The Oxford History of Hinduism

General Editor

GAVIN FLOOD

Hindu Diasporas

Edited by

Knut A. Jacobsen

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Acknowledgements

I want to thank all the authors of the chapters in this volume for their contributions. Thanks also to Gavin Flood who invited me to edit a volume on Hindu diasporas for The Oxford History of Hinduism series. I want to thank the Oxford Centre for Hindu Studies for inviting me to present some of my work on the global Hindu diasporas when they were hosting me as a Shivdasani Visiting Fellow for the Hilary Term 2022. And finally, I also want to thank Vasudha Narayanan and Purushottama Bilimoria for their many helpful suggestions.

Note on Diacritics

In this book diacritics are used in names of gods and goddesses, festivals, titles of texts, and terms from South Asian languages. Diacritics are mostly not used in names of modern figures and organizations (after ca. 1850). Diacritics are also not used in modern place names such as modern tīrthas. Names of temple organizations follow mostly local spellings. River Gaṅgā is a goddess and spelled with diacritics, while Ganga Talao is a modern pilgrimage place and spelled without diacritics, and it is the Veṅkaṭeśvara temple, that is, a temple devoted to Veṅkaṭeśvara, but the Sri Venkateswara Temple in Penn Hill, the Svāminārāyaṇa temple, but the BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir, London, a Gaṇeśa temple, but the Ganesha Temple in Flushing, New York. A large number of South Asian and other languages are used in the Hindu diasporas and this has led to many different local spellings. Accommodations to local languages have furthermore produced additional linguistic variations. In many of the Hindu diasporas there is no single standardized orthography for terms from South Asian languages and religions. The volume has tried to avoid too many different spellings by using mostly Sanskrit, Hindi, or Tamil spellings. For example, the title of the text Bhagavadgītā is spelled differently in Fiji, Suriname, Malaysia, and the United States and so on, but in this volume only the spelling Bhagavadgītā is used. For many terms and names of gods and goddesses the volume has allowed for the use of a limited variety in spellings such as saṃskāra and saṃskār, and Gaṇeś, Gaṇeśa, Vināyakar, and Vināyakaṉ to avoid excessive Sanskritization. Kṛṣṇa is sometimes spelled Krishna such as in quotations and in the names of modern organisations. With some other words also different spellings are allowed such as swami and svāmi, Vellalar and Veḷḷāḷar, yajña and yagna, depending on context.

List of Tables and Figures

Tables

4.1 Indian indentured labourers to the Caribbean.
Source: Verene Shepherd. 2006. ‘Jamaica.’ In The Encyclopedia of The Indian Diaspora, edited by Brij V. Lal, Peter Reeves, and Rajesh Rai, 310–16. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

7.1 Emigration from Calcutta to Fiji, 1879–1916.
Source: K.L. Gillion, 1956: 148. ‘The Sources of Indian emigration to Fiji.’ Population Studies 10 (2): 139–57. DOI: 10.1080/00324728.1956.10404536

7.2 Hindus in the Fiji population.
Source: I. K. Somerville. 1986: 26. The Ramayan Mandali Movement: Popular Theism in Fiji 1879–1979. Sydney: University of Sydney.

7.3 Projections of the ethnic composition population of Fiji from 2007 to 2030.
Source: https://www.statsfiji.gov.fj/statistics/2007-census-of-population-and-housing/.

7.4 Hindu immigrants living in Australia in 2016 by year of arrival.
Source: Australian Census, 2016; Philip Hughes. 2019: 168. ‘A Statistical Profile of the Hindu Community in Australia.’ In The Indian Diaspora: Hindus and Sikhs in Australia, edited by Purushottama Bilimoria, Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat, and Philip Hughes, 165–85. Melbourne: Manticore Press.

7.5 Birthplace of Hindus living in Australia in 2016.
Source: Australian Census, 2016. Philip Hughes. 2019: 167. ‘A Statistical Profile of the Hindu Community in Australia.’ In The Indian Diaspora: Hindus and Sikhs in Australia, edited by Purushottama Bilimoria, Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat, and Philip Hughes, 165–85. Melbourne: Manticore Press.

7.6 New Zealand’s population defined as ethnically Indian, by place of birth 2006–2018.
Source: https://www.stats.govt.nz/tools/2018-census-ethnic-group-summaries/indian/.

7.7 Ten major language groups spoken by New Zealand’s Indian community in 2018.
Source: https://www.stats.govt.nz/tools/2018-census-place-summaries/new-zealand#ethnicity-culture-and-identity/.

7.8 Religious affiliation for the Indian ethnic group, 2006–18.
Source: https://www.stats.govt.nz/tools/2018-census-place-summaries/new-zealand#ethnicity-culture-and-identity/.

9.1 Number of Hindus with South Asian ancestry living in Europe in 2020 in some selected countries.
Source: Estimations based on information in the chapters in Handbook of Hinduism in Europe (Jacobsen and Sardella 2020) and ‘Religion, England and Wales: Census 2021’.

Figures

3.1 The Chinese Kālī temple in Tangra, Kolkata (photograph by author, July 2018).

3.2 Religious altars of a Chinese man living on the former site of the Kalimpong Chinese School (photograph by the author, July 2018).

3.3 The statue of the four-armed Śiva overlooking the check-in area of the Holiday Inn Golden Mile, which was converted into a quarantine hotel during the COVID-19 pandemic in late 2021 (photograph by the author, December 2021).

3.4 The gate of the Hindu temple on 18 Wong Nei Chong Road, Hong Kong (left) and the statue of Jhūle Lāl in the temple hall (right) (photographs by the author, March 2009).

6.1 Gaṅgāmma shrine on Belair Road, Cato Manor, Durban (photograph by author).

6.2 Shree Ambalavanavaar Alayam, Cato Manor, Durban (photograph by author).

6.3 The newly renovated Māriammaṉ temple at Mt. Edgecomb, Durban (photograph by author).

14.1 Tīrthotsav procession, Sivasubramaniyar Alayam in Oslo, Norway (photograph by author, June 2010).

14.2 Batu Caves in Malaysia with the statue of Murukaṉ in front (photograph by author, December 2022).

List of Contributors

Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat holds doctorates in Organic Chemistry and Indology and is a research fellow at Monash University, Australia. His research interests include Diaspora Studies, Hinduism, Temple Priests, and the Fisher community of Mumbai. He has published widely in these areas. He co-edited The Iconic Female: Goddesses of India, Nepal and Tibet (Monash University Press, 2008), and Conceiving the Goddess: Transformation and Appropriation in Indic Religions (Monash University Publishing, 2016), both with Ian Mabbett. He is also a co-author of The Indian Diaspora: Hindus and Sikhs in Australia (DK Printworld, 2015). His latest work, The Lajjagauri and Anandanayaki, is the translation into English of an important Marathi work on the primordial mother-goddess (Monash University Publishing, 2020). The third volume of his goddess-trilogy, The Goddess and the Environment, is currently in print.

Martin Baumann is Professor of the Study of Religions at the Faculty for Humanities and Social Sciences at the University of Lucerne (Switzerland). He obtained his Ph.D. with a thesis on Buddhists and Buddhist communities in Germany in 1993 at the University of Hannover (Germany) and received his habilitation graduation with a post-doctoral thesis on Hindu tradition in diasporic contexts in 1999 at the University of Leipzig (Germany). His teaching and research interests focus on Hindu and Buddhist traditions in the West, immigration and religion, diaspora communities and religious pluralism, and religion and public space.

Purushottama Bilimoria, Ph.D. works in Indian & Cross-Cultural/Global Philosophy, Philosophy of Religion, and Diaspora Studies. He recently joined as Professor of Law and International Affairs in O.P. Jindal Global University, Sonipat (NCR), India; a Principal Fellow at University of Melbourne and teaching/visiting faculty in University of California (Merced and Berkeley) and San Francisco State University. He is co-founder of Australasian Society for Asian and Comparative Philosophy, he serves as Co-Editor-in-Chief of Sophia and Journal of Dharma Studies. Recent publications include History of Indian Philosophy (with A. Rayner, 2019); Religion and Sustainability (with Rita D. Sherma, 2021); Contemplative Studies and Hinduism (with Rita D. Sherma, 2021); Contemplative Studies and Jainism (with R. Sherma and C. Bohenac, 2023); Handbook of Indian Ethics; Gender Justice & Ecology (vol. 2) (with Amy Rayner and Renuka Sharma, 2023); Engaging Philosophies of Religion: Across Global Boundaries (with Gereon Skof, 2023).

Alison Booth, Ph.D., is a specialist in ethnography, festivalization, social sustainability, and cultural representation of diasporic communities, and event management theory. Her research focuses on live performance events, diasporic cultures, and the social and political issues that are articulated and negotiated when representing minority voices in hegemonic contexts. Her thesis, Performance Networks: Indian Cultural Production in Aotearoa (University of Otago, Dunedin), explores the processes and relationships that support the production of cultural events, with specific reference to events that are of interest to and/or produced by New Zealand’s Indian community. She is an independent scholar and a research associate in the Centre for Global Migration at the University of Otago. She is currently involved with a variety of community event-based research projects in New Zealand and the Pacific.

Ka-Kin Cheuk is a Lecturer in Anthropology at the University of Southampton. He was previously an Assistant Professor in the Department of Chinese and History at the City University of Hong Kong and an Annette and Hugh Gragg Postdoctoral Fellow in Transnational Asian Studies in the Chao Center for Asian Studies at Rice University. Trained as an anthropologist (DPhil, Oxford), his research revolves around the study of migration, transnationalism, and inter-Asian connections, with trans-regional focuses on China, Hong Kong, India, the Middle East, Europe, as well as the US and the UK. His recent publications include ‘Fabric Exports From China to Dubai Through Indian Trading Networks’ (American Behavioral Scientist 2022), ‘Diasporic Convergence, Sustained Transience and Indifferent Survival: Indian Traders in China’ (History and Anthropology 2022) and ‘Making Mumbai (in China)’ (in Lisa Björkman, ed., Bombay Brokers, Duke University Press, 2021). Having conducted fieldwork over the past decade on Sikh diaspora in Hong Kong and on Indian traders in southeast China, he is currently developing a new project on flower industries and Scotland–China circuits of environmental ethics.

Philip Hughes has post-graduate qualifications in philosophy, education, and theology. The focus of much of his research has been the relationship between religion and culture. Currently, he is Emeritus Professor in Sociology at Alphacrucis University College, Australia. He is also a honorary research fellow with the University of Divinity, the Christian Research Association, and National Centre for Pastoral Research. He has researched and published widely on religion and society in Australia; his latest book is Australia’s Religious and Non-Religious Profiles: An Analysis of the 2021 Census Data (December 2022). He is a co-author of The Indian Diaspora: Hindus and Sikhs in Australia.

Knut A. Jacobsen is Professor of the Study of Religions at the University of Bergen, Norway. His main fields of research include Sāṃkhya and Yoga theory and practice, Hindu sacred geography and pilgrimage, transnational Hinduism, and religion and public space in South Asia and the diasporas. He has authored four monographs, Prakṛti in Sāṃkhya-Yoga: Material Principle, Religious Experience, Ethical Implications (1999), Kapila: Founder of Sāṃkhya and Avatāra of Viṣṇu (2008), Pilgrimage in the Hindu Tradition: Salvific Space (2013), and Yoga in Modern Hinduism: Hariharānanda Āraṇya and Sāṃkhyayoga (2018), and is the editor or co-editor of numerous books, the latest of which are the two volumes Handbook of Hinduism in Europe (2020) and the Routledge Handbook of South Asian Religions (2021). Jacobsen is the founding editor-in-chief of the six volumes Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism (2009–2015) and Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism Online.

Jeffery D. Long is Professor of Religion, Philosophy, and Asian Studies at Elizabethtown College, in Pennsylvania, where he has taught since receiving his doctoral degree from the University of Chicago Divinity School in the year 2000. He has authored many articles and several books, including Hinduism in America: A Convergence of Worlds (2020), the Historical Dictionary of Hinduism (first and second editions, 2011 and 2020), Jainism: An Introduction (2009), and, with Michael Long, Nonviolence in the World’s Religions: A Concise Introduction (2021). In 2021, he received the Ranck Award for Research Excellence from Elizabethtown College, and in 2022, he received an Ahimsa Award from the International Ahimsa Foundation, for his work to promote nonviolence through his scholarship. He has spoken at a variety of prestigious venues, including three talks at the United Nations. He is the editor of the Lexington Books series, Explorations in Indic Traditions: Ethical, Philosophical, and Theological.

Inês Lourenço, Ph.D., Anthropology (Iscte, University Institute of Lisbon), is a researcher at Centre for Research in Anthropology (CRIA-Iscte), of which she is also a member of the board. Her main research is focused on the Indian diaspora in Portugal, its processes of reproduction and cultural negotiation, of religious, social, and gender adaptation. This research resulted from long-term fieldwork conducted in Portugal, complemented in India and in the UK. Other topics of interest are the consumption of Indian cultural commodities, such as Bollywood cinema and dance, and its related social uses in the Portuguese society. Her current research addresses the migrant heritage of communities of Indian origin in Portugal (Gujarati-Hindus and Muslims, Goan-Catholics and Punjabi–Sikhs), in articulation between museology and anthropology.

Amanda Lucia is Professor of Religious Studies at the University of California, Riverside. Her research engages the global exportation, appropriation, and circulation of Hinduism, with designated attention to global guru movements. She is author of White Utopias: The Religious Exoticism of Transformational Festivals (2020), which analyses yoga practice and the intersections of whiteness and religious exoticism among the ‘spiritual, but not religious’ (SBNR) at global transformational festivals. Her previous publications include Reflections of Amma: Devotees in a Global Embrace (2014), and numerous articles. She is currently crafting a body of research on representations of gurus, with particular attention to media and law. She is also the Principal Investigator for the Religion & Sexual Abuse Project, https://www.religionandsexualabuseproject.org/

Vasudha Narayanan is Distinguished Professor, Department of Religion, at the University of Florida and a past President of the American Academy of Religion. She was educated at the Universities of Madras and Bombay in India, and at Harvard University. She is the author or editor of several books and numerous articles, chapters in books, and encyclopaedia entries. Her research has been supported by grants and fellowships from many organizations, including the Centre for Khmer Studies, the American Council of Learned Societies, the John Simon Guggenheim Foundation, National Endowment for the Humanities, the American Institute of Indian Studies/Smithsonian, and the Social Science Research Council. She is currently working on the Hindu traditions in the United States and on a book focusing on the importance of the churning of the ocean of milk story in Cambodia.

Pratap Kumar Penumala is Emeritus Professor of Hinduism and Comparative Religions in the School of Religion, Philosophy and Classics, University of KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. In addition to several scholarly essays and articles his publications include The Goddess Lakshmi in South Indian Vaishnavism (Scholars Press, 1997, reprinted by Oxford University Press, 2000); Hinduism and The Diaspora: A South African Narrative (Rawat Publishers, 2013). His edited volumes include Religious Pluralism and the Diaspora (Brill, 2006); Contemporary Hinduism (Acumen/Routledge, 2013) and Classical and Contemporary Issues in Indian Philosophy and Religion (DK Print World, 2013). Indian Diaspora: Socio-cultural and Religious Worlds (Brill, 2015), and Contemporary Issues in the Indian Diaspora of South Africa (Serial Publications, 2016). He is currently working on two monographs, on Brahmanism: Past and Present, and Hinduism in Africa.

Prea Persaud is currently a Visiting Instructor at Swarthmore College, PA. Her research focuses on Hinduism in the Caribbean and the intersection between race and religion. She is on the steering committee for the North American Hindu Unit at the American Academy of Religion and a member of the Intersectional Critical Hindu Studies Group. Her recently publications include several chapters in the edited volume Hinduism in 5 Minutes edited by Steven Ramey and ‘Creolization, Caribbeanness, and Other Categories in the Study of Caribbean Hinduism’, in American Examples: New Conversations about Religion edited by Michael Altman.

Tracy Pintchman is a Professor of Religious Studies and Director of the Global Studies Program at Loyola University of Chicago. Her research interests include Hindu goddess traditions, women and religion, and transnational Hinduism. Her scholarly publications include more than two dozen articles and book chapters as well as five edited and coedited volumes and two monographs, The Rise of the Goddess in the Hindu Tradition (1994) and Guests at God’s Wedding: Celebrating Kartik Among the Women of Benares. Her current monograph, Goddess Beyond Boundaries: Worshipping the Eternal Mother at a North American Hindu Temple, is in process and under contract with Oxford University Press.

Rajendra Prasad teaches linguistics at the School of Language Arts and Media, University of the South Pacific. His research interests are in the linguistic study of Fiji Baat and its historical development in the social, political, and educational fields of Fiji Indians. He is a Ph.D. candidate at the University of the South Pacific. For his Ph.D. research he is doing a language documentation of Fiji Baat and analysing the verb construction of it in comparison with other Hindi dialects in India. The Masters was a grammar sketch of Fiji Hindi. Prasad is actively researching on multilingual education in Fiji. He has presented papers and co-authored several publications in his area of interest and currently he is part of an international diaspora of linguists who are working on the standardization of the diaspora Hindi writing orthography.

Martin Ramstedt is Adjunct Professor at the Institute for Social and Cultural Anthropology, Martin Luther University, and Research Associate at the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology in Halle. He recently finished his term of office as Scientific Director of the Oñati International Institute for Sociology of Law and Ikerbasque Research Professor in the Basque Country, Spain. He taught and lectured widely at international universities in the fields of anthropology, legal sociology, and Asian studies. He dedicated many years of research to various topics on the intersection of politics, religion, and law in Indonesia and beyond, for example as European Science Foundation Research Fellow at the International Institute for Asian Studies in Leiden or as Senior Researcher at the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology in Halle. He is chief editor of the book series, ‘Religion and Society in Asia’ at Amsterdam University Press and review editor of Frontiers in Sociology.

Stuart Earle Strange is Assistant Professor of Anthropology at Yale-NUS College, Singapore. He researches the nexus of knowledge, interaction, and multispecies ethnography, with a focus on the politics of revelation, the meanings of control, and the interpretation of other minds in the Caribbean and South East Asia. He has conducted ethnographic research in Suriname, Haiti, Sri Lanka, and Ghana, and is currently writing a book about Singapore.

