
70. Reminiscences of Swami Vivekananda, 252. The speaker in this
instance was a woman, Constance Towne.
71. Marie Louise Burke, Swami Vivekananda in America: New Discoveries
(Calcutta: Advaita Ashrama, 1958), 16.
72. Reminiscences of Swami Vivekananda, 14.
73. Swami Vivekananda and His Guru (London and Madras: Christian
Literature Society for India, 1897), iv.
74. There is, to the uninstructed viewer, little if anything of the
disarrangement of limbs or clothing that normally marked the sage’s
experience of samadhi.
75. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “A Literary Representation of the
Subaltern,” in In Other Worlds (London and New York: Routledge, 1987),
264.
76. Nivedita functions here as a type of the western female disciple.
77. Mary Ann Doane, “Dark Continents: Epistemologies of Racial and
Sexual Difference in Psychoanalysis and the Cinema,” in Femmes
Fatales: Feminism, Film Theory, Psychoanalysis (New York and London:
Routledge, 1991), 244.
78. Marie Louise Burke, Swami Vivekananda: His Second Visit to the
West; New Discoveries (Calcutta: Advaita Ashram, 1973).
79. Kakar, Inner World, 160.
80. See, for instance, Romila Thapar: “[The ascetic] is celibate and
yet, at the same time, the most virile of men. The ascetic’s
demonstration of sexual prowess is not a contradiction in terms: it is
in fact a demonstration of his complete control over body functions,
since ideally the emission of semen is prohibited to
him” (“Renunciation: The Making of a Counter-Culture?” in Ancient
Indian Social History: Some Interpretations [Delhi: n.p., 1978], 94).
Also see Joseph Alter: “The whole purpose of brahmacharya [celibacy]
is to build up a resilient store of semen so that the body—in a
holistic, psychosomatic sense—radiates an aura of vitality and
strength” (“Celibacy, Sexuality, and the Transformation of Gender into
Nationalism in North India,” Journal of Asian Studies 53, no. 1
[1994]: 51).
81. Steve Neale, “Masculinity as Spectacle,” in The Sexual Subject: A
Screen Reader in Sexuality (London and New York: Routledge, 1992), 277–
87.
82. Ibid., 286.
83. Swami Vivekananda, “The Future of India,” in Lectures from Colombo
to Almora (Calcutta: Advaita Ashrama, 1956), 267.
84. Reminiscences of Swami Vivekananda, 196. Sister Christine
(Christine Greenstidel) goes on to remark on the companionship of
Sadananda and Vivekananda on their North Indian pilgrimage: “Both were
artistic, both were poets by nature, both were attractive in
appearance. Artists raved about them.”
Nivedita also confesses, though far more discreetly, that she was
drawn to the swami by his “personality” rather his philosophy, which
she initially found unoriginal. Her “biography” of him, The Master as
I Saw Him, is remarkable for its reticence about his corporeality.
85. That such a construction of femininity was not necessarily
exclusive to Hindu reformers/revivalists is borne out by Faisal
Fatehali Devji: “[Muslim] reformist literature replaces the aggressive
sexual woman with the pathetic or suffering woman-as-mother” (“Gender
and the Politics of Space: The Movement for Women’s Reform in Muslim
India, 1857–1900,” South Asia, 14, no. 1 [1991], 151).
86. Partha Chatterjee, “The Nationalist Resolution of the Women’s
Question,” in Recasting Women: Essays in Indian Colonial History, ed.
Kumkum Sangari and Sudesh Vaid (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers
University Press, 1990), 237.
87. Sister Nivedita, The Web of Indian Life (London: William
Heinemann, 1904), 32–45.
88. See, among others, Lata Mani, “Contentious Traditions: The Debate
on Sati in Colonial India,” in The Nature and Context of Minority
Discourse, ed. Abdul JanMohamed and David Lloyd (Oxford and New York:
Oxford University Press, 1990); Kumkum Sangari and Sudesh Vaid, eds.,
Recasting Women: Essays in Indian Colonial History (New Brunswick,
N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1990); Chatterjee, Nation and Its
Fragments; and Madhu Kishwar, “Gandhi on Women,” Economic and
Political Weekly, 5 October 1985, 1691–1702.