Pierre-Yves Trouillet is a permanent Research Fellow in Social and Cultural Geography at the French National Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS), member of the Passages Research Institute (University of Bordeaux), and Fellow of the French Collaborative Institute on Migration. His research and publications focus on popular Hinduism in South India and in several Tamil immigration countries (Mauritius, Canada, France), and deal with the relationships between religion, society, and space. Among his recent publications, he co-edited, with Mathieu Claveyrolas, the research book, Les Hindous, les Autres et l’Ailleurs: Frontières et Relations, published by Editions de l’EHESS in 2021.

Kenneth Valpey, a Research Fellow of the Oxford Centre for Hindu Studies, has been an active member of ISKCON since 1972 as an itinerant monk and, since 2014, a sanyāsin, travelling mainly in Europe. His doctoral research, at the University of Oxford, was on the Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇava theology and practice of temple image worship, including attention to its current practice in the Hindu (Vaiṣṇava) diaspora, now published as Attending Kṛṣṇa’s Image: Caitanya Vaiṣṇava Mūrti-sevā as Devotional Truth (Routledge, 2006). Currently his main focus is on Indic traditions in relation to animal ethics. His most recent book is Cow Care in Hindu Animal Ethics (Palgrave Macmillan, 2020, Open Access).

Annette Wilke is Professor of the Study of Religion (Emeritus) at the Westfalian Wilhelms University of Muenster, Germany (1998–2019). She has been Head of the Institute and also a member of the university’s Cluster of Excellence ‘Religion and Politics’ with a project on global Hinduism. Her academic training was in the history of religion, philosophy, and theology at the University of Fribourg (CH), and in South Asian Studies in the US, Zurich, and Varanasi. Annette Wilke combines in her work textual studies and fieldwork along with cultural theory, and has widely published on her research areas: aesthetics of religion, ritual studies, mysticism, cultural transfers, Hindu traditions past and present, especially goddess worship, Advaita-Vedānta, Tantra, the role of sound in Hindu India, Sri Lankan Tamils in Germany, and temple Hinduism in the diaspora.

Introduction

Hinduism and Migration

Knut A. Jacobsen

Religions throughout history have, for the large part, spread by means of the geographic movement of people, that is, by migration and then through migrants’ children. This is the case also with many of those religious traditions considered Hindu and included in the term ‘Hinduism’. It is mainly the migration of Hindus from South Asia that has given the Hindu traditions a worldwide presence. The term ‘Hindu diasporas’, which is the title of this volume, refers to that part of the worldwide presence of Hindus and the Hindu traditions that have resulted from this movement of Hindus out of South Asia. The term ‘diaspora’ is currently widely used in academic and popular discourses to refer to any migrant group with a common origin living outside of its ancestral homeland and which maintains some sort of relationship to this ancestral place or home country. The term ‘diasporas’ should be understood in this simple meaning of geographical dispersions of people and, in addition, that this connection to another place than where they reside constitutes part of their identity. Significant populations of Hindus live, not only in India and the rest of South Asia, but also in Mauritius, South Africa, Réunion, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, East Asia, Trinidad and Tobago, Guyana, Suriname, North America, Fiji, Australia, New Zealand, Britain, France, Germany, and many other countries.

This volume concentrates on the religious dimensions of the Hindu diasporas. In the diasporas, religion has often been an important resource for the preservation and maintenance of a relationship to the ancestral home country. Religion can also function to re-actualize or rebuild such a relationship. In the Hindu diasporas, South Asian languages such as Sanskrit and Tamil have remained important ritual languages, and South Asian languages dominate in many religious settings. The sacred calendars and spaces of South Asia have remained normative. For many Hindus in the diasporas, South Asia has remained a place of religious authority and authenticity, with priests, temple musicians, and temple builders being recruited from South Asia, on long- or short-term contracts. In all large temples outside of South Asia it is important that the mūrtis (embodied forms of the gods and goddesses worshipped in temples) should come from India. The mūrtis are treated as living embodiments of the divinities and are the most sacred objects in the temples. The temple mūrtis imported from India are thought of as representing the divine in Hindu religion in an accurate and truthful way and guarantee that the powers of the gods and goddesses are available to the devotees. India continues to be the country of origin of Hindu gods and goddesses. Other material objects such as books, posters of gods, mālās (prayer beads, garlands), incense, and other items used in rituals are exported from India to Hindus all over the world. A temple that has not been built from the ground up in Indian architectural temple style is looked upon as a temporary temple only, to be replaced by a ‘real’ temple sometime in the future. That the rituals in religious festivals in the diaspora are performed in the same way as in the South Asian country of origin is looked upon as a sign of authenticity and is a source of happiness. However, the diaspora is typically also characterized by innovations and adaptations such as moving the celebration of Hindu festivals to the nearest weekend or including more cultural events in the temple locations. Indian dance has become important in the diasporas for religious identity formation and celebration of religious traditions. Transfer of Hindu religious traditions can be a very demanding task and involves hard work, and it is more important to some than others. Much religious work is invested in transferring the diasporic consciousness of the first generation to the later generations, but the Hindu religion may also be rediscovered and actualized in new ways. Hindu traditions have become global, with Hindu Brahman priests from India and Sri Lanka serving in temples all over the world. This volume on the Hindu diasporas presents and analyses some of the geographies, migration histories, religious traditions and developments, rituals, places, institutions, and representations, and focuses on Hindus with a South Asian ancestral background living outside of South Asia.

Concepts

The term ‘Hindu’ refers to persons identifying with or being identified with those religious traditions and practices which together are referred to as the Hindu traditions or Hinduism. The term ‘Hinduism’, although ending with the suffix -ism, does not refer to an ideology, a philosophy, or to a religious doctrine. Hinduism refers to a large plurality of religious traditions, perhaps best understood as a mosaic of traditions, and their development is an ‘open-ended process’ (Barua 2015: 27). The term is used interchangeably with the plural term ‘Hindu traditions’. There is a large body of critical literature about problematic aspects of the term ‘Hinduism’ and the term’s origin and history, especially in the 1990s and 2000s when the term was eagerly debated (see Hawley and Narayanan 2006, Llewellin 2005, Lorenzen 1999, Pennington 2005, Sweetman 2003). In this book the term is used critically, that is, with a critical awareness of the academic debates about the origin and history of the term. The modern concept of Hinduism developed as part of globalization when India was ruled by European colonial powers. A discussion of the term is found in several of the chapters of this volume. Martin Ramstedt in Chapter 2, notes that in South East Asia, colonialism and colonial knowledge production produced the conditions for the Hindu religious ideology and practices, and Prea Persaud, in Chapter 4, writing on Hinduism in the Caribbean, notes that the concept of Hinduism was unknown to the migrants who arrived in the nineteenth century. The struggle of Indian nationalism to create the independent nation state of India and the attempt to construct the Hindu traditions as a unified tradition contributed to the concept, and this also influenced the religious developments in the Hindu diasporas. In the Hindu diasporas, as a minority, or as a majority as in the case of Mauritius, there were also benefits from regarding Hinduism as a unified religion and Hindu as a common identity. Thus, the diaspora situation has in some cases, especially in the old diasporas, encouraged the idea of Hinduism as single religion.

In the study of Hinduism, the focus on the diasporas can contribute to bringing attention to such issues as the global presence of Hindus and Hinduism, the way Hindu traditions expand geographically, how Hindus abroad relate to South Asia, transnational developments and relations, global temple expansions, festival religion, generational transfer, caste, the new ritual roles of women in the diasporas, the diasporas and Hindutva and Hindu nationalism, and the relationship between Hindu diasporas and the new followers of Hindu traditions such as yoga and Hindu devotional groups.

Hindu diaspora is sometimes used in the singular, but since Hindu diasporas are not only Indian, but also Sri Lankan, Nepalese, and Balinese, and in addition Hindus in ‘second diasporas’ such as Hindus from Suriname in the Netherlands, Hindus from East Africa in Britain, Hindus from Fiji in Australia and New Zealand, and so on, the plural term ‘Hindu diasporas’ is a better way to conceptualize the phenomenon of Hinduism and migration. South Asia is also comprised of many nations (India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal, Sri Lanka, Bhutan, and the Maldives) and Hindus from South Asia thus belong to several different national diasporas. In addition, the Indian diaspora is a multi-ethnic diaspora. India is divided into many regions, with separate languages, histories, and ethnic identities, and is a federal constitutional republic. The separate states in the Indian republic (29 states and eight union territories) mirror some of this diversity.¹ Consequently, the Indian Hindu diaspora is likewise a plural phenomenon, with different Indian regional traditions establishing separate temples, institutions, organizations, and identities. Also, Hinduism is a very diverse tradition. Svāminārāyaṇa Hindus from Gujarat and Īḻam Tamil Hindus from Sri Lanka obviously represent different diasporas.

The term ‘diaspora’ has in the past had connotations of forced displacement and suffering.² The early Hindu diasporas that were dominated by indentured labour were not forced displacements, although poverty as well as trickery played important roles in the recruitment. During the first decades of the indentured labour system, the treatment of the plantation workers was probably no different from the treatment of the slaves they replaced (Tinker 1974, but see also Allen 2012). The distinction in the study of the Hindu diasporas between the old Hindu diasporas that were mostly created by the indentured labour system and the new Hindu diasporas created by post-independence migrations is important because of the great difference in conditions and experiences. As Vasudha Narayanan notes in her chapter on the United States in this volume, of the approximately 2.5 million Hindus in the United States, a diaspora currently dominated by first and second generations, almost half have completed a graduate degree and, as a population, have one of the highest levels of household income. The contrast with the first and second generations of indentured labourers in the nineteenth century in, for example, Trinidad, Mauritius, or Fiji, is enormous. The small shrines to a protector goddess symbolized by a red-coloured stone situated at the plantations contrast with the monumental temples that the Hindu diaspora in the United States were quick to envision, the first of which were constructed as early as in the 1970s. The current use of the term ‘diaspora’ in Hindu studies reflects this shift from the suffering of the indentured labourers to the successful immigration history of the Hindus in the United States, Europe, and Australia, and the improved conditions for Hindus in some old diasporas. This shift in understanding of diaspora is generally also the case in diaspora studies. A valuable study of uses of the term ‘diaspora’ has noted the importance of understanding its use as a contemporary term ‘relieved of its heavy burden of misery, persecution, and punishment’ (Dufoix 2008: 106).

The Indian government has in the last decades been active in the promotion of Indian diasporic identities. The use of the term ‘diaspora’ for ‘overseas Indians’ or ‘the Indian global nation’ (Abraham 2014: 106) represents a recent shift in understanding, due not only to the increased popularity of the term ‘diaspora’ in research, popular media, and politics, but also to a shift in India’s relationship to the communities now included in the diaspora. The postcolonial Indian political elite dismissed the category of overseas Indians. Itty Abraham has noted that while the early meaning of diaspora meant a people without a homeland, after 1919 and the creation of the new international norm of national self-determination, the idea of diaspora took on new meanings: ‘[D]iaspora now also meant a people living outside the borders of a defined national homeland’ (Abraham 2014: 74). Abraham argues that the Indians who at that time were living around the globe and especially within the borders of the British Empire were not a diaspora in the modern sense. Only with Indian independence, could a globally dispersed nation be differentiated into citizens of the Indian state and an overseas diaspora. When India became a nation state, the diaspora was excluded from the Indian nation state, and this exclusion of the Indian diaspora defined Indian foreign policy up to 1990. When India gained independence in 1947, Indians living abroad because of their long stay overseas were not considered Indians. The views at the time of India’s first prime minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, are representative. He considered Indians in South Africa ‘not Indian nationals’ and Hill Country Tamil Indians in Sri Lanka³ ‘not our nationals’ (quoted in Abraham 2014: 97), and in 1947 the new Indian government claimed that the Indian populations in South East Asia had no formal connections to India and had no right to return. Even in the 1970s Indians overseas do not seem to have been considered Indians by the Indian government. When the Indians in Uganda were expelled in 1972 due to the Africanization policies, the Indian government ‘proclaimed that these displaced overseas Indians had no right of return’ (Abraham 2014: 75). The Indian view of them was that they were racially prejudiced against Africans and that they should have assimilated into the local society. A shift started in the late 1970s with the growth in financial remittances by overseas Indians. In the 1980s, the population of middle-class and upper-caste Indians living abroad had become significant in countries such as the United States, Canada, Britain, Australia, and Singapore. By the 1990s the view had changed, and India now hoped that overseas Indians would contribute their skills and resources to ‘their country of origin’. Abraham explains the change in the 1990s as a need to respond to the demands of neoliberal globalization and the changes in the caste and class constitution of the diaspora. In 1947 India was territorialized against the overseas Indians who were perceived to be low caste and low class, and in the 1990s India was redefined in nonterritorial terms because of the new diasporas, especially in the United States, that were upper caste and middle class, which Abraham claims represented the ‘normative Indian citizen’ (Abraham 2014: 78). The overseas Indians that had been an excluded social group were now invited to become diaspora Indians. At the time of independence, Abraham explains, ‘India could not afford to have a global diaspora making claims on its nationality when it was one of the first postcolonial states seeking recognition as a new nation state’ (Abraham 2014: 99). In the 2001 Indian government diaspora report,⁴ double citizenship was recommended to Non-Resident Indians (NRIs). Non-Resident Indians had emigrated after India’s independence and ‘were invited to return to the Indian state as the exemplary representatives of a new globally prominent and internationally recognized Indian nation’ (Abraham 2014: 102). Abraham argues that Hindu nationalism also played a role in this creation of the NRI and the imagination of an Indian diaspora, and certainly, the diasporas, especially parts of the wealthy Indian community in the United States, have been active in their economic support of Hindutva political parties in India (see Chapter 15 by Long in this volume).⁵ Abraham argues that Hinduism had come under attack for its normalization of a historically unjust and unequal social hierarchy, especially in the agitation around the implementation of the affirmative action regulations recommended by the Mandal Commission in 1990, and that the success of the Non-Resident Indians (NRIs) could be used to argue that the hierarchy of the Hindu system ‘was based on an internal logic that was universally applicable’ (Abraham 2014: 105). The Indian Ministry of External Affairs reported in 2018 that there were 30.9 million Overseas Indians, that is, Indians residing outside of India.⁶ Many of the 30.9 million Overseas Indians are first generation migrants, but the category Overseas Indians recognizes migrations that have taken place during the last two hundred years. While it is important to be aware of political developments in the history of the idea of an Indian diaspora, the term ‘Hindu diasporas’ in this volume is not used as a category for analysing the politics of the Indian state, but for analysing an aspect of the worldwide Hindu religious traditions, that is, their spread outside of South Asia through migration and Hinduism as practised outside South Asia by people who are from, or whose ancestors are from, South Asia. The concept of an Indian diaspora is also different from the concept of a Hindu diaspora in several ways. Most importantly, Hindu diaspora is a category defined by religion, and secondly, as already stated, Hindus originate from several nation states beyond the Indian diaspora.

It should also be emphasized that ‘diaspora’ does not have to refer to a situation of living in a minority situation. Hindus make up the majority in Mauritius, currently the only country outside of South Asia with a Hindu majority, but Hindus in Mauritius are nevertheless part of the global Hindu diasporas. The Indian origin of the Hindus in Mauritius is an important part of their Hindu identity. The connection to India can be illustrated by how Hindus in Mauritius have established a sacred lake, Ganga Talao, as a major pilgrimage site. The water of the lake is identified with the water of the River Gaṅgā, and along its banks is a jyotirliṅga claimed to be the thirteenth jyotirliṅga (a symbol of the Hindu god Śiva) and the only one outside of India.⁷ The transfer of Gaṅgā water and expansion of the jyotirliṅga system beyond India can be understood as attempts to connect Mauritius intimately with the sacred geography of India and not only to actualize their Indian ancestral origins but also to expand the idea of the sacred geography of Hinduism making Hindu sacred space apply to anywhere in the world. When I visited Ganga Talao in May 2022, an enormous Indian flag was flapping in the wind next to the flag of Mauritius, signifying the connection between Hindu sacred geography in India and Mauritius.

Hinduism and Migration

There is significant research literature on Hinduism and migration in a global perspective. However, most studies deal with single locations and only a few books deal with Hindu diasporas in more than one continent (Jacobsen et. al. 2013: 189–356, Rukmani 1999, Vertovec 2000, Younger 2009). A recent book publication studies Hindu diasporas in all the countries in one continent (Jacobsen and Sardella 2020), and a number of important single-country studies have been published (Belle 2017, Bilimoria, Bapat, and Hughes 2015, Burghart 1987, Chazan-Gillig and Ramhota 2023a and 2023b, Collins 1997, Eisenlohr 2006, Jackson and Nesbitt 1993, Kelly 1991, Kumar 2000, Kurien 2007, Lang 2021, Long 2020). The edited volume by Baumann, Luchesi, and Wilke (2003) examines Tamil religion in the German- and Scandinavian-speaking regions of Europe, and Clothey (2006) studies the religious traditions of the Tamil diasporas in Asia and the United States. A few edited volumes have also been published that discuss the plurality of religions in the South Asian diasporas, with important articles on Hindu diasporas (Coward, Hinnels, and Williams 2000, Gallo 2014, Jacobsen and Kumar 2004). Sinha (2011) deals with material religion and commodification in the Hindu diasporas. Articles on Hindu diasporas that focus on religion have often dealt with various themes such as local migration histories, temples, rituals, festivals, gods and goddesses, iconography, materiality, narratives, organizations, home, caste, Brahmans, ethnicity, hybridity, generational transfer, public representation, the Internet, Hindutva, and more, and they are too numerous to mention here. An early monograph on the global Hindu diasporas was by Steven Vertovec (2000). The book studied Hindus in the Caribbean and Britain. In this book, Vertovec argued, surprisingly, that Hinduism was a diaspora religion like Judaism. Cohen, in an important publication, had stated that religions normally do not constitute diasporas, because religions are usually constituted by many different ethnic groups that do not generally seek a return to a remote ‘homeland’ (Cohen 1997). Vertovec argued, however, that Hinduism is one of the exceptions and is a diaspora religion like Judaism for the following reasons: first, Hinduism’s special connection to India; second, the caste system that, according to him, makes conversion to Hinduism impossible; and third, the fact that so many of the sacred sites of Hinduism are located in India. Vertovec’s three arguments for Hinduism being a diaspora religion are probably all invalid. Firstly, as already mentioned, Hindus are not only Indians, but also Nepalese, Sri Lankans, and Balinese. Hindus living in South Asia outside of India are not considered part of the Hindu diaspora, with the exception of the Hill Country Tamils in Sri Lanka. It is therefore a mistake to identify all Hindus with Indian ancestry. Secondly, historically, the spread of the Brahmanical tradition from the north-west corner of India to the rest of South Asia (Bronkhorst 2020) and further to South East Asia in the first millennium of the Common Era points to an eagerness of Brahmans to attract and include new ritual clients. In addition, modern Hindu traditions are not exclusively ethnic traditions, but many of them increasingly attract converts and many Hindu gurus and traditions are eager to gain new followers, also Western ones, and some with a significant international success (see chapters by Lucia and Valpey, 16 and 17, in this volume). Thirdly, the practice in the Hindu diasporas of establishing Hindu sacred sites outside of India and South Asia, which also become sites of pilgrimage travel and festivals, shows that Hindu sacred space is not limited to India or South Asia, but that Hindus establish sacred sites wherever they live (see Chapter 14 by Jacobsen in this volume). Sacralization of sites is a way to relate to the environment. The Hindu gods have moved globally together with the Hindu migrants. Hinduism is therefore better understood not as a diaspora religion in the above sense. Instead, Hindu diasporas refer to the way Hinduism is practised and developed by Hindus living outside of South Asia.