89. Monier Monier-Williams, Religious Thought and Life in India (New
Delhi: Oriental Books Reprint Corporation, 1974 [1883]), 184–85. Also
see David R. Kinsley, “Kali: Blood and Death Out of Place,” in Devi:
Goddesses of India, ed. John S. Hawley and Donna M. Wulff (Berkeley
and London: University of California Press, 1996); and Ajit Mookerjee,
Kali: The Feminine Force (New York: Destiny Books, 1988).
90. Sumanta Banerjee, “Marginalization of Women’s Popular Culture in
Nineteenth Century Bengal,” in Recasting Women: Essays in Indian
Colonial History, ed. Kumkum Sangari and Sudesh Vaid (New Brunswick,
N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1990), 158.
91. Ramakrishna was married at the age of twenty-three to Sharadamoni
Debi, a child-bride of five. According to custom, she remained in her
natal home, while Ramakrishna continued his spiritual disciplines at
Dakshineshwar, forgetful of her existence. At eighteen she sought him
out at Dakshineshwar and acceded to his request that their marriage
remain unconsummated. Over the remaining decade and a half of
Ramakrishna’s life, she spent extended periods at Dakshineshwar, doing
his housekeeping and cooking and (usually) living in a separate
building in the temple complex. [BACK]
92. Nivedita, The Master as I Saw Him, 65.
93. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “A Literary Representation of the
Subaltern,” in In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics (New York
and London: Routledge, 1987), 244. [BACK]
94. Nivedita, The Master as I Saw Him, 83.
95. Raychaudhuri, Europe Reconsidered, 242.
96. Swami Vivekananda, Letters of Swami Vivekananda (Calcutta: Advaita
Ashrama, 1964), 167–68.
97. Pandita Ramabai Saraswati (1858–1922) was a notable scholar and a
Hindu widow who converted to Christianity during a visit to England
and dedicated her life to the uplift of young Hindu widows. Her book,
The High-Caste Hindu Woman (London: George Bell and Sons, 1888), as
well as her travels in England and the United States, gained her
sympathy from feminists as well as Christian missionaries abroad and
censure from Hindu conservatives at home. Her shelter for widows, the
Sharda Sadan in Pune, was supported in large part by funds raised by
Ramabai Circles in the United States and England. Her travels in the
United States in the 1880s received extensive coverage in the U.S.
press.
98. Basu and Ghosh, Vivekananda in Indian Newspapers, 421–68.
99. This is necessarily a simplification of Vivekananda’s very
complicated responses to the issues of (gender and other) reform,
nationalism, and colonialism. The split was not simply between
“home” (where reform had to endorsed) and abroad (where Hinduism had
to be defended); even at “home” he had decidedly mixed responses to
reform and (religious and social) orthodoxy.
100. The phrase is Nivedita’s (The Master as I Saw Him, 124). In an
interesting departure from the hagiographical tradition in which
accounts of Ramakrishna and Vivekananda are produced (and in which
tradition Nivedita’s own work uneasily belongs), she emphasizes not
the continuity of their respective “gospels” but their distinctness
from each other. She does this, besides, in a fashion that highlights
the swami’s struggles and doubts: “Sri Ramakrishna had been, as the
Swami himself said once of him, ‘like a flower,’ living apart in the
garden of a temple, simple, half-naked, orthodox, the ideal of the old
time in India, suddenly burst into bloom, in a world that had thought
to dismiss its very memory. It was at one the greatness and the
tragedy of my own Master’s life that he was not of this type. His was
the modern mind in its completeness.…His hope could not pass by
unheeded,…the hope of men of the nineteenth century” (The Master as I
Saw Him, 124–25).
101. Chatterjee, “Nationalist Resolution,” 237–38.
102. She was not, however, recognizably a nineteenth-century British
feminist—at least from the evidence of her early writings—even though
much has been made in the biographies of her feminism and other
“excesses.” Apparently Vivekananda himself made fun of her putative
feminism.
103. Quoted in Barbara Foxe, Long Journey Home: A Biography of
Margaret Noble (Nivedita) (London: Rider, 1975), 32–33.