The Hindu diasporas of the modern world are broadly divided into ‘old Hindu diasporas’ and ‘new Hindu diasporas’, that is, those that developed before and after the second half of the twentieth century. However, the large presence of Hindu traditions in South East Asia in the first millennium of the Common Era, documented by archaeological and epigraphical material, with some of the largest temples in the world such as Angkor Wat in Cambodia, has raised the question about a possible presence of a pre-modern Hindu diaspora in South East Asia (see Chapter 1 by Narayanan). The concept ‘Greater India’ was popular in the early twentieth century and later ‘Indianized countries of Southeast Asia’ (Coedès 1968) was used to make sense of this historical presence of Hindu culture in South East Asia. To what degree the presence of Hindu religious traditions in ancient Cambodia and Indonesia was a result of migration has been much discussed, but current research considers the circulation of traders and Brahman priests to be the most likely source and not large-scale migration. Indians were seafarers and traders travelling west to the Middle East and Africa and east as far as to Indonesia. Some of these traders might have settled for a long time, but the purpose was probably not migration but trade. However, the size and nature of the settlement of traders are unclear. Those in the Middle East and Africa seem less permanent than those in South East Asia. Some Brahmans travelled with these traders and they probably provided rulers with ideological teachings of social organization. As mentioned, historically, the spread of the Brahmanical tradition from the north-west corner of India to the rest of South Asia and further to South East Asia in the first millennium of the Common Era points to an eagerness of Brahmans to attract and include new ritual clients, and this perhaps explains some of this expansion of the Brahmanical tradition to South East Asia. Most likely, the spread of Sanskritic Hindu traditions to South East Asia was not very different from the spread of these traditions in India (Pollock 2006: 536).

The ‘old Hindu diasporas’ of the colonial period were related especially to the plantation economies of the European colonial powers, especially British, French, and Dutch. Prohibition of slavery in 1833 by Britain (Slavery Abolition Act 1833 in the parliament of the United Kingdom, with some exceptions eliminated in 1843), in 1848 by France (Proclamation of the Abolition of Slavery in the French Colonies), and in 1863 by the Dutch (in Suriname) created a need for cheap labour to replace slaves in the plantation economies and this was the ‘indentured labour system’ which attempted to solve this. The transportation of Indians as indentured labour to colonies worldwide followed. Indentured labourers were recruited on five- and ten-year contracts with the possibility to return to India afterwards, but the majority chose to stay after the contracts had ended. Some additional migration also took place. The indentured labour system created a significant Indian diaspora. Mauritius was the first country to receive a significant number of Indians, more than 25,000 by around 1840, but Indians had already been living in Mauritius for a hundred years as domestic workers, craftsmen, and traders. By the time the British took over Mauritius in 1810 some Tamil traders had joined the French elite and were owners of several of the grandest of the early estates (Younger 2013). The Indian diaspora was from the beginning far from a uniform phenomenon. About 1.5 million indentured labourers left India between 1834 and 1917, when the system ended. The kangani system which dominated migration to Burma, Malaysia, and Sri Lanka included around four million people and continued to 1938 (Jain 1989: 162).⁸ The largest number of indentured labourers went to Mauritius, British Guyana, Natal in South Africa, and Trinidad (Brown 2006: 30), but many also to Suriname (around 34,000), Fiji (60,000) and also to East Africa but the majoriity here were free migrants. Traders, accountants, managers, and professionals travelled to places Indians had settled. The ‘new Hindu diasporas’ were caused by the next large-scale migration of Indians/South Asians and its beginning is often dated to 1965 with new immigration laws in the United States. However, ‘new Hindu diasporas’ refers to diasporas in all Western countries, in Australia and New Zealand, and in the Middle East. There was a change in the scale of migration of Hindus to these parts of the world from the 1960s onwards. Immigration to Britain by Hindus increased in the 1960s with the first public temple opening in 1967. As of 2022 probably more than one million Hindus live in Britain.⁹ From 1970 onwards a large number of South Asians have worked in the Middle East and among them not an insignificant number of Hindus. In the United States there are currently probably around 2.5 million Hindus, and in Europe outside of Britain around 1 million. Approximately 70 million Hindus live outside of India, but many of these live in the other countries of South Asia, especially Nepal and Bangladesh, and there are also significant Hindu populations in Sri Lanka (Hill Country Tamils and Īḻam Tamils)¹⁰ and Pakistan. Countries outside of South Asia with the largest Hindu populations in percentage are Mauritius, Fiji, Guyana, Suriname, and Trinidad and Tobago; countries outside of South Asia with more than half a million Hindus are the United States, Indonesia, Britain, Canada, Mauritius, Malaysia, and South Africa.¹¹

The Hindu diasporas are made up of different religious traditions such as Vaiṣṇava, Śaiva, and Śākta, of regional diasporas such as Tamil, Gujarati, Punjabi, and Bengali and so on, of different national diasporas such as Indian, Nepali, Sri Lankan, or Indonesian (Balinese), and Hindus have also developed separate and new national identities in the various countries they have settled. Quite a few Hindus are also twice migrants. This book tries to capture some of this great plurality. The book does not aim at completeness in an encyclopaedic sense but to treat some of the important geographies and themes. The book also includes analyses of some aspects of the relationship between Hindu diasporas and new followers of Hinduism or ‘new Hindus’. The function of Hindu religion is often quite different for these two categories of Hindus, and the interaction, or lack of interaction, between these various forms of Hinduism contributes to an understanding of the Hindu diasporas. The first part of the book concentrates on the major regions in the world in which Hindu diasporas have settled. The second part focuses on specific central themes such as Vaiṣṇava, Śaiva, and Śākta traditions in diasporas, the Hindu temple, traditions of sacred sites outside of South Asia, and Hindutva organizations and the diaspora, as well as relations between Hindu diasporas and new followers of Hindu traditions.

Geographies and Major Themes

The first part contains chapters focusing on Hindu diasporas in specific geographical areas. Chapter 1 by Vasudha Narayanan discusses the spread of Hindu traditions from South Asia to areas in South East Asia, especially Cambodia, from the early first millennium of the Common Era. Was this spread of Hindu traditions due to migration, and if so by whom, or was it due to other causes? Researchers on the Hindu traditions in Cambodia have debated this since the late nineteenth century. In her chapter, Narayanan asks: ‘Were the strikingly Hindu temples, the Sanskrit inscriptions, and the Indian names adopted because of the power wielded by a Hindu diaspora or were these adopted and adapted by Khmer royalty in consultation with an occasional priest, learned Brahman, or even a wealthy trading population coming from India?’ (p. 25). In ancient Cambodia, some people took on Indian names, and Indian systems of writing, Hindu deities, rituals, and temple codes were also adopted and there was extensive trade between South Asia and Cambodia, but who else other than traders went to Cambodia? And did they settle there? Narayanan notes that recent scholarship has emphasized Khmer agency and innovative skills and argues that rather than there being a Hindu diaspora, it was more likely that local people from many levels of society selectively adopted and adapted features of Hindu cultures that enhanced their own quality of life in various ways.

Chapter 2 by Martin Ramstedt looks at identities, migrations, and political mobilization in the colonial and postcolonial periods in South East Asia. He agrees with Vasudha Narayanan in that sizeable Hindu diasporas in South East Asia have been found only since the beginning of British colonial expansion into Asia at large. His chapter shows that the situation of Hindu citizens of contemporary South East Asian states has been shaped to a large extent by colonialism and colonial knowledge production. Colonialism and colonial knowledge production generated the conditions for the Hindu religious ideology and practices, the impediments to their socio-economic and socio-political status, as well as the personal life trajectories that make up the family histories and identities. Interestingly, Ramstedt notes that only in the Dutch East Indies and its successor state, postcolonial Indonesia, have Indian Hindu diasporas succeeded in engaging in a deeper cultural encounter with members of the autochthonous population, sharing not only a common citizenship but also a common cultural and religious orientation. Ramstedt also warns that the current situation which is characterized by solidification of ethnic and religious identities in India as well as in South East Asia, causes cosmopolitan spaces to shrink drastically. In this regard, he considers the tenuous relationship between Hindus and Muslims in Malaysia and Indonesia but also in India, because developments in India continue to influence the situation for Hindus in the diasporas.

In the next chapter, on Hindu diasporas in East Asia, Ka-Kin Cheuk investigates inter-Asian diasporic flows, connections, circulations, and convergences related to East Asia. He notes that East Asia has received less attention from scholars in comparative and transregional studies of Hinduism and Hindu diasporas. The Hindu population has continued to increase in East Asia, and particularly in the context of contemporary globalization and transnationalism, there is a need for better understanding of its broader analytical significance. The chapter addresses this knowledge gap by centring the studies of Hinduism and Hindu diasporas in East Asia in an inter-Asian research paradigm. The chapter focuses on locating the diasporic ‘nodes’ in and of East Asia. He argues that East Asian diasporic nodes, in which he includes Hong Kong and south-east China in East Asia, and Kolkata and Kalimpong in South Asia, are the key sites for a deeper understanding of ‘inter-Asian Hinduism’, in particular its material meanings.

In Chapter 4, Prea Persaud investigates Hinduism in the Caribbean. The Caribbean was one of the principal areas for the arrival of Indian indentured labour. Over half a million Indians were brought between 1838 and 1920 to the Caribbean, which included Guyana, Trinidad, Jamaica, St. Croix, Guadeloupe, Martinique, St. Lucia, St. Vincent, and Grenada. Hinduism in the Caribbean accordingly must be understood in the context of indentured labour and its aftermath. Prea Persaud analyses how the system of indentured labour shaped the religious traditions and society of the Hindu diasporas in the Caribbean. She considers gender, caste, the figure of the paṇḍit, and the particulars of the religious traditions and practices such as the ‘firepass’ or firewalking ceremony, Kālī or Śakti worship, the preponderance of ‘jhaṇḍī flags’, and the central religious texts, organizations, worship, and festivals. She shows that Hindus in the Caribbean have managed not only to preserve the traditions of their ancestors but also to make new religious traditions and festivals that sacralize the local landscape and contain particularities due to the Caribbean context.

In Chapter 5, Stuart Earle Strange writes about Hinduism in Suriname. The first indentured Hindustanis disembarked in Suriname in June 1873. By the time indenture was abolished in 1916, 34,304 South Asian migrants had arrived. Strange notes that Surinamese Hinduism must be understood against the backdrop of colonial Caribbean racial slavery, and that race and religion replaced caste as the defining social distinctions in Surinamese Hindu life. At the same time, he argues, Hinduism has also become an ethno-racial religion and an emblem of what collectively distinguishes Hindus from other Asians, Afro-Surinamese, and Amerindians. Because Hindus in Suriname became separated from local Hindu traditions, their Hinduism mirrors wider trends in the Hindu diasporas and has become, argues Strange, a universalist ethnic religion and a notional unity. Strange notes that the deities are identically accessible everywhere through Brahmanical rituals and that each river has become a version of the River Gaṅgā, used as a tīrtha. This accessibility, argues Strange, has led Surinamese Hindus to a turn towards the home and the family as the focus of Hindu ritual life.

In his chapter on Hindu diasporas in Africa, Pratap Kumar Penumala discusses the history, characteristics, and developments of Hinduism in Mauritius and Réunion, East Africa, Southern Africa, and West Africa. The basis of Hinduism in Africa is also due, to a large degree, to indentured labour. Penumala notes that the Hindu religious traditions that continue to flourish in Africa vary from region to region. Mauritian Hinduism is ‘creole’ in nature, West African Hinduism is mostly syncretistic and is driven by the local interests and beliefs of indigenous African people, while East African Hinduism is largely of Vaiṣṇava orientation due to the predominance of the Gujarati merchants, and South African Hinduism is a mixture of strong non-Brahmanical rituals and Brahmanical temples as well as the continuously emerging Vedānta-based new Hindu organizations.

In Chapter 7, on Hindus in Oceania, Purushottama Bilimoria, Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat, Alison Booth, Philip Hughes, and Rajendra Prasad analyse the historiography of the Hindu diasporas in Fiji, Australia, and New Zealand. Fiji was the last country to receive Indian indentured labourers (60,000 arrived from 1879 to 1916). Prasad analyses the importance of the Rāmāyaṇa narrative and the Rāmcaritmānas and Rāmlīlā celebrations for the early migrants in Fiji, the rise of religious groups and temples, and the tragic political developments that led to the migration of many Fijian Hindus to Australia and New Zealand. Fiji was before the coup in 1987 the second country outside of South Asia with a majority Hindu population. Bilimoria, Bapat, and Hughes document and analyse the immigration of Hindus to Australia, their temples and festivals, Hindu organizations, and women’s rituals and conclude that Hindus are contributing significantly to the religious pluralism in Australia. Booth, writing on New Zealand, informs us that Hindus were few until the 1980s. Booth analyses the diversity of Hindus’ organizations and gatherings, and distinguishes between three waves of expansion of Hinduism in New Zealand, starting with the Wellington Indian Association, its growth and variations, and the presence of global Hindu organizations that now support a variety of Hindu religious practices in New Zealand.

In Chapter 8, Vasudha Narayanan presents Hindu diasporas in the United States. With a Hindu population of 2.5 million it is one of the largest outside of South Asia, perhaps only the island of Bali in Indonesia has a larger Hindu population (c.4.5 million). The Hindu population in the United States has probably the highest level of household income of any Hindus in the world. Narayanan presents their immigration history, with an emphasis on early-twentieth-century Hindu immigration and especially memories of early female immigrant experiences, and reflects on temple and community building and performing arts after 1965. Temple building in the United States was unique, with the opening of many monumental temples built from the ground up in Indian classical temple architecture from the 1970s onwards, and indeed temple spaces became the main area for religious activities, which reduced the importance of homes and public spaces. Narayanan notes the great diversity of temples from neighbourhood shrines to the large prestige temples. Interestingly, Narayanan notes that the most significant aspect in looking at the temple and community activities is the extraordinary focus on the performing arts, and the mostly marginal importance of yoga and meditation. The most popular activities in temples are the ‘cultural programmes’, and Narayanan elaborates on the importance of bharatanāṭyam dance, which she argues has emerged as the prime carrier of transgenerational and transnational culture in the diaspora. Finally, Narayanan discusses some political controversies.

In the next chapter, Knut A. Jacobsen analyses important features of the Hindu diasporas in Europe. Around two million Hindus with South Asian ancestry live in Europe, mainly in the countries of western Europe. The chapter starts by describing some of the diversity of these Hindu diasporas and the research literature. Jacobsen notes that of any of the continents other than Asia, Europe has the most complex relationship with India and Hinduism, and the chapter reviews some of these encounters. The chapter thereafter analyses migration histories and the history of the institutionalization of Hinduism in Europe and, finally, notes four characteristics of Hinduism in Europe: diversity, centrality of temples, sacralization of sites, and the predominance in many countries of the Hindu traditions of the Īḻam Tamils.

Chapters 10 and 11 deal with two of the largest Hindu global diasporas, the Tamil Hindu and the Gujarati Hindu diasporas. Both groups have a significant global presence and one or the other of them constitutes the majority Hindu population in a number of countries. The dominance of the Gujaratis in several countries and places even misled some researchers to think of the Gujarati Hindu diaspora as representing the global Hindu diaspora as such (Geaves 2007).¹² The Tamils have been, and continue to be, the main Hindu temple builders in many of the countries they have settled in, and the preservation of the Tamil language and culture is a main feature in the transference of their religion in the diaspora. Pierre-Yves Trouillet notes that the Tamil Hindus are present in all continents but that they constitute a diverse population in terms of regional origin, castes, and classes, and migratory history. In view of this diversity, Pierre-Yves Trouillet discusses whether it is at all relevant to speak of a ‘global Hindu Tamil diaspora’. Trouillet notes that despite the diversity, the use of the term ‘global Tamil diaspora’ is ‘becoming more and more performative’ (p. 251). He argues that the one thing shared among the Tamil Hindus in the world is their religiosity. Tamil Hinduism adds ‘a concrete and ritual tone to this sense of belonging for Tamils all over the world’ (p. 252) and it relies on a few cultural specificities, which leads to a socio-religious ethnicization. Tamil Hindu temples with their transnational network of priests from India and Sri Lanka have become a significant, and to some degree dominant, element in many Hindu diasporas.

The Gujarati Hindu diasporas are, like the Tamils, spread around the whole world. Like the Tamils, the overseas travel of Gujarati traders has a history stretching back to long before the colonial era. Gujarati seafarers were among the pioneers of travel to the western parts of the Indian Ocean. However, the early migrations of Gujarati traders to East Asia, East Africa, and Central Asia were circular and temporary. Settlements abroad were mainly during the nineteenth century and after. Some Gujaratis worked as indentured labourers, but mostly they did not work on plantations but as free labourers and engineers, and mainly they set up businesses. The decolonization process in Africa forced an exodus of Hindus, and the majority of those were Gujaratis. Most of them settled in Britain, Canada, and the United States, and some also in Portugal. This migration was characterized by families and family networks. Inês Lourenço, in Chapter 11 on the global Gujarati Hindu diasporas, focuses on the reproduction of religious and cultural practices of these communities. They are mostly Vaiṣṇavas and have joined movements with regional roots associated with Gujarat, the most emblematic being the Svāminārāyaṇa, but Inês Lourenço notes how researchers on the Gujarati diasporas have emphasized ecumenical, rationalized Vaiṣṇava bhakti, and mistakenly relegated vernacular Hinduism to a secondary role. Inês Lourenço argues that both are part of the religious everyday practices of Gujarati Hindus in the diasporas. In her chapter she further discusses the role of miraculous events, everyday concerns with the evil eye (najar) and ghosts (bhūts), new ways of practising religion, and new social and gender concepts.

While Chapter 10 examined a dominant Śaiva tradition and Chapter 11 a mainly Vaiṣṇava tradition, Chapter 12 analyses Śākta traditions in the global Hindu diasporas. The Hindu goddesses have moved with the migrating Hindus and they now have a worldwide presence in Hindu homes and temples. Tracy Pintchman examines the numerous ways that Hindu Śākta traditions have been transported, modified, and adapted to new homelands in contemporary times. Pintchman notes that female devotees in Hindu goddess temples in a variety of countries and regions outside of South Asia often have more important ritual roles than in Śākta temples in India, and notes that some goddesses become more important in the diaspora. The chapter further examines the many different rituals associated with Śākta traditions in the global diaspora and shows how they both reproduce traditions and reinterpret and reconstitute them in light of the diaspora situation.

In Chapter 13, Martin Baumann and Annette Wilke analyse the central public religious institution in many of the Hindu diasporas, the Hindu temple. The authors note the variety of Hindu temples in the diaspora, which is as astonishing as it is in South Asia. The in-depth chapter argues that diasporic Hindu temple cultures strike a balance between strategies of religious authenticity and maintenance on the one hand and change and innovation on the other. The chapter gives many examples from all over the world and analyses the ritual, cultural, social, communal, and representational functions of the Hindu temples in the diaspora.

Chapter 14 analyses Hindu sites of pilgrimage (tīrthas) in the Hindu diasporas. The sacred geography of Hinduism is no longer limited to an Indian or South and South East Asian sacred geography but encompasses the whole world. As Hindus from South Asia have migrated to the rest of the world, they have sacralized the landscapes where they settle. Every river can become a River Gaṅgā. The seven hills of the Veṅkaṭeśvara temple in Tirumala can be discovered, in theory, anywhere in the world, or the hills may even be constructed next to a newly built Veṅkaṭeśvara temple. Hindu divinities communicate with devotees wherever they live and are present all over the world, and not only in South Asia. Just as all rivers may become the Gaṅgā, the deities are accessible everywhere. In this chapter, Knut A. Jacobsen suggests that making Hindu sacred sites is one of the ways religious traditions now identified as Hindu have been expanding historically in South Asia and now expand worldwide with the diasporas. The chapter suggests a typology of Hindu pilgrimage sites in the Hindu diaspora: places that have become pilgrimage sites because of special natural features such as a svayambhū phenomenon; because of the temples at the sites; because they are connected to gurus or other sacred persons; and Marian pilgrimage shrines that have become objects of Hindu pilgrimage travel.

In Chapter 15, Jeffery Long examines the Hindutva movement in the Hindu diasporas, with a focus on the United States. He starts out by discussing four possible definitions of Hindutva but discards all four definitions, arguing that they are essentialist and unfalsifiable and therefore incapable of serving as useful analytical tools for understanding the movement that goes by the name ‘Hindutva’. Instead, he suggests a definition of Hindutva as the ideology of Hindu nationalism and the claim that India is an inherently Hindu nation, or a Hindu Rāṣṭra. Hindu nationalism is a political ideology and is not identical with Hinduism, whose adherents have a wide range of political views, and in the Hindu diasporas there are organizations which support Hindu nationalism and organizations which strongly oppose it. The idea of a global Hindu community has come to problematize a simple identification of Hindu nationalism with a parochial movement for Hindu supremacy in India, writes Long, but Hindutva has nevertheless increasingly emerged as a global movement. Long answers the question about how Hindutva relates to this global context by examining some of the Hindu religious organizations in the diaspora in the Unites States, and concludes that the Hindu diasporas are as polarized and politically divided as the Hindu community in India.

In Europe and America, the Hindu proselytizing gurus had arrived before the large number of migrants who constitute the Hindu diasporas. The followers of gurus and the diaspora Hindus have represented two quite different versions or aspects of Hinduism. In Chapter 16, Amanda Lucia takes up the issue of Hindu guru movements and race. She is interested in the relationship between the Hindu guru movements in the West and the Hindu diasporas, in particular the ‘Indian’ versus ‘Western’ division found in many of the guru movements. She argues that the first Hindu gurus in the United States operated within Orientalist divisions between India and the West and they mobilized Orientalist cultural stereotypes to justify their proselytizing missions. She thereafter shows that those divisions have continued to influence global guru movements in the present. To do so, she uses the archives of print media sources to access the ways in which the proselytizing gurus were perceived and received by Western audiences. Lucia examines published devotee accounts to understand the detailed descriptions of the daily operations of the devotional community and how guru communities operated. She concludes that the divisions of ‘Indians’ and ‘Westerners’ can be understood as a mutually performed xenophobia—on the one side based on race and on the other side based on caste.

ISKCON (International Society for Krishna Consciousness), or the Hare Krishna movement, has been the most successful among the Hindu guru movements in the West to attract mixed congregations of ‘Indians’ and ‘Westerners’. This is partly due to their success among South Asian Hindus living in the diasporas. But this success has created a tension between Hinduism as heritage and identity and the missionizing foundation of ISKCON. In the final chapter of the book, Kenneth Valpey discusses the interactional contours between the Hindu diaspora and ISKCON. He argues that a shared atmosphere of culture has been created by ISKCON that has come to be occupied by both Hindu diasporas and non-Indians, and which has been able to accommodate the differing needs and expectations of these two groups, but that points of tension and contention have also emerged to varying degrees and in various locations. In particular, there is a tension between the comfortable religion of the Hindu diaspora shaped by the attitudes of the middle-class status quo and the ISKCON missionary edge of critique against the multiple ills of a spiritually impoverished world. This critique was a major factor in attracting young Western followers to the movement. Valpey considers these to be points of creative tension and concludes that the strong presence of diaspora Hindus in many ISKCON communities makes the challenge of finding a balance particularly acute.

Together, the chapters in this book show some of the global presence of the Hindu diasporas and some of the dynamic developments in multiple geographical spaces. Analysing specific spaces and themes, the chapters of the book offer a foundation for understanding the Hindu traditions in some of their global diasporic contexts and the dynamic developments around the world.

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Knut A. Jacobsen, Introduction: Hinduism and Migration In: Hindu Diasporas. Edited by: Knut A. Jacobsen, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198867692.003.0001

¹ High spatial mobility and circulation of people within India characterizes Indian history (Markovits, Pouchepadass, and Subrahmanyam 2006, Tumbe 2018) and sometimes the concept ‘diaspora’ is used also to describe this phenomenon. Studies of the role of Hindu religion in diasporas caused by internal migration within India are valid and interesting, and the role of Hindu traditions in these diasporas is understudied, but the topic is beyond the scope of this volume. In this volume, Hindu diasporas refer to Hindus outside of South Asia.

² The term ‘diaspora’ has associations to many other terms, such as ‘exile’, ‘migration’, ‘transnationalism’, ‘cosmopolitanism’, ‘hybridity’, and more (for a good presentation of these terms in a diaspora perspective, see Knott and MacLoughlin 2010).

³ The Hill Country Tamils (also known as Up-country Tamils) in Sri Lanka are Tamils of Indian origin that were brought to Sri Lanka from India by the British to work on plantations there. However, Sri Lanka also has an ancient Hindu Tamil population in the northern and eastern parts, the Īḻam Tamils or Sri Lankan Tamils. From 1983 to 2009, the LTTE (Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam) and the Sri Lankan state fought several wars over an independent Īḻam, which caused a large global diaspora of Īḻam Tamils.

⁴ High Level Committee on the Indian Diaspora, Report of the High Level Committee on the Indian Diaspora. New Delhi: Indian Council of World Affairs, 2001.

⁵ Connecting Hindu religious institutions in the diasporas closely to India has a political dimension as Hindu nationalist organizations have been promoting Hindu India and Hinduism globally and attempting to build connections to the diasporas. Hindu nationalism has promoted diasporic Hinduism as an extension of India, and has taken an active role in promoting diaspora Hindus as Indians. As a Hindu nationalist agenda, this has also led to polarizations and conflicts.

⁶ Overseas Indians include Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Jains, Christians, Buddhists, and others, but the large majority are Hindus. Raj and Reeves (2009) have suggested that the worldwide Indian diaspora is between 30 and 40 million people.

⁷ The well-known system of twelve jyotirliṅgas in India includes the following liṅgas: Somanātha and Nāgeśvara in Gujarat, Mallikārjuna in Andhra Pradesh, Mahākāleśvara and Oṅkāreśvara in Madhya Pradesh, Kedārnātha in Uttarakhand, Kāśī Viśvanāth in Uttar Pradesh, Bhīmāśaṅkara, Tryambakeśvara, and Ghṛṣṇeśvara in Maharashtra, Vaidyanātha in Jharkhand, and Rāmeśvara in Tamil Nadu.

⁸ The kangani system recruited workers mostly from Tamil Nadu and used Indian recruiters who mobilized their own family, village, or caste for workers. The kanganis were middle men who recruited and supervised workers at the plantation.

⁹ The British Census table ‘Religion by country and region, England and Wales, 2019’, released 16 December 2021, estimates the number of Hindus in England and Wales to be 983,700. See https://www.ons.gov.uk/peoplepopulationandcommunity/culturalidentity/ethnicity/datasets/populationestimatesbyreligionenglandandwales/.

¹⁰ Hindus living in South Asia outside of India are mostly not considered part of the diaspora. One exception is the Hill Country Tamils living in Sri Lanka who are Tamils of Indian origin and were recruited under the kangani system for work on tea plantations. The other Tamils in Sri Lanka, the Īḻam Tamils, are descendants of the ancient Tamil Hindu population on Sri Lanka and are considered diasporic only when settled outside of Sri Lanka.

¹¹ The strong growth in the number of Hindus in the last hundred years is mainly due to rapid population growth in South Asia and not to conversions. India’s population of 1.4 billion (2022; of which around 80 per cent are counted as Hindus) constitutes approximately 20 per cent of the world population. There are around 1.2 billion Hindus in the world.

¹² I experienced this myself when presenting a paper focusing on the Tamil Hindu diaspora at an international conference, and the respondent to my paper, to my surprise, used his whole response to argue that the Hindu diaspora was in reality just a Gujarati diaspora.

Part I

Geographies of Hindu Diasporas

1

‘Fortune, Success, Well-being, Victory!’

Connections between India and Cambodia in the First Millennium ce

Vasudha Narayanan

‘Fortune, success, happiness, victory’ (Śrī Siddhi Svasti Jaya); so begins K. 826, an inscription dated 877–878 ce in Hariharālaya, near Siem Reap, Cambodia. This classical Sanskrit invocation at the beginning of the inscription speaks of the familiarity that the patron had with Indian cultural, especially Hindu ritual vocabulary. Angkor Wat, when built in the twelfth century ce, was the largest Viṣņu temple; indeed, it is also ‘generally considered to be the largest such structure erected before the twentieth century ad’ (Fletcher et al. 2015). A Buddhist temple now, its picture graces the national flag of Cambodia. The longest Sanskrit inscription in the world was composed under the watch of Rājendravarman (r. 944–968 ce) and situated in the Śiva temple in Pre Rup. Outside the Cambodian Embassy in Washington DC, we find a model of a signature sculpture depicting the story of the churning of the ocean of milk. This story, relatively minor in India, is seen in abundance in Hindu and some Buddhist temples all over Cambodia and in temples located in former Khmer territories. The churning story is also depicted on a panel on the east side of Angkor Wat and, measuring 49 metres, is said to be the largest bas-relief in the world.

How and why did all this come to be? It is obvious that there were strong connections between the Indian subcontinent and South East Asia, and that global trade was significant from several centuries bce from Rome and Greece in the west to Indonesia in the east. The discussion of cultural exchanges is often contested territory; material evidences surface over centuries and our knowledge is, at any given point, incomplete. Asymmetries in power in the historical periods as well as in the production of knowledge then and now, along with nationalisms, and valorizing local cultures have led to a changing Venn diagram of ideas and perspectives on relationships between South East and South Asia.¹

We do know that there was considerable interaction between the lands on both sides of the Bay of Bengal, including that of trade. South East Asia had a highly developed knowledge of shipbuilding (Manguin et al. 2011: xviii). India had that sweet spot in between Europe and Africa on the one hand and South East Asia on the other, and ports such as Musiri on the south-west coast of India and Arikamedu, Poompuhar, etc, on the east were very active in the first few centuries of the first millennium ce. Despite several obstacles that go along with sea travel, including pirates and inclement weather, trade flourished; the insatiable thirst for silks, spices, and exotica led to movement of people and ideas; and along with peacocks, other animals, and stories, philosophies and cultures travelled through the known world.

The interactions with South East Asia resulted in rulers and some states adopting and adapting what we would today call ‘Hinduism’ as their official religion, and this involved large investments of human and economic resources in the building of ‘prestige’ temples in South East Asia, mega-carvings of Hindu deities and narratives, and selective adaptation of stories from the Indian epics. Did this selective choice and adaptation of temple designs, texts of law, deities, etc., come about through Hindus moving from India and settling in South East Asia? Were there ‘rogue’ princes from India who worked with locals in seizing power, or did adventurers, traders, and skilled people going perhaps both ways? Or, did the ships carrying goods prized in different parts of the world bring traders who may have settled in South East Asia? This chapter offers some perspectives on these questions of whether there was a ‘Hindu diaspora’ or sustained interaction and perhaps intermarriages between people coming from South East and South Asia.

Before we discuss the efflorescence of cultural synergy that arises from cultures in cordial contact with each other, a few caveats are in order. The first is the anachronistic use of terms such as ‘Hindu’ and ‘India’ in this chapter. I will be using ‘Hinduism’ as including sectarian traditions such as Vaiṣṇava and Śaiva, and having an expansive, open, and pluralistic network of texts and practices of some well-known and many local deities. There is an affiliation to a textual corpus which includes but is not limited to the Vedas, epics, Purāṇas, and Dharmaśāstras, as well as a considerable amount of vernacular literature, and overlapping and similar practices like life-cycle rituals and public rituals like coronation, as well as a shared vocabulary of practices like identifying local places with sacred sites in India. While birth-groups are significant in South Asia, they are curiously transformed and possibly diluted in South East Asia.

Cambodia

Chinese texts used the names ‘Funan’ and ‘Zhenla’ (c. first century ce to c.802 ce) to refer to the earliest kingdoms in the land that eventually came to be called Cambodia; and 802 ce is the traditional date for the beginning of the Angkorian period in Cambodian history. It is after 802 that the kingdom gets the name of Kambuja (born of Kambu), and at its height, included territories that extended to modern-day Thailand, Laos, Myanmar, and Vietnam, and Malaysia. Although there were several Buddhist kings, Cambodia or, specifically, the lands that were eventually included in the Khmer territories, from the beginning of the Common Era to about the fourteenth century ce, seem strikingly more Hindu in their expressive arts and inscriptions and have more Indian connections than the neighbouring kingdoms in the first millennium ce. The Khmer people, as did most of the people in South East Asia, encountered Buddhism and Hinduism, and the cultures of India and China, on their own terms in their own lands, and there has been, from about the beginning of the Common Era, an involvement with and agency in choosing Hindu names, texts, rituals, and art, temple building, ruling organizations, and writing from the Indian sub-continent. Coedès and other French scholars have called this process, ‘Indianization’; other scholars have, as we will see soon, rejected this concept and given more weightage to local autonomy, and questioned the importance of other factors which led to strong connections with India.

Were the strikingly Hindu temples, the Sanskrit inscriptions, and the Indian names adopted because of the power wielded by a Hindu diaspora or were these adopted and adapted by Khmer royalty in consultation with an occasional priest, learned Brahman, or even a wealthy trading population coming from India? These contentious issues have been debated since the late nineteenth century and are central to our discussion in this chapter. In many of the chapters in this book we are looking at Hindus who came from, or whose ancestors came from, India. Sometimes, as in the case of the United States we see a movement of people and a movement of ideas from India and the two may be, at times, independent of each other. We can raise similar questions with Cambodia: was there ever a medium or large-scale migration from the sub-continent or was it largely a movement of texts, customs, and ideas which royalty and nobility picked and chose? If so, how or why did these ideas come to matter so much that a considerable amount of human resources and wealth from the exchequer was poured into them?

This chapter will briefly look at over a hundred years of scholarly discussions on these issues. In the second part of this chapter, we will see if the material culture in Cambodia can tell us anything about who was responsible for the creation of a Hindu ethos in the courts and in the temples. How did all this come to be? We will consider whether there were Indian Bauddha, Vaiṣṇava, and Śaiva migrants, religious specialists adept in tantra, a Hindu diaspora, or whether it was all done by a transient population engaged in commerce. Without any active Hindu proselytizing or military expeditions two thousand years ago that we know about, or Hindu religious personnel who had come with evangelical zeal to convert, it is quite striking how so many ideas, customs, and behaviour came to be adapted by the Khmer royalty and nobility.

Our answers can only be tentative given a lack of the proverbial ‘smoking gun’. Manuscripts have been lost or destroyed; a lot of monuments, vandalized. There has, however, been considerable scholarship for over a hundred years, and current scholarship emerging from Cambodia and many universities around the world is vibrant; monuments have been restored, seafaring and trade routes mapped and interpreted, and LIDAR technology deployed to peel back the layers of material culture on the one hand and our ignorance on the other; in short, our understanding of the past is exponentially greater than it was in earlier decades.

Theories about Early Cambodian Encounters with India

Since the late nineteenth century, scholarship on South East Asia has passed through several distinct phases. Until the nineteenth century, European perspectives were dismissive; an unnamed professor of the College de France is reported to have said in 1861 that ‘the Indian countries situated beyond the Ganges hardly deserve the attention of history’ (quoted by Coedès and reported by Kulke 1990: 8). South East Asia was anything but marginal in world economy and in cultural transmission; as Kulke (1990: 15) remarks, ‘[D]iscoveries in North-Eastern Thailand prove that during the prehistoric period at least continental South-East Asia was a centre of cultural progress diffusion rather than a stagnant backwater.’ In short, since the last part of the twentieth century, there has been a growing recognition of South East Asia’s local cultures and technological achievements even prior to contact with the Indian subcontinent. This recognition comes after several decades in the mid-twentieth century when there was a strong consensus, primarily coming from French and Indian scholarship that Cambodia had been ‘Indianized’. This term itself had a wide range of meanings and came from different socio-political contexts.