104. Quoted in Vron Ware, Beyond the Pale: White Women, Racism and
History (London and New York: Verso, 1992), 121.
105. Sharada Devi seems to have been a figure who was not
unequivocally reverenced by the followers of Ramakrishna. Many
devotees visited her at Jayrambati and Kamarpukur, and she initiated
several people into discipleship. She was sometimes spoken of as an
avatar—like her husband—and the heiress to his spiritual kingdom. But
she was also often accused of being excessively worldly. Ramakrishna’s
most prominent disciples visited her only rarely; Swami Nikhilananda
says that this was because they hesitated to “[make] a display of
their spiritual fervour.” See his Holy Mother: Being the Life of Sri
Sarada Devi, Wife of Sri Ramakrishna and Helpmate in His Mission
(London: George Allen & Unwin, 1962). Spivak speaks of the way in
which her official biographer, Swami Gambhirananda, staged her as “a
counter-echo to what he perceived as the strong voice of the Western
Narcissus” (“Asked to Talk about Myself…,” Third Text 19 [Summer
1992]: 17). I would argue that this could only happen retrospectively,
and at a later moment from the one that Vivekananda inhabits.
106. See, for instance, Meredith Borthwick, The Changing Role of Women
in Bengal, 1849–1905 (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press,
1984), esp. chaps. 8 and 9; Ghulam Murshid, Reluctant Debutante:
Response of Bengali Women to Modernization, 1849–1905 (Rajshashi,
Bangladesh: Sahitya Samsad, 1983); and Kumar, History of Doing, esp.
chaps. 2 and 3.
107. The Indian woman was, obviously, recast in the nationalist moment—
as was the Indian man; but recast and fixed, with little room for
negotiation after the recasting had been effected. For an analysis of
a nationalist woman’s struggles with gendered identities in
nationalism, see chapter 5.
108. Romain Rolland, The Life of Vivekananda and the Universal Gospel,
trans. E. F. Malcolm-Smith (Mayavati, India: Advaita Ashrama, 1947),
152, n. 2.
109. Nivedita, The Master as I Saw Him, 136–37.
110. Quoted in Pravrajika Atmaprana, Sister Nivedita of Ramakrishna-
Vivekananda (Calcutta: Sister Nivedita Girls’ School, 1961), 30.
111. Foxe, Long Journey Home, 128.
112. Rakhal Nath maintains that the Ramakrishna Mission was the only
non-political body to come out of the “New Hindu” or Hindu revivalist
movement (Nath, New Hindu Movement). [BACK]
113. Foxe, Long Journey Home, 136.
114. Ibid., 150–51.
115. Barbara N. Ramusack, “Cultural Missionaries, Maternal
Imperialists, Feminist Allies: British Women Activists in India, 1865–
1945,” in Western Women and Imperialism: Complicity and Resistance,
ed. Nupur Chaudhuri and Margaret Strobel (Bloomington and
Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1992), 130.
116. S. B. Mookherjee, “Nivedita and Indian Womanhood,” in Nivedita
Commemoration Volume, ed. Amiya Kumar Majumdar (Calcutta: Dhiraj Basu,
1968), 244.
117. She met Gandhi briefly in Calcutta, in the early years of the
century. Gandhi (who in so many ways would grow to resemble the figure
of Ramakrishna) admired her Hindu partisanship but was unable to agree
with her on nationalist politics. The Congress Party under Gandhi had
a profoundly uneasy relationship with militant nationalist women like
Nivedita and the Rani of Jhansi.
118. Lizelle Reymond’s The Dedicated: A Biography of Nivedita (New
York: John Day, 1953) also helped disseminate this image, though its
factual claims have since been contested. Kumari Jayawardena’s chapter
on Nivedita (“Irish Rebellion and ‘Muscular Hinduism,’” in White
Woman’s Other Burden) describes the contradictory ways in which the
disciple of Vivekananda is remembered.
119. My thanks to Carole-Anne Tyler for sensitizing me to this
possibility. [BACK]
120. Foxe’s biography, Long Journey Home, is particularly derisive in
this regard. What had been admirable “manliness” in Vivekananda was
forwardness in the female disciple. [BACK]
121. Ibid., 205. [BACK]
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