There were, of course, many obvious reasons for scholars to arrive at the Indianization theory, but I would like to highlight one issue that has not been discussed much: that the motivations for the French and Indian scholars to emphasize the idea of ‘Indianization’ were different. European scholarship came from a long tradition where South East Asia had been intentionally ignored and India was generally seen as the outpost for historical culture. Countries in South East Asia were not considered to be interesting culturally or politically when compared to the Indian subcontinent or China; hence, European scholars (and therefore, their colonies) did not research or write about them. Kulke writes that ‘in regard to the estimation of South-East Asia by European scholars the Ptolemaic world view was still alive in mid-19th century’ (1990: 9). One strategy to make studies in South East Asia acceptable seems to tag the area to the Indian subcontinent (Kulke 1990: 9), to give some credibility to the area studies.

European attitudes began to change in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries when, politically, major changes took place. The Dutch had been in Indonesia since the sixteenth century, but the Dutch East India Company (Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie) began to get political power only in the eighteenth century. After its failure, the territories it had managed passed under Dutch rulership. There was an interlude when the British had power for a while, but after 1830, the Dutch dominance was unquestioned. In 1864, Cambodia came under the French protectorate and later, in 1887, the French established the Union Indochinoise (a union of Cochin-China, Cambodia, Vietnam, etc.). These political developments led to considerable scholarly interest in the history and culture of the area. It was decades of scholarship, transcribing and translating the inscriptions, and familiarity with the material culture that gave rise to the ‘colonization’ theories of South East Asia, and the ‘Indianization’ framework. Certainly, the Indian connections are striking; the temples to Śiva and Viṣņu, the Sanskrit inscriptions, and the Buddhist ethos dominate the scene.² Against the backdrop of the European stereotype that South East Asia lacked cultural advancement, but that India and China had a long history of texts, philosophies, and political sophistication, the growing scholarship which was proving the European prejudices to be just that, and the political reality of the new colonies, it seems possible that the Indianization theory grew in popularity.

There were, however, different reasons that persuaded the Indian historians to champion this idea. Briefly stated, it was the converse of the reasons that encouraged the newly dominant political powers—France and the Netherlands—to be interested in their colonies. Basa (1998) argues that the Indians, belittled and humiliated by British colonial rule, and inspired by nationalism, sought to increase their sense of pride by asserting that they had colonized South East Asia and spread their culture there. R.C. Majumdar and Nilakantha Sastri embraced these ideas of Indian colonization. This is particularly interesting given that in Greek perception, India did not colonize, and nor was it colonized; McCrindle, quoting Megasthenes, the third century bce ambassador to India, says:

It is said that India, being of enormous size when taken as a whole is peopled by races both numerous and diverse, of which not even one was originally of foreign descent, but all were evidently indigenous; and moreover that India neither received a colony from abroad nor sent out a colony to any other nation.

(McCrindle 1877: 35)

And yet, in the early twentieth century, the ‘colonization’ of South East Asia became the favoured theory of some Indian historians fired up with nationalism. The theory was eventually discarded; but had it been plausible, we would have had stronger evidence for a ‘Hindu diaspora’.

Theories of Colonization

Historians like Majumdar thought that South East Asia was a cultural extension of India and that being cognizant of its culture would make the Indian colonial subjects proud and confident in their heritage. Stories about the rulers with Indian names, the Brahmans who anointed kings, and even ideas of ‘mass migrations’ to South East Asia fed into the theory that the region was divided into kingdoms founded by kṣatriyas from India—and that they later brought in more people vested in learning, trade, and building edifices suitable to Hindu rāṣtras (Kulke 1990: 10). Kulke also notes that this perspective of colonization reached its height in the 1920s and 1930s when Indian historians postulated the idea of ‘Greater India’, which referred to the ‘Hindu Colonies’ in South East Asia. R.C. Majumdar established the ‘Greater India Society’ in Calcutta in 1926 and several monographs on the topic followed in subsequent years. Majumdar acknowledged that the early impetus must have been trade, both through land and sea routes, but it ended in colonization. ‘Numerous Hindu states’ said Majumdar, ‘rose and flourished during a period of more than thousand years […]. The Hindu colonists brought with them the whole framework of their culture…’ (quoted in Kulke 1990: 10).

The journal for the Greater India Society was started in 1934 and its contribution to the nationalistic spirit of India seems to have been considerable. The Society

intended to familiarize the people of India with the contribution of their forbears to the history and culture of Southeast Asia. It was also an indirect answer to the haughty imperialism of the British rulers of India, who were denying the rich legatees of Indian culture and civilization their natural birth right. After the achievement of independence, both the Greater India Society and its journal ultimately became defunct. (H.B. Sarkar, quoted in Basa 1998: 398)

While the ideas of Indian colonization of South East Asia (what we can call the ‘kṣatriya-Indianization theory’ for short) were dropped eventually, notions of Indianization which were espoused by Coedès and several generations of scholars have continued, with a spectrum of meanings, despite been questioned or refuted periodically, as we will soon see.

But who did the Indianization? There have been several proposals; as we just discussed, there were early ideas of wandering princes conquering lands in South East Asia (the kṣatriya theory) which were abandoned or modified early. There are many inscriptions on Brahmans spreading information and doing religious rituals, especially tantric ones (Sanderson 2003–2004), and the acknowledgement of their ubiquitous presence has remained steady over the centuries. However, whether they were ‘real’ Brahmans or whether they were ritual specialists (purohita, rājapurohita) who assumed that caste name or title and its privileges has been questioned (Rao 2017). The vaiśya or trader theory, that is, the idea of traders spreading the Indian culture has, along with the ideas of Brahman prominence been reasonably stable over the years but the relative power that they wielded has again been contested.

Trade

The commercial networks were widespread; the discovery of carbonized nutmeg from the eastern Indonesian islands dating to 400–300 bce in North India tells us that there were international networks that are very old and that products travelled long distances (Isa and Kaur 2020: 10). Indian pottery from 300 bce as well as various objects from India, from Rome, as well as Tamil inscriptions have been found in South East Asia, pointing to a vibrant trade.

It is possible that with numerous trade routes that criss-crossed South East Asia, there was also a transmission of culture across the region (Isa and Kaur 2020: 10) and one can say the same of the trade routes to the west, to Egypt, and the Graeco-Roman worlds, many of which go back to the times of the Indus Valley and Mesopotamian civilizations (Possehl 1979: 109–78). Sea and land-routes were used, sometimes in a combined manner to deliver the much sought-after goods and merchants who sometimes stayed a while (for the onset of the right season and the winds to change) and became the pollinators of culture. This was only one part of it: intellectual works, scholars, and religious personnel also traversed these routes. Davis, quoting Chanda, says globalization happens ‘from a basic urge to seek a better and more fulfilling life’, and that it was driven ‘by many actors who can be classified, for the sake of simplicity, as traders, preachers, adventurers, and warriors’ (2009: 4). This four-fold schema is a good starting point, but to it, we can add pilgrims (assigned to the ‘adventurer’ category by Davis, along with ‘traveller’ and ‘migrant’), but there were ‘learners’ as well.

The idea of traders spreading complex knowledge has both been questioned and affirmed, and writing about later centuries, Lee has shown the considerable impact of Tamil merchants in China (Lee 2012). One would have to draw a connection between traders and travellers and a diaspora to show the spread of culture. An interesting idea posited by Mukund is pertinent here, in discussing the interactions between the host country and the seafaring merchants in connection with identity and culture:

Seafaring in the pre-modern period, especially in the Indian Ocean, was driven by the pattern of monsoon winds and voyages had to be undertaken according to the seasonal winds. This imposed many limitations on travel and merchants perforce had to spend long periods residing in foreign ports to conduct their transactions before being able to return to their native places, resulting in the rise of trade diaspora in international ports. This pattern, in fact, was prevalent even up to the eighteenth century. Often, such merchant groups tended to become immigrant communities, living in enclaves in different ports. This led to two possible behavioural outcomes. First, there was a fierce determination among each group to retain its cultural identity and individuality. Second, there was a tendency for cultural and social integration with the host society that led to the diffusion of religion and culture across many countries. In fact, the host societies also evinced the need to isolate foreign merchant communities to retain their own identity. (Mukund 2015: 27)

Mukund is articulating what other scholars have also noted in connection with the significance of Funan (third–sixth centuries ce). Funan, as we will note shortly, was a polity located in the lower-Mekong Delta and a centre of power and trade. Rather than sail around the Malay peninsula, which would have added about 2,500 kilometres to their journey, Indian and other sailors generally left their vessels on the west coast of the peninsula. They would then cut across the land, (near the Isthmus of Kra) where it is only about 40 km wide; this isthmus is between the Andaman Sea and the Gulf of Thailand. Traversing the 40 km, they embarked on ships again and sailed to Funan where Oc-Eo was the main port. There was also the danger of pirates in the Melaka Straits; but the most important factor was that Funan had food and other resources to support and entertain traders who had to wait several months for the winds to change so they could safely return home (Isa and Kaur 2020: 14–16). This land was their home for a good part of the year and to sustain themselves, they may well have brought a variety of people with them. Seen in conjunction with Mukund’s theory, we can see that it may have been relatively easy for the locals to become aware of other cultures and then pick and choose what they wanted in this global marketplace of ideas.

The Turbulent Waters of ‘Indianization’

Several books have focused on the relationship between South and South East Asia (Acharya 2013, Coedès 1968, Dallapiccola and Verghese 2017, Kulke et al. 2009, Manguin et al. 2011, Saran 2018, etc.) and this discussion will only delineate the main parameters of the arguments to contextualize the main themes of this chapter. Briefly put, the pendulum has swung from those who advocated the colonization theory very strongly (Majumdar) and Coedès’ Indianization theory to others who stress Cambodia’s autonomy and advances prior to contact with India. Majumdar, Coedès, and others largely based their ideas on the reading of Sanskrit and Khmer inscriptions as well as iconography and architecture. Manguin calls these positions ‘the Orientalist tradition (best illustrated in Georges Coedès’ seminal work), and the “indigenists” with a more anthropological approach’ (Manguin et al. 2011: xv). The problem facing the social scientists and others who favoured a reappraisal of the Indianization theory was that on the one hand, some parts of South East Asia, though they had increasingly complex and sophisticated organization, were isolated from the advances in India, China, and the rest of Asia; and, on the other hand,

we had the far more sophisticated polities who had adopted and adapted—or ‘localised’ to use Oliver Wolters’ handy concept—a set of cultural values imported from India: political and religious ideologies, a broad spectrum of architectural and iconographic agendas, together with a distinguished language, Sanskrit, and scripts soon adapted to transcribe their own languages. In the still currently accepted meaning of the term, these South East Asian polities, starting around the third or fourth century ce, had then become ‘Indianised’. (Manguin et al. xv–xvi)

Manguin and the works of other scholars in the last few decades propose nuanced perspectives that use the rich contribution of archaeology in understanding Cambodia’s protohistory, that is, the period between c. fifth century bce and fifth century ce. This millennium is seen as one where there was considerable interaction between India and South East Asia, leading to what came to be termed as ‘Indianization’.

There has been considerable pushback from some European, American, and Australian scholars against the Indianization theories that were popular in the early twentieth century. As early as the 1930s, going against the growing ‘Indianization’ tide, Van Leur argued that the principalities and kingdoms in South East Asia, to legitimate their trade and organize their states, invited Brahman priests—possibly from India. ‘There were, then, no “Hindu colonization” in which “colonial states” arose from intermittent trading voyages followed by permanent trading settlements, no “Hindu colonies” from which the primitive indigenous population and first of all its headmen took over the superior civilization from the west’ (quoted in Kulke 1990: 11–12). Notice, however, that he still speaks about Brahmans in the court.

It has been noted that South East Asia was advanced in multiple areas of technology and knowledge. Archaeological evidence shows that bronze metallurgy etc. were advanced in northern Thailand. As early as the 1970s, scholars were showing that South East Asia had a thriving culture in the beginning of the first millennium ce, prior to Indianization (Kulke 1990: 15). The findings were compelling enough that Wheatley by 1982, after discussing the many organized societies in South East Asia, says that ‘it is in these pre and protohistoric paramountcies that much of the dynamism of the so-called Hinduization process should be sought’ (quoted by Kulke 1990: 15; italics added).

While ‘Indianization’ may suggest that the Indian culture was dominant and that the receiving culture was passive, it was more likely a case where local people from many levels of society selectively adopted and adapted those features of the Indian (and other) cultures that enhanced their own quality of life in various ways. These interactions may have come about in several ways and with different intensities. Mabbett discerns two distinct processes at two different times: the first, when polities with a dominant Indian culture came into being in the early part of the first millennium ce and the second Indianization happening circa 800–1000 ce when we see a valorization of the priestly and royal elites in specific centres. Some scholars like Manguin prefer to use the term ‘Indianization’ only for the second period. Mabbett, however, acknowledges that Indianization does not necessarily mean that one culture was superior to the other; rather, that this happens when the two cultures ‘interact more than incidentally, the possessors of the second participating in a network of interdependence’ (Mabbett 1977: 14).

What this translates to in this chapter is that this interdependence may have come about in several ways. There could have been a large Indian/Hindu population in Funan, Chenla, and also later during the reign of kings in the Kambuja kingdom; a theory also espoused by F.H. van Naerssen (quoted by Mabbett 1977: 144). It is probable that traders alone could not have done the dissemination of ‘high’ culture to an equally sophisticated local culture; there must have been Hindu priests, ritual specialists, and those learned in architectural and iconographic programmes who came over the centuries, starting with the protohistory period, or who may have been imported to Cambodia by both the transient Indian population, the early settlers and, eventually, kings. Cambodian monarchs may have also sent their own emissaries to the subcontinent. Krop, in discussing Java and South East Asia in general, also suggests that these Indians may have married local people furthering the sharing of cultures (quoted in Mabbett 1977: 144).

De Casparis argues that instead of an initial ‘Indianization’ which may have acted as a catalyst for the burgeoning of local culture, there may have been ‘a lasting relationship between the Indian subcontinent and maritime South-East Asia. The relatively simple, or perhaps simplistic view of Indianization is replaced by a complicated network of relations, both between various parts of each of the two great regions and between the two great regions themselves’ (De Casparis 1983, quoted by Kulke 1990: 14).

While there have been many steps and many nuances on ‘Indianization’, we have noted only a few; the first pushback by van Leur, Mabbett suggesting two phases of ‘Indianization’, and that this happens when the two cultures participate in a network of interdependence. De Casparis prefers to drop that term and focus on the complicated network of relationships between South East Asia and the subcontinent. Manguin summarizes many of these positions: in short, ‘they are theories of “lasting relationship” (de Casparis), “localisation” (Wolters), or even Goethe’s “elective affinities” (Kulke), to name only a few, [which] have been called upon over the years to tone down the earlier paradigms’ (Manguin et al. 2011: xxiii).

Another way to get to this theoretical discussion is to give perspectives from the ground. What we do know is that the nobility and royalty and possibly others took on Indian names. Indian systems of writing, Hindu deities, and temple codes were also adopted and adapted; tantric rituals were performed by Hindu priests. Can these tell us about what kinds of Hindus made their home in Cambodia? We begin with ‘origin stories’, where we see an intentional pattern of a union between an Indian and a local princess, or a ṛṣi and a celestial woman.

Early Origin Stories

How India came to Cambodia is addressed in the origin stories in which a primordial ancestor comes from the sub-continent and marries a woman from what eventually becomes the land of Cambodia. The male is sometimes a prince, sometimes a ṛṣi, sometimes an offspring of a celestial deva; the woman is a human or nāga (one meaning of which is ‘serpent’) princess or a serpent in a human form. The earliest accounts are seen in Chinese records and later inscriptions both from Cambodia and Vietnam give different versions of the narrative. The Chinese dynastic chronicles, says Gaudes, speak about the first Indian ruler. The accounts apparently go back to Chinese official Kang Tai, who visited Fu-nan in the third century ce. Gaudes says that the most faithful account of his reports is preserved in a tenth-century encyclopaedia, Tai-ping-yu-lan. According to this story, Hun-tian was a devotee of a ‘Brahmanical God’, who, pleased with his devotion, appeared in his dream. This deity gave a divine bow to Hun-tian in the dream and asked him to take a ship across the seas. When Hun-tian woke up and went to a temple, he found a bow, which he took with him when he crossed the seas. The deity ordained that the wind would blow such that he would arrive in Funan, a land ruled by Queen Liu-ye. Liu-ye came in a boat to plunder the ship in which Hun-tian was coming. Hun-tian then shot his arrow ‘which pierced through the queen’s boat from one side to the other. The queen was overtaken by fear and submitted to him. Thereupon Hun-tian ruled over the country’ (Gaudes 1993: 339).

Hun-tian is said to be the Chinese name for Kauṇḍinya, a holy man, a ‘seer’ (ṛṣi) in India. In other versions, the prince is not named. Another version of the origin story is seen in a Mi-son (Vietnam) inscription and Trudy Jacobsen summarizes it thus:

There is an epigraphic version of this legend in the Vo-Canh stela, which records the foundation of the late third- or early fourth-century Bhadreśvara temple by a king named Bhavavarman, in the area of modern Vietnam called Mi-son. ‘Kauṇḍinya, head brāhmaṇa [of Bhavapura], planted the spear that he had received from the eminent brāhmaṇa Aśvatthāman, son of Droṇa. There was a daughter of the king of the Nāgas, by birth…, who established upon the earth the race, that bears the name of Somā: she adopted that state and lived in human form…Kauṇḍinya married her in order to fulfil certain traditions’. (Jacobsen 2003: 359)

There are several important points in this story but first, a note about the early location of this inscription. Several scholars have pointed out that it is found in Vietnam; but Jacobsen quoting Boisellier and Bhattacharya argues ‘that it was unlikely that the Vo-Canh stela inscription could be attributed to a Cam king’. Bhattacharya also understands this inscription to be ‘the first indigenous document of Funan’ (Jacobsen 2003: 359). A later Cambodian story, known after c. tenth century ce, speaks of a legendary sage Kambu, who married a celestial woman called Merā (hence the popular derivation of the name K(h)mer after the names of the parents; see Mabbett and Chandler 1995: 8, Zéphir 1998: 26). The country born (Skt. ja) from Kambu was called Kambuja.

The union between these archetypal ancestors is celebrated in traditional Khmer dances as the marriage of Preah Thong (Kauṇḍinya) and Neang Neak (Nāga princess). We see many names in the several versions of this story and their variations but, as Gaudes remarks, we have to distinguish between ‘…historical persons (Kauṇḍinya II, Liu-ye, and perhaps Soma), personifications or symbols that cannot be identified (Preah Thaong, the Nāga princess), and invented etymologies (Kambu, Mera)’ (Gaudes 1993: 333). There are many registers in which these stories can be analysed but we will only note a couple of points for now.

In all these accounts and others, the male progenitor comes from India. Later, many Cambodian monarchs trace their ancestry to this mythical pair who represented, among other things, a marriage between the sun and the moon. The name Soma (‘Moon’) for the princess suggests the alliance of the male ruler from the solar lineage (sūryavaṃśa) uniting with a descendent of the lunar dynasty (somavaṃśa). The solar and lunar dynasties figure prominently in Hindu sacred texts, and almost all royalty in India identify with these lineages. In many versions of the story, the Nāga father, it is said, drained the waters near the land to create a kingdom. Some of these stories seem to be connected with the Pallava dynasty, which was in power in the south-east part of India, near the city of Kanchipuram. Other parts of the stories, like those of the Nāga origin, are also strikingly similar to those found in the Nīlamatapurāṇa of Kashmir. The importance of the Nāga ancestor is alluded to in almost every sacred structure, whether it is an imposing temple or a humble ‘spirit house’ (shrine, often a miniature temple mounted on a pillar) seen outside shops and residences in many parts of South East Asia. Nāgas or serpents with multiple heads are represented in the balustrades of the large temples or the encircling frames of a spirit house. And, of course, this story was politically very important over the centuries in many ways and Zhou Daguan writes that the king had to go to a palace every night where the Nāga maiden would appear. He had to make love to her and if she failed to appear, the end was near. As Chandler observes about the earlier Kauṇḍinya story, to be legitimate king, one had to be both Cambodian and Indian (Chandler 2008: 18).

Writing and the Local Script

One of the best-known and visible of the Khmer connections with South Asia is in the system of writing that the Khmers adopted. Both Sanskrit and Khmer were written with letters that ‘had gradually evolved from the script often dubbed “Pallava Grantha” (although actually used across much of South East Asia, along the Eastern littoral of the Indian sub-continent and across a large swathe of the southern end of the Indian peninsula)’ (Goodall 2017: 146). Kulke et al. also observe that ‘[t]he first distinct South Indian influences are usually linked with…the Pallava Grantha of present-day Indonesia’s earliest inscriptions in the fifth century ad, followed by the strong impact of Pallava and Chola art and architecture in South East Asia’ (2009: xiii).

One such instance of where and how early the script connected with the Pallava style travelled is seen in an explanatory sign near an inscription in the Ubon Ratchathani Museum. This sign says: ‘Inscription at Pak Dom Noi: Pallava alphabet (sic), Sanskrit language, 6th-7th century ad, move[d] from Pak Dom Noi, the right bank of Mun river, Sirindhom district, Ubonratchathani.’³ Karashima and Subbarayalu have also documented several inscriptions which link the Chola dynasty of South India with South East Asia (Karashima and Subbarayalu 2009: 279 and 283).

There were also several depositories of manuscripts in Cambodia and the gifting of the Rāmāyaṇa and the Mahābhārata has been recorded in inscriptions (Goodall 2017). The physical nature of the books and the skill of mastery over writing—the material culture that accompanies knowledge systems—here seem to be emphasized. This seems far more than in India where, while books and learning were revered, the oral nature of transmission was ‘spoken’ about more and the physical nature of the books was not necessarily written about (Goodall 2017: 158).

There is one more interesting and not very well-known piece of information on writing in Cambodia that we should note before we move on. While it is generally acknowledged that the concept of ‘zero’ comes from the sub-continent (even though there were similar ideas in the Middle East), the first known recorded version of this number is in Cambodia, again in the script adapted from India (Aczel 2015). Until Aczel made his spectacular discovery through a gripping detective-novel-like adventure, it was presumed that the first recording of the numeral in what we call ‘Indian-Arabic’ system was to be found in an inscription dating to 876 ce. in one of the Khajuraho temples. But Aczel tracked down the rumours and found this numeral recorded for the first time in our knowledge in an inscription from Sambor (Trapan Prei; K. 127) dating to 683 ce. Noted by Coedès in 1931 and translated by him (Coedès IC II: 89), the inscription was lost until Aczel found it (Swetz ‘Mathematical Association of America’ website; Aczel 2015).

The recording of such an important symbol in what seems to be a routine manner is noteworthy, especially when we remember that the Indian recording is almost two hundred years later. Such an occurrence suggests that expert personnel—here those specializing in mathematics—had made their presence felt in South East Asia.⁴

Names of People and Toponyms

Anthroponyms as well as toponyms are, of course, common all-over South East Asia. There are two Kauṇḍinyas in Khmer narratives (see for instance, Gaudes 1993: 341). Kauṇḍinya II is seen as the first ruler who came from India, possibly through Pan Pan, a Funanese settlement in the Malay peninsula, and, according to Chinese accounts, ‘completely Indianized the customs of Funan’. He is said to have established the worship of Hindu deities and knowledge of writing based on the Indian systems and also introduced notions of Hindu kingship. He may have also introduced the suffix ‘varman’, to the names of local kings (Briggs 1947: 346).

The adoption of Hindu names by Cambodian kings is one of the many striking ways in which they expressed their connection to the royal dynasties in India. Many of the early kings in Cambodia had Hindu/Sanskrit names like Rudravarman, Bhavavarman, or Jayavarman. Almost all the early kings in South East Asia bore names ending with the royal varman (protection), as was the custom in India. It is also well known that according to the Dharmaśāstra texts in India, names of Kṣatriyas should end with the term ‘varman’. Inscriptions from the mouth of the Mun River (a tributary of the Mekong) near Ubon Ratchathani, Thailand, tell us about a king called Citrasena or Mahendravarman (names common among the Pallava kings of South India), who seems to have ruled there, in the kingdom of Chenla, sometime around the sixth or seventh century ce. Citrasena of Chenla took on the regnal name of Mahendravarman when he ascended to the throne around 600 ce,⁵ interestingly enough at the same time that Mahendravarman I, the famous Pallava king, begins his reign in Kanchipuram.

The names of both pre-Angkorian and Angkorian, whether Hindu or Buddhist, all have Indian origin, with Jayavarman having the popularity that ‘Henry’ had in British history. Frequently ‘svāmin’ seems to have been used as a suffix for Brahman names (Goodall 2017: 132 n.2, but see also Vickery 1998: 200–201). The kings seem to have had posthumous names, a practice not very common in India; thus, Sūryavarman II is known as ‘Paramaviṣṇuloka’ or [He who has gone] to the world of the supreme Viṣņu.

There is evidence of queens making endowments; the earliest may have been Queen Kulaprabhāvatī in southern Cambodia in the fifth/sixth century ce (Higham 2001: 32; Mabbett and Chandler 1995: 75). Queen Jayadevī ruled in Cambodia in the early eighth century.

It is hard to know from people’s names if they were local citizens or had come from India. Inscriptions do give us names of a few individual Hindus, and a few are specially marked as coming from India. We have already heard of Kauṇḍinya; and, in fact, some scholars have posited two Kauṇḍinyas. In addition, there is a Durgāsvāmin in a Sambor Prei Kuk inscription (K. 438). The beginning of the Sanskrit text is lost but verses 2 and 3 refer to a Śaka (Scythian) who is probably the same Brahman referred to in the inscription. This is Durgāsvāmin, who is said to have been born in Dakṣiṇāpatha, and King Iśānavarman I (seventh century ce) apparently gave his daughter in marriage to him. The rest of the inscription speaks about the gifts given by Durgāsvāmin to the temple and the deity enshrined there (Coedès, Vol. 4: 27).

There are two things we can highlight in this inscription. One is that Durgāsvāmin is said to be from the south in India and he is also referred to as a Śakabrāhmaṇa, a class of people who seem to have been thought of as semi-divine in later years (Kingdom of Cambodia: Ministry of Culture and Fine Arts, Sambor Prei Kuk, 44–5). It has also been pointed out that a certain kind of pointed cap worn by the Scythians is seen in the architecture of Sambor Prei Kuk. The second is the reference to Iśānavarman who had made Iśanapura or Sambor Prei Kuk his capital. An inscription, found only recently, and dated to the time of Iśānavarman (K. 1419) explicitly states the name Suvarṇabhūmi. Chhom articulates the importance of this find:

The term is used in the praise of king Īśānavarman, who is described as ruling across the surface of the golden earth (suvarṇabhūmi). Many territories of South East Asia have claimed to be the ‘Golden land’. But this, as far as we are aware, is the only attestation of the expression ever found in South East Asian epigraphy. (Chhom 2019: 48)

Many kingdoms in South East Asia have claimed to be the Suvarṇabhūmi spoken of in Indian and Srilankan texts (Revire 2018) but this is the only explicit reference in an inscription. This is the same Iśānavarman whose daughter married Durgāsvāmin.

Inscriptions mention Durgāsvāmin as one of a handful of other people coming from specific areas in India. This is important to us in asking if there was a ‘diaspora’ in Funan, Chenla, and the Khmer Empire. A few of these have been noted by Chakravarti (1975: 22). Jayavarman I, in the seventh century, who is described as one whose fame had spread as far as Kanchipuram (K. 725) had a son-in-law, Śakrasvāmin, who is said to have been from the Madhyadeśa (‘central territories’) of India (K. 904). The ancestor of Yaśovarman (reigned 889–900 ce) is said to be from Āryadeśa (K. 95; Prah Bat inscription). There is also the famous Divākarabhaṭṭa (not to be confused with Divākarapaṇḍita, 1040–1120). Divākarabhaṭṭa is said to have hailed from the land of the Kālindī River (Yamuna) and married the King Rājendravarman’s daughter, Indralakṣmī (Einkosei inscription K. 263; on Divākarabhaṭṭa’s activities, see Coedès, IC 4: 108–39). Śivācārya also had a long career as a priest from the time of Iśānavarman II to Rājendravarman, and perhaps even longer (Coedès and Dupont 1943–1946, 56–7).

While dozens of ritual specialists and those with priestly duties are mentioned in the inscriptions, not too many seem to have come from India. We hear of family histories with a priest and their descendants. There is Śivakaivalya (ninth century ce) of the Devarāja ‘cult’ fame and who was closely connected with Jayavarman II, Śivasoma, Sukṣma Bindu, and his nephew, who attended to the ritual needs of Jayavarman III. Śivasoma is described as one who ‘learned the śāstras from him who is known as Bhagavān Śankara and whose lotus feet are licked by the row of bees, i.e., the heads of all scholars’ (K. 235, Sdok Kok Thom inscription; Chakravarti 1975: 20). Coedès and other scholars postulated that this may be Ādi Śaṅkara of India, but the proposition has been set aside by later scholarship (Chakravarti 1975, Srikantha Sastri 1942). Divākarapaņḍita, arguably one of the most famous of the Angkorian priests served several kings, including Harṣavarman II, Jayavarman VI, Dharaṇīndravarman I, and Sūryavarman II (twelfth century); it is sometimes presumed that it was under his direction that Sūryavarman II started to build Angkor Wat. None of these, however, seem to have come from India.

Many of the places and kingdoms also have strikingly auspicious Hindu names. Liṅga Parvata, (‘Liṅga Mountain’) is near Pakse, Laos, and an early capital of Jayavarman II in the ninth century was called Hariharālaya (‘Sacred Abode of Hari [i.e. Viṣṇu] and Hara [i.e. Śiva]’). Towns and temples had names like Iśānapura (the original name of Sambor Prei Kuk, the Chenla capital in the seventh century ce), Banteay Srei was in a town called Iśvarapura, and the area of Angkor (>nagara) was Yaśodharapura. Some of these names have lingered and have been modified in South East Asia; Ayutthaya is well known in Thailand and as recently as 2006, the name ‘Suvarṇabhūmi’ was revived and given to the name of the new airport in Bangkok. Dozens of other names like Nakon Ratchasima (>nagara rājasīma), Aranya Prateth (>araṇya pradeśa) are seen in Thailand, and Rattanakiri (>ratna giri) etc., in Cambodia.⁶ Estève’s (2017) extensive and sophisticated work also draws our attention to the significance of toponyms in Cambodia. Despite the prevalence of many place names that repeat those of sacred places in India, it does not mean that the people who gave the names or founded the towns in South East Asia came from the original place in the sub-continent. Rather, despite “toponym transfers” being common in many parts of the world, Salomon alerts us that the reasons could be very different. In the western world,

a new settlement is typically named after the original home of the settlers…In the Indian world however…such names were chosen for their emotional and devotional associations in the lore and tradition of the people who used them; traditions…which had long since become part of the common culture of the Indian world as a whole. (Salomon 1990:161)

In the context of this chapter, this cautions us about assuming that the given name of a place in South East Asia came about because of an influx of people from that region in India.

Deities

Hindu deities popular in the subcontinent in the first millennium CE (Śiva, Viṣṇu, Lakṣmī, Gaṇeśa, and Durgā who killed the buffalo-demon—Mahiṣāsuramardinī) were also important in South East Asia, suggesting either a sizeable Indian population and/or priestly personnel with influence. Harihara, an amalgamation of Viṣṇu and Śiva, was revered in pre-Angkorian Cambodia (Lavy 2003). Harihara is seen in reliefs in the Badami caves (c. sixth century ce, northern Karnataka in India) and becomes popular after the seventh century in Cambodia. He is present in many of the inscriptions in Cambodia; we also see him represented in many icons. Icons of Brahmā, Viṣṇu, Śiva, Harihara, Gaṇeśa, Skanda, Nandi, a bull sacred to Śiva, Garuḍa, the eagle mount of Viṣṇu, the nine planets (navagrahas) worshipped by Hindus, and other deities have been found in Cambodia and can be seen today at the National Museum in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, or the Musée Guimet in Paris. In the invocations of inscriptions, we also see reverence to amalgamated deities like Ardhanarīśvara (a combination of Śiva and the goddess Pārvatī). Several incarnations of Viṣṇu are seen in the temple carvings.

Śiva is probably the most dominant of Hindu deities in Cambodia. He is sometimes depicted with two wives, Umā and Gaṅgā. Other local rivers in Cambodia were eventually considered to be holy like the Gaṅgā; after the eleventh century, the rivers flowing from the hill Phnom Kulen to irrigate Angkor were considered to be sacred. The sacredness of these rivers was stated on carvings made on rocks on their banks and emphasized the identification of rivers like the Kbal Spean with the Gaṅgā (Zéphir 1998: 40). In many temples, the main deity is Śiva, but he is frequently called by a name of the patron’s ancestor. This close identification between dead (and living) kings and Śiva is a significant feature of Cambodian religion. Monarchs built Śiva temples, installed śivaliṅgas and called them by a name that could rightfully belong to the deity or be translated as ‘The Lord of X or Y’. In the temples of Hariharālaya and elsewhere, we see the ancestors of kings being identified as deities. Associated with this idea of the connection between deity and kings is the much-disputed concept of devarāja or divine kingship.

Coronation and consecration rituals referred to in the inscriptions seem to follow Hindu texts. In Cambodia, after the time of Jayavarman II (early ninth century), we hear about the concept of devarāja. Hiraṇyadāma, the royal guru, apparently conducted the rituals whereby the king’s sacredness was affirmed, and it seems to have established the legitimacy of Jayavarman II. The Sdok Kak Thom Inscription gives many details about the concept of devarāja and associates it with a particular temple (Rong Chen) and with specific kings. The concept of devarāja involved the association of the king (rāja) as a divine being (deva) and perhaps the centring of the royal power in a particular icon of Śiva (a liṅga), and divine power in the kings. It has been suggested that only the kings whose hereditary legitimacy was in some doubt emphasized the devarāja concept. This central idea in Khmer thought has been contested; the deity is seen as the king, and the king is a living deity; some scholars think of this idea as referring to a divinity who has protective powers over a particular area. Scholars also dispute whether this is an Indian concept or a Sanskrit adaptation of a Khmer idea (see Mabbett and Chandler 1996 and Woodward 2001).

While Śiva worship, particularly as represented by the creative symbol of the liṅga, was popular, worship of Viṣṇu was also seen in Cambodia and in other countries of South East Asia (Guy 2018). Knowledge of Vaiṣṇava texts of India, including the two epics, was widely prevalent in this region, at least amongst the elite. We should also keep in mind that long after Śaivism and other forms of Hinduism disappeared from Cambodia as live religions, knowledge of the Rāmāyaṇa remained widespread and thriving through the performing arts. Starting with the endowments of Queen Kulaprabhāvatī in the late fifth century, we find many endowments to Viṣṇu temples in Cambodia. The walls of many temples are carved with scenes from the Rāmāyaṇa and the Purāṇas. Many incidents from the Rāmāyaṇa are carved on the walls of Angkor temples as well as large temples such as the one in Pramabanan near Yogyakarta, Indonesia.

In most of the temples in South East Asia, while one deity is emphasized, many others were consecrated in the same place. It seems to be a common practice to have Śiva, Viṣṇu, and Devī all in the same building. Women seem to have had an important role in consecrating deities in temples; both in Bakong and later in the temple at Banteay Srei, in Cambodia, we hear of women being involved in the consecration. Around 803 ce, palace women are said to have installed the goddess Durgā who killed the buffalo (Majumdar 1953: 67). The Prambanan Temple in Yogyakarta, Indonesia, has temples to Brahmā and Viṣṇu, but the main shrine is dedicated to Śiva.

The built and natural landscapes become alive with Hindu–Buddhist reference points redolent with references to hills, mountains, and streams from the Purāṇas and the epics. Śiva lives on a temple mountain, but the way in which the temple mountain is constructed here has a unique South-East-Asian idiom and is not like the counterparts in the subcontinent. Thus Bakheng, Bakong, and other Śiva temples resembling Kailāsa have a unique architecture and are like pyramid-mountains. Angkor Wat is a pañcāyatana temple, with four towers in the corners and a central tall spire, constructed in the image of Mount Meru.

We noted that the Kbal Spean River was identified with the Gaṅgā. We see several instances of sacred geography in Cambodia which indicates that people from India may have renamed and identified local areas with those in the mother-country. But as the generations pass, this may have become a trope, an archetype in the cultural and religious landscape. Nevertheless, the rivers become tīrthas, the sites become imbued with sanctity and, as Sanderson observes of Jayaśrinagari (Preah Khan, built by Jayavarman VII in the twelfth–thirteenth centuries ce):

The complex is especially holy because of its association with sacred bathing sites dedicated to the Buddha, Śiva and Visņu. In this regard, we are told, it surpasses even the famous Prayāga of northern India. That is visited by pilgrims seeking purification because the two sacred rivers Yamunā and Gaṅgā come together there. But here three sacred waters combine to empower the site. (Sanderson 2003–2004: 431)

The site Sanderson is talking about is, as seems prevalent in many Mahāyāna holy places of the time, a combination of Buddhist deities in the centre, Śiva’s entourage to the north, and Viṣņu to the west. Near it are the bathing waters of Jayatataka, the holy waters attached to the temple complex. While it does not tell us about whether migrants from India had a say in its construction or not, certainly it indicates the familiarity that the Khmer people had with Indian tīrthas.

Architecture

Temple architecture and iconography tell us about the adaptation of Hindu culture in the Khmer Empire. The plans and architectural styles also offer clues about areas in India with which the Cambodian population had contact. Certainly, the whole panoply of Hindu deities is seen in Cambodia, and there are similarities as well as several distinctive features in the architecture and iconography. There is some evidence pointing to the different parts of India that had contact with Cambodia. Striking similarities in some architectural plans and groupings of carvings help us piece together the evidence.

Sambor Prei Kuk has some octagonal temples. It is in this capital city that Durgāsvāmin, who we noted earlier was from South India, was active. Sahai notes that these octagonal temples are directly connected to the South Indian style of architecture and adds, ‘In fact, the Mayamata 19/36 considers the octagon to be a defining element of the Dravida-style temple. The Ajitagama (Kriyapada12/67), the Suprabhedagama (Kriyapada 30/42) and the Svāyambhu Āgama unanimously say: “prāsada that is octagonal from the kantha (neck) onward up, is Dravida”’. (Sahai 2018: 248).

The artificial mountain temples of Bakheng and Bakong in the Angkor area, or the steep, tenth-century temple mountain to Śiva in Koh Ker (100 km north-east of Angkor), on the other hand, are similar to the architecture in Borubodur, Indonesia, and very different from the temples in India. The idiom in the architecture here is distinctive to South East Asia, and the local authorities seem to have had control over what elements of Indian culture they wanted to adopt, magnify, or discard.

Areas that seem to have had regular and extensive contact with South East Asia are Kanchipuram (Tamil Nadu), Kalinga (modern Odisha), farther north on the east coast of India, and Bengal. The temple towers of Angkor Wat, for instance, are similar to those found in Orissa, particularly the Brahmeśvara Temple (built c.1061 ce by Queen Kolavatī) near Bhubaneshwar, but the overall vision and plan are more like the Vaikuṇṭha Perumāl Temple in Kanchipuram.

Kanchipuram was a very important city in South India for several centuries and seems to have had connections with South East Asia. The Angkor Wat Temple, for instance, is a three-storied, west-facing temple dedicated to Viṣṇu, as is the Vaikuṇṭha Perumāl Temple, built by the Pallava King Nandivarman Pallavamalla in the eighth century in Kanchipuram. While there are many west-facing Viṣņu temples and many three- or four-floored temples in South India, Angkor Wat and the Vaikuṇṭha Perumāl are the only two Viṣņu temples that I know of which have three floors and are west facing. It is striking that the temple in Cambodia replicates some of these features and combines it with the architecture of Kalinga/Orissa. The area around Kanchipuram also has several temples with icons of Viṣṇu that are similar in manifestation to those in Cambodia.

It is also certainly true that while there was extensive and deep cultural influence from India, some important features of Indian life—the dietary culture, the caste system, and so on—never took hold in Cambodia. Sometimes entire clans or villages seem to be endowed with a caste (Mabbett 1977). The caste system seems almost perfunctory. Brahmans are named and identified (usually by their descendants) and specific kinds of groups like the Śakabrāhmaṇa (Durgāsvāmin, for example) are mentioned. There were several people identified as a brahmakṣatra, that is a descendant of a Brahman and a kṣatriya (Sanderson 2003–2004: 393, especially n. 155 and 157). Yajñavarāha, the learned person who built the beautiful temple of Banteay Srei identifies himself as a brahmakṣatra (K. 619/620 and K. 662; cited in Goodall 2017: 136). Marriages between Brahmans from India and royal princesses seem relatively common.

The fact that the varṇa and jati systems never established themselves among the Khmer people is interesting in itself and speaks to the selective adaptations of Hindu culture. It also indicates that we do not seem to have a large enough diaspora or a resident Indian population that was observing varṇāśrama dharma for it to make an impact on Khmer society.

Text and Art

The Rāmāyaṇa, Mahābhārata, the Purāṇas, as well as the Pāñcarātra texts were all well known from the pre-Angkorian times. But there are portrayals in Khmer iconography which suggest that the Khmers had access to the same sources that Hindus in some parts of India had, and also that they were willing to carve, to embody in material culture, ideas and details from texts that are not seen in India. I will briefly consider three examples of these instances to argue that these works of art suggest that they are unique to the Khmers who were working with texts and probably not works that would have been done by immigrants from India.

The earliest, chronologically, in the short list we are considering here is a bas-relief from Prasat Kravan, a Viṣṇu temple built in the Angkor area in 921 ce. Here, in the central temple, the main carving is that of an eight-armed Viṣṇu with a large dolphin–lizard like creature on top of his head. There is no similar piece of art in India but the carving seems to follow Viṣṇupurāṇa which speaks of a huge constellation in the shape of a gigantic dolphin–crocodile (śiśumara) over his head. Hari, or Viṣṇu, says the Viṣṇupurāṇa, supports the constellation and is the constellation (for details, see Narayanan 2017: 262–7).

The second example is the largest bas-relief in the world, a panel which depicts the story of the churning of the ocean of milk, carved on the eastern wall of Angkor Wat. At the end of the long line of devas is a giant monkey, pulling the snake-rope with considerable gusto. There is no monkey in any of the Sanskrit versions of this story and people have speculated that it may be Hanumān, arguably the best-known simian in Hindu narratives. The Tamil poet, Kampan (twelfth century?), however, writes several times in his Rāmāyaṇa that Vāli, the older brother of Sugrīva, helped the devas in the churning of the ocean of milk. Further, Vāli is placed in this story in the Telugu Rāmāyaṇa as well as in Teyyam songs from Kerala. Thus, the Khmer people seem to have had access to these same sources and narratives that the people from South India seem to have had. While the story of Vāli’s participation in the churning of the ocean of milk is known in literature and performing arts in South India, except for one small panel from the eighth century Virupakṣa temple in Pattadakal, we do not find it in carvings in South India. The Angkor Wat panel is from the twelfth century. Thus, here too, we have a situation where the people who had the vision of and who executed the Angkor Wat temple seem to be working from a different template than contemporaries in South India, suggesting that it was not migrants or imported workers from India (For details, see Narayanan 2014).

And finally, for this chapter, a third example of a very sophisticated visualization and execution of a meditative piece in sculpture. There is a rectangular votive sculpture with 1,020 plus four Viṣņus carved on it.⁷

The ‘monument Viṣņuite’ in the Guimet is 105 centimetres tall, 41 centimetres wide, and 41 centimetres deep. It was found in Preah Khan (Kompong Sway; Preah Vihear province) and is remarkably well preserved. It is an elongated cube; (technically, a rectangular parallelepiped) or rectangular cuboid, topped with a four-faced crown. In the corpus of the sculpture, there are 15 rows of four-armed Viṣņus, and each row has 17 Viṣņus. There is also an upper tier; the sculpture is crowned with a smaller, four-faced component with four carvings depicting Viṣņu in one of his well-known forms on each side. These are, going in a clockwise direction:

1. Viṣņu with four arms (caturbhuja)

2. ‘Reverse’ reclining Viṣņu on a dragon-like makara Ananta

3. Viṣņu on Garuḍa

4. Viṣņu with eight arms (aṣṭabhuja)

If one adds the four top carvings to the 1,020 Viṣņus carved in the body of the ‘monument Viṣņuite’, we get a total of 1,024. It is reasonable to suppose that the four Viṣņus carved on top of this sculpture represent some of the best-loved depictions of this deity in Cambodia or possibly those considered to be most powerful; and indeed, apart from the avatāras, these are some of the most commonly seen forms.

The ‘monument Viṣņuite’, I suggest, is an actualization of the viśakayūpa/stambha, which is a pillar in the ‘supreme abode’ (paramapada). The pillar is made of a ‘non-material substance’, and its four faces are said to be the four vyūhas or emanations of Viṣņu-Narāyaṇa, discussed in the Pañcarātra texts. Ultimately, what we see is the Khmer power and proclivity to take an abstract theme or idea seen in different spheres in the sub-continent (the crocodile constellation, a cosmogonal pillar in heaven) and give it concrete shape even, or especially, when it has not been done so in India.

There is no similar artefact in the sub-continent. Based on several factors, I have argued that this may be a concrete actualization of a viśakhayūpa, an important pillar spoken of in the Pāñcarātra texts. A meditative aid, this votive sculpture, I suggest, is the Khmer visualization of the luminous pillar in vaikuṇṭha, or heaven (Narayanan 2017).

From these examples and from later innovations in the iconography (for instance, the serpent-bed of Viṣņu depicted as a makara or dragon-like creature), we can see that the Khmer devotees and artists were working with the texts and their own inspirations.

Reflections

We have discussed theories of contact between the subcontinent and South East Asia, exploring a few dimensions of Hindu traditions and culture in Cambodia. Recent scholarship has emphasized Khmer agency and innovative skills. It is, of course, clear that there was extensive trade; but who else but traders went to Cambodia is the question; and then, we ask, if they settled down there. There is no ‘smoking gun’ to give an answer, but the overwhelming evidence makes it clear that there was a steady flow of merchants and other personnel who possibly stayed on for months at a time and possibly married the local people. In addition, there were possibly Khmer people who went to India to learn and bring back texts, but what they picked and what they did with them was what was convenient for them. The rituals they had, the deities they worshipped, came with the power of powerful priests.

Some powerful men from India are named in the inscriptions and they marry into royal families. But dozens of others, all with Indian names, were probably local. That there was considerable adaptation of Indian culture and customs is unquestionable, but the agency and power exerted by Cambodians in choosing what worked for them, and what was suitable for them should also be valorized. Mabbett and Chandler summarize it thus:

During the first five hundred years or so of the current era, India provided Cambodia with a writing system, a pantheon, meters for poetry, a language (Sanskrit) to write it in, a vocabulary of social hierarchies (not the same as a caste system), Buddhism, the idea of universal kingship, and new ways of looking at politics, sociology, architecture, iconography, astronomy, and aesthetics. Without India, Angkor would never have been built; yet, Angkor was never an Indian city any more than medieval Paris was a Roman one. (Mabbett and Chandler 1996: 24)

Monica Smith argues that one important reason why there was a heightened increase after the fourth century in ‘the adoption of subcontinental traditions-religious iconography, Sanskrit terminology, coinage, and terms identifying leaders’ in South East Asia is because

[s]ubcontinental traditions became attractive at this time because of the advent of strong political entities in the Indian sub-continent, notably the Guptas, which produced coherent models of political, social and religious organization. Although such models were also available from neighboring China, apprehension about Chinese expansion led the rulers of emergent chiefdoms in Southeast Asia to prefer the adoption of Indian political and religious iconography. (Smith 1999: 1)

We can certainly add the Pallava and Chalukya dynasties to the Guptas. Success is inspiring; the perception of the success, ‘fortune, happiness, and victory’ (the lofty goals with which we began this chapter) being present in the Indian kingdoms could have encouraged South East Asian rulers to look closely at and selectively emulate those parts of the Indian empires that were empowering in the local context.

But, if we were to think of Angkor as an extension of India or as a land passively absorbing ideas from the sub-continent, we should remember this: that Angkor is estimated to be ‘the most extensive urban complex of the preindustrial world’ (Evans et al. 2007), and as Groslier estimated, its hydraulic system was built ‘to support a huge population of greater than a million people’ in a constellation of suburbs (1979). In other words, Angkor was marching, and marching fast, to its own drummer.

While we notice the similarities, we should also highlight what the Khmer people did not change. They adopted Hindu names but not the clothing; their local styles continued to evolve. They had social hierarchies but not the caste system. The priests labelled themselves as Brahmans but whether this was based on birth, or their ritual knowledge is not clear. There were kings; but women also wielded considerable power; some ruled the kingdom, and matrilineal descent was frequently emphasized. Just as America adapts and makes American diverse items and practices like pizza, spring rolls, yoga, and karate, the Khmer people also chose from a global marketplace of ideas, culture, and luxury items. And religious culture from the subcontinent was embraced by the people, particularly the royalty.

As one moves towards the end of the first millennium, the Khmer people seem to be working from texts and prototypes from India, or working with people of partial Indian descent, several generations removed from Kauṇḍinya’s ancestral land. Kauṇḍinya himself is forgotten after the time of Rājendravarman; Hindu gods, however, remain but in Khmer imaginaire. We see this in the Khmer faithful rendering of ideas and stories in sculptures; but the devas and people have Khmer visages and clothes, and the narratives rendered in stone are not always what Indians did in their art. And many renderings, such as the emphasis on the story of the churning of the ocean of milk, and artefacts like the Monument Viṣņuite, are unique to the Khmer culture.

There is, therefore, no mass migration to Cambodia or even migrations that we see in large numbers like Indians moving to Africa or America. But even the smaller numbers of Indians who were there for trade and stayed on for months at a time, and perhaps made Funan, Chenla, or Angkor home probably invited priests and scholars who also trained local, interested citizens. We have to remember that yoga became popular in America with just small numbers of Indian teachers who brought it to the United States; it was not the Indian diaspora who brought it with them and shared it with the host country. Expert scholars and religious personnel may have come, alongside the trading communities. Globalization, with ideas and material goods circling the earth and being consumed selectively by those hungry for knowledge as well as luxury items, were as big in the first millennium as they are now. But the impact was powerful: Cambodia had the economic, political, and social systems in place to set in motion the building of massive numbers of Hindu temples. One can say that no other culture has built as many Hindu temples as the Cambodians did towards the end of the first millennium ce. One has to wait almost a thousand years for a similar burgeoning of building temples; this time, it is across the world in late twentieth-century America, where the prosperous immigrant population constructs prestige temples.

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Sahai, Sachchidanand. 2018. ‘Archaeology as Soft Power in ASEAN–India Cultural Contexts.’ In Cultural and Civilisational Links between India and Southeast Asia, edited by Shyam Saran, 241–52. New Delhi: Palgrave-Macmillan.

Salomon, Richard. 1990. ‘Indian Tīrthas in Southeast Asia.’ In The History of Sacred Places in India as Reflected in Traditional Literature: Papers on Pilgrimage in South Asia, edited by Hans Bakker, 160–76. Leiden; New York: Brill.

Sanderson, Alexis. 2003–2004. ‘The Śaiva Religion among the Khmers, Part I.’ Bulletin de l’École française d’Extrême-Orient 90/91: 349–462.

Saran, Shyam. 2018. Cultural and Civilisational Links between India and Southeast Asia, New Delhi: Palgrave-Macmillan.

Sharan, Mahesh Kumar. 1974. Studies in Sanskrit inscriptions of ancient Cambodia, on the basis of first three volumes of Dr R. C. Majumdar’s edition. New Delhi: Abhinav Publications.

Smith, Monica L. 1999. ‘“Indianization” from the Indian Point of View: Trade and Cultural Contacts with Southeast Asia in the Early First Millennium CE.’ Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 42 (1): 1–26.

Soutif, Dominique and Julia Esteve. 2017. ‘Inventory of Khmer Inscriptions.’ URL: https://angkordatabase.asia/publications/2017-inventory-of-khmer-inscriptions/.

Srikantha Sastri, S. 1942. ‘Sri Samkara in Cambodia?’ The Indian Historical Quarterly vol XVIII: 175–9.

Stark, Miriam T. 2017. ‘Globalizing Early Southeast Asia.’ In The Routledge Handbook of Archaeology and Globalization, edited by T. Hodos, 707–710. London: Routledge.

Swetz. Frank J. ‘Mathematical Treasure: The Cambodian Zero.”’ Mathematical Association of America website. URL: https://www.maa.org/press/periodicals/convergence/mathematical-treasure-the-cambodian-zero/ (accessed 16 January 2022).

Vickery, Michael. 1998. Society, Politics and Economics in Pre-Angkor Cambodia. The 7th-8th Centuries, Tokyo: The Centre for East Asian Cultural Studies for Unesco/Toyo Bunko.

Woodward Jr, Hiram W. 2001. ‘Practice and Belief in Ancient Cambodia: Claude Jacques' Angkor and the Devarāja Question.’ Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 32 (2): 249–61.

Zéphir, Thierry. 1998. Khmer: Lost Empire of Cambodia. London: Thames and Hudson.

Vasudha Narayanan, ‘Fortune, Success, Well-being, Victory!’: Connections between India and Cambodia in the First Millennium ce In: Hindu Diasporas. Edited by: Knut A. Jacobsen, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198867692.003.0002

¹ For a discussion on early globalization connected with South East Asia, see Stark (2017).

² A detailed list of inscriptions to do with Khmer culture is found in Dominique Soutif and Julia Esteve (2017). Information on the inscriptions cited in my chapter is largely derived from the many volumes of Coedès’ Inscriptions du Cambodge. Sharan (1974) and Majumdar also studied Sanskrit inscriptions; the latter’s work is strongly informed by ideas of colonization.

³ Transcribed from a picture I took of the sign near a stele in the Ubon Ratchathani Museum in 2007.

⁴ Another contender for the earliest recording of ‘zero’ is the famous Bakhshali Manuscript at the Bodelean Library, Oxford. While its date is debated, it has been reported that ‘some pages in the manuscript date to the third or fourth century, five hundred years older than previously thought’ (Gibbens 2016). Scholars have found this problematic for many reasons; see Plofker et al. 2017.

⁵ This date is proposed by Coedès 1975: 69.

⁶ For a study of many of these names, see NHIM Sotheavin, n.d.

⁷ This artefact is at the Musée Guimet in Paris.

2

Indian Hindu Diasporas in South East Asia

Martin Ramstedt

Introduction

Let me begin by stating that I consider the designation ‘Hindu’ to be an umbrella term for a range of different local as well as transregional traditions of philosophical thought, religious belief, and ritual practice that originate from a variety of different ethnic communities in both South and South East Asia. The term ‘Hindu’ actually evolved with European colonial rule in Asia, more precisely from the end of the eighteenth century onwards.

Neither the archaeological, numismatic, nor literary remains of the early Indic states in South East Asia (second to sixteenth century ce) give evidence of a large-scale Indian ‘invasion’ that would explain the apparent dissemination of Brāhmanism, Śivaism, and Vaiṣṇavism in those polities. The question of how this dissemination could have happened without the mediation of Indian diasporas, if not conquerors, has met with different competing answers. The renowned French orientalist Georges Coèdes saw the dispersion of Indic influence to and in South East Asia as part of the Sanskritization process that, for him, originated in north-west India and expanded first to South India and Bengal, and then to and across South East Asia. The populations indigenous to South East Asia had, according to Coèdes, played a similar part in the Sanskritization process like the South Indian Dravidas (Coedès 1975: 14–16, Mabbett 1977: 144). Then, there was the so-called kṣatriya model, according to which certain parts of South East Asia were conquered by Indian warriors. Indian historians, such as the famous Ramesh Chandra Majumdar, particularly favoured it, as it elevated India to one of the ancient civilizational powers (Leur 1967: 9, Mabbett 1977: 143–4, 1). An almost opposite proposition was made by the Dutch scholar Jacob Cornelis van Leur, who saw indigenous rulers as powerful agents in attracting Indian Brahmans to their courts. The latter had, argued Leur, provided them with knowledge of statecraft and sacred legitimation (Leur 1967: viii, 90–116). Most authors have settled on a medium ground, though, that attributes equal agency to ancient Indian Brahmans and conquerors, on the one hand, and indigenous South East Asian courts, on the other (Mabbett 1977: 144–5, 154–61).

In the absence of definite archaeological and historical proof for early Indian diasporas in the region, we can speak of veritable ‘Indian diasporas’ in South East Asia only since the beginning of British colonial expansion into Asia at large. It prompted waves of deployment and displacement of Indian sepoys, plantations workers, and merchants to Java, Malaya, Singapore, Sumatra, and—to a much lesser extent—Burma, Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia. In their trail came Hindu priests, missionaries, and reformers, who developed and disseminated ‘Hinduism’ as a modern transregional religious identity in co-creation with leaders of autochthonous groups in Indonesia as well as European orientalists and colonial civil servants. These entangled relations need to be given a veritable place here.

The Colonial Construction of ‘Hinduism’ in India and Beyond

The term ‘Hindu’ is commonly derived from Sanskrit ‘Sindhu’, designating the River Indus. It seemed to have first been used by Persian-speaking Muslims for the inhabitants of the Indus valley. Later, ‘Hindu’ became a synonym for the inhabitants of the Indian subcontinent at large, before it began, from the late eighteenth century onwards, to connotate a specific religious belonging. Until then, Indian designations of religious identities had invariably been much more specific, like Vaiṣṇava, Śaiva, Jain, Buddhist, and so forth.¹ We do not find the term ‘Hindu’ in the archaeological, numismatic, and textual remains from the early Indic states of South East Asia either. These sources also only point to specific Vedic, Buddhist, Vaiṣṇava, and/or Śaiva concepts, deities, rituals, temples, or saints.²

That said, Indian Sanskrit and Tamil scriptures, like the Purāṇas, Vedānta, and Mīmāṃsā commentaries, the early fourteenth-century Sarvadarśaṇasaṃgraha (‘Review of the Different Orthodox Philosophical Systems’) by Mādhava Ācārya, or the songs of the Nāyaṉārs and Āḻvārs do suggest that their authors recognized some common ground between all the different Indian traditions that at least symbolically accepted the Vedas as supreme authority, in contradistinction to Jainism, Buddhism, and Cārvāka, the ancient Indian school of materialism (King 2010: 102, Lorenzen 2010: 30, 37). Similarly, in the Nagarakertagama (‘Treatise on a Prosperous State’), a fourteenth-century Old Javanese account of the golden period of the East Javanese Empire of Majapahit by Mpu Prapanca, we find ample reference to a common ground shared by Śaivism and Buddhism (NB 9, passim, Ramstedt 2009: 360). Geoffrey A. Oddie’s remark that the encroachment of Islam under the Mughal emperors might have given boost to that fledgling sense of a common identity among the autochthonous population in India (Oddie 2010: 43–4) possibly applies to East Java, too, where the influence of Islam had made itself felt since the twelfth century (Federspiel 2007: 18, 20).

The emergence of ‘Hinduism’ as an umbrella term for religious traditions in India and South East Asia is intrinsically related with European colonialism and the development of orientalist research. The British strand of the latter commenced in 1784 with the foundation of the Asiatick Society of Bengal in Calcutta by Sir William Jones (Pennington 2005: 136). The scholars affiliated with the Society were known for working closely together with Indian Brahmans and other high-caste savants (Kopf 1969: 56). Other European orientalist institutions, such as the Special School for Living Oriental Languages (École Spéciale des Langues Orientales Vivantes) in Paris, founded by Louis-Mathieu Langlès in 1795 (Leroux 1883: 3–4), or the Batavian Society for Arts and Science (Het Bataviaasch Genootschap van Kunsten en Wetenschappen), founded by the Dutch East Indian Company in 1778 (Groot 2009: 2), recruited ‘native’ literati for collaborative research.

It is well known that German literati, such as Johann Gottfried Herder, the father of comparative literary studies, or August von Schlegel, and Wilhelm von Humboldt, the pioneers of the study of Sanskrit and comparative linguistics in Germany took great interest in the discovery of ancient Indian influence beyond the Indian subcontinent, particularly Java and the Old Javanese language (Leitzmann 1907). They were keen readers of the publications by Thomas Stamford Raffles and his two assistants, Colin Mackenzie and John Crawfurd. The three had been initiating extensive archaeological and historical forays into the Indic past of Java and Bali since 1811, the year Raffles had conquered the Dutch–Napoleonic possessions in the South East Asian archipelago for the English East India Company (EIC). The Scotsman Colonel Colin Mackenzie had by then already attained a reputation as a great collector of Indian antiquities. In Java, Raffles had assigned him the task of inspecting the island and its population, while unofficially, he was to collect Javanese and Dutch textual records from the libraries of Javanese aristocratic literati (Weatherbee 1978: 67–8).

In 1813, Mackenzie returned to India with a rich collection of Javanese antiquities, particularly stone inscriptions in Sanskrit. In Calcutta, he finally completed his report on his collection, which attested to ample ‘Hindu’ and ‘Buddhist’ religious influence in ancient Java.³ Also John Crawfurd, whom Raffles had appointed as Resident of Yogyakarta (Bastin 1992: 8, Crawfurd Vol. I, 1820: v–vi), applied the term ‘Hindu’ to the religious practices he observed in Bali, as well as to the Old Javanese temples and other remains he described in the second volume of his History of the Indian Archipelago (Crawfurd Vol II, 1820: 193, 201–58).

Raffles’ own two-tome History of Java confirmed Mackenzie’s and Crawfurd’s evidence of Hindu and Buddhist influence in ancient Java and Bali. Captain George Baker of the EIC Bengal military establishment, a garrison of more than 800 Indian sepoys stationed in Central Java, had provided Raffles with Indian research assistance, that is, sepoys of Brahman background and learning. They had expressed ‘surprise and admiration at the superiority of the Javanese architecture, sculpture, and statuary over those of India’. Other learned sepoys had also been employed by Javanese princes, in order ‘to survey, measure, and take draughts of all the buildings, images, and inscriptions’ of archaeological remains from Javanese antiquity (Bastin 1992: 3, 7, Carey 1977, 301, Raffles Vol II, 1830: 8–34).

The EIC had attracted and deployed Indian recruits for the establishment of strategic bases across the whole Indian subcontinent from the mid-eighteenth century onwards (Bandyopadhyay 1990: 706, Majumdar 1957: 1–4). During the time, the EIC began to expand beyond India, and Indian sepoys assumed a key role in the EIC’s colonial wars throughout Asia. Sepoy regiments included Christians from mixed Portuguese and Indian background, low-caste Hindu sepoys from Madras, high-caste Rajputs, and Brahman Bengalis. The Madras sepoys were the first to be deployed overseas: to Manila in 1762, to Bencoolen in 1779, to Ceylon in 1781, to Java in 1810, and to Burma from 1824 to 1825 (Bandyopadhyay 1990, 706–7, 710). Rajput and Bengali sepoys soon followed. Some 80,000 Indian convicts were sent overseas, too: between 1787 and 1825 to Bencoolen, between 1790 and 1860 to Penang, between 1825 and 1860 to Malacca and Singapore, and between 1828 and 1862 to the Burmese provinces of Arakan and Tenasserim (Carter 2008, 14).

Only in Java, Indian sepoys encountered interest in things Hindu among the local population. Since the mid-eighteenth century, Javanese royalty was concentrated in the two neighbouring realms of Surakarta and Yogyakarta. Their interest in the Hindu–Buddhist literary and archaeological heritage of the Central and East Javanese Indic states of the fourth to the mid-sixteenth century⁴ was in no small measure due to the historical credibility and sacred glamour this heritage lent to contemporary Javanese court etiquette, rituals, and artforms, which continued to display much Indian influence, and which the princes were still able to finance, due to the favourable conditions of Dutch and now British indirect rule. A major figure in the renaissance of the Old Javanese heritage in Surakarta was the court poet Raden Ngabehi Ranggawarsita (1802–1873). In Yogyakarta, it was Kyai Adipati Sura Adimanggala, the Regent of Java, who was quite knowledgeable about Java’s Indic heritage. He provided Raffles with a large number of manuscripts and also served as translator. He even sent his two sons, the princes Raden Saleh and Raden Sukur, to Calcutta to study ancient Indian culture at the seat of the Asiatick Society from 1812 to 1814.⁵

Common interest in and awe for Java’s Indic past forged a strong connection between sepoy officers and Javanese princes. Some high-caste sepoys even married into the Javanese aristocracy. In 1815, Javanese and sepoys started to unite in a shared discontent vis-à-vis British rule. It resulted in the so-called ‘Sepoy Conspiracy’ which the British quelled early.⁶ It was the first in a series of sepoy rebellions that occurred years before the infamous Sepoy Mutiny of 1857. All these rebellions can be attributed to the brutal conditions of sepoy deployment, British contemptuous behaviour vis-à-vis Indian religious practices, and exclusion of Indians from appointment to high offices within the colonial army (Majumdar 1957: 17–22, 257–8). The 1824 Sepoy Rebellion of Barrackpore in West Bengal, for instance, consisted in sepoy regiments resisting deployment to Burma by sea, because over 3,000 previously deployed sepoys had perished due to hunger and disease. The mutiny was swiftly rooted out, with hundreds of sepoys being put to death or court-marshalled. Instead of blaming the singularly brutal deployment conditions, the Court of Enquiry played the religious card, by mentioning that the majority of the mutineers had been upper caste, and that they had therefore been averse to the sea voyage to Burma because of their fear of losing caste (Bandyopadhyay 1995: 889–96).

In 1852, Lord Dalhousie annexed the Bago region from the Burmese Konbaung Empire, and Rangoon became the capital of the ‘Company Raj’, where sepoys filled the ranks of the colonial police. In the event, unrestrained voluntary Indian immigration ensued (Lwin 2008: 487). By 1901, Indian migrants exceeded 100,000 people, who dominated Burmese commerce (Lwin 2008: 488-497, Than 2006: 585–6).

The Issue of ‘Caste’

The 1857 Sepoy Mutiny furthered British association of ‘caste’ with ‘custom’ and ‘race’, which was accompanied by a shift from history to ethnography as the leading paradigm in orientalist knowledge production. In addition, the colonial regime embraced philosophical utilitarianism, economic liberalism, and evangelical Protestantism to assert Britishness after the Mutiny (Belle 2015: 35, Belle 2017: 66). British notions of ‘caste’ were now settling on being a race-based classificatory category, supposedly foundational to Hinduism as a ritual system (Belle 2015: 38–9, Dirks 2001: 8, 12, 38, 41, 130–1).

In the Mughal era, the four varṇas of Manu’s Dharmaśāstra had had no far-reaching importance; nor had they been perceived as fixed categories. Kinship-based categories had determined the social order, and titles bestowed by the Mughal court had defined both individual and familial status (Dirks 2001: 19–20). Early orientalists, like Colin Mackenzie, who had collected a plethora of antiquities, including local historiographies and genealogies, also in India between 1784 and 1821, had made little mention of ‘caste’. The term, however, quickly became an obsession with Christian missionaries, who saw Brahmans as the main impediment to Christian proselytizing efforts in India (Dirks 2001: 21–30).

In the racialized caste system, which informed the British Census of 1871, the so-called ‘martial races’ (Punjabi Sikhs, Jats, Rajputs) were deemed the most noble ones. They were believed to be descendants of the ‘Aryan invaders’ into India, whereas the lower castes and particularly the ‘untouchables’ were seen as descendants of the dark-skinned dāsas of the Ṛgveda.⁷ The recruiting handbooks for the British India army that had been evolving now considered Bengali Brahmans weak and effeminate, while lower caste South Indians were generally deemed lacking in honesty (Belle 2015: 41–2, Dirks 2001: 177–93). This negatively affected the treatment of Tamil indentured labourers on colonial plantations in Malaya and North Sumatra.

In the Dutch East Indies, Balinese had acquired a reputation for being fierce warriors. The process of colonizing Bali by the Dutch indeed took several military efforts from 1847 to 1910, until the island was completely subdued. Colonization had opened the island to intense orientalist research, which confirmed the Indic nature of Balinese court culture (Ramstedt 1998). ‘Caste’ quickly became an issue here, too. While the precolonial social organization of Balinese court society and their rural retainers had run along the lines of the four varṇas, it had been a flexible affair, with shifting assignments of the various Balinese clan groups to the different varṇas that had tallied with actual power constellations. The rationale for the rigidification of caste under the Dutch was the following: (1) the Dutch wanted to re-establish ‘law and order’, by granting the dethroned nobility a privileged place in the reorganized Balinese social order; (2) the Dutch colonial government sought to ‘protect’ the unique Balinese culture against ‘destructive’ socialist ideas coming in from Java, which were influenced by both Indian and Indonesian nationalism (Agung 2001: 123, 133–6, Schulte Nordholt 1996: 233–9).

The Transregional ‘Greater India’ Movement

In Java (Javanese, Indonesian, Islamic, socialist) nationalisms had been growing since the Dutch had imposed a brutal cash-crop cultivation system on the native peasantry in 1830. Henceforth, peasants had to deliver their harvests to native collectors of Javanese aristocratic civil servants in the employ of the Dutch colonial government (Ricklefs 2001: 156–61; Ricklefs 2007: 12–25). The termination of the cultivation system in 1870 only meant that agricultural exploitation continued through private enterprise, which again benefitted Java’s landed aristocracy (Palmer 1960: 216–20). Besides, different manufacturing industries were stimulating the domestic market, and more and more Javanese became engaged in wage labour. The ensuing socio-economic transformation involved the rise of a native middle class who increasingly left traditional beliefs and rituals behind in favour of a form of Islam inspired by reform ideas from the Middle East and bolstered to no small measure by business ties with Arab merchant networks. Its members were not particularly happy with the resurgent interest in Java’s Hindu–Buddhist past among the Javanese nobility and the continuation of ‘un-Islamic’ Indic and animist beliefs and practices entrenched in Javanese syncretic court culture.⁸

Aristocratic Javanese nationalists for their part were very much aware of what was going on in India. A constant information flow on Indian affairs was provided by local lodges of the regional chapter of the international Theosophical Society in Java, Medan, Gorontalo (Celebes), and finally also Denpasar, as the headquarters of the Theosophical Society were based in Adyar in the wider area of Madras. Javanese nationalist organizations, like Boedi Oetomo founded by Wahidin Soedirohoesodo, Raden Soetomo, and Raden Mas Soewardi Soejaningrat in 1908, Mimpitoe founded by Raden Notosoediro, Raden Toemenggoeng Notoningrat, and Goesti Pangeran Ario Tedjokoesoemo in 1909, the Java Instituut founded by Mangkoenegoro VII of Surakarta and others in 1919, or Taman Siswa founded by Ki Hadjar Dewantara in 1922, were intimately interacting with local and international Theosophists.⁹

It was from an alliance of Javanese nationalist leaders and Dutch orientalists and artists that Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore,¹⁰ the philologist Suniti Kumar Chatterji, the artist, photographer, and archaeologist Surendhranath Kar, and the painter and musician Dhirendra Krishna Deva Varman received an invitation to visit Java and Bali in 1927 (Das Gupta 2002: 453–60). All invitees were members of the so-called Bengali Renaissance,¹¹ which resonated strongly with what Theodore G. Th. Pigeaud, Antoon Geels, and others called the ‘Javanese Renaissance’, that is, the renewed interest in Java’s Hindu-Buddhist literary and archaeological heritage among Javanese aristocratic literati.¹² One of the ideological links shared between the two movements was ‘self-sufficiency’ (svadeśī).¹³

Tagore, Chatterji, Kar, and Varman were also members of the so-called ‘Greater India Society’, co-founded in Calcutta in 1926 by the historian Ramesh Chandra Majumdar and Suniti Kumar Chatterjee himself, as well as the Asian languages scholar Prabodh Chandra Bagchi and the historian Kalidas Nag, who had both pursued doctoral research in Paris with the renowned Indologists Sylvain Lévi and Jean Przyluski. In the publications of the Greater India Society, Rabindranath Tagore was named as the society’s ‘purodha’, or ‘spiritual head’ (Bayly 2004: 706). The Greater India Society celebrated ancient Indian Hindu and Buddhist culture as ‘a noble civiliser of other peoples’ (Bayly 2004: 713, Singaravélou 2019: 65, 109–23), some with a martially inflected sense of cultural and racial supremacy, like Majumdar or Nag (Bayly 2004: 729), others with a stronger interest in an admittedly Indian and not Japanese-inflected pan-Asian spiritual and cultural commonalities, like Tagore. The Greater India Society, however, rejected the version of Aryanism mainstream British orientalism—and Indian colonial society—had inherited from the famous German Sanskritist and comparativist philologian at Oxford, Friedrich Max Müller (Bayly 2004: 710–24).

‘Greater India’ referred to all parts of Asia that had been influenced by Indian religion and culture (Bayly 2004: 713, 718). As the Greater India paradigm was one of the intellectual outgrowths of the Bengali Renaissance, it built to some degree on ideas issuing from the socio-religious reform movement, in which the renaissance was embedded (Arp 2000: 70), that is, the Brahmo Samaj initiated by Rammohun Roy and Rabindranath Tagore’s father, Debendranath Tagore, in 1828 (Das Gupta 2002: 453, Dhar 1987: 30–42). The Greater Society particularly took issue with the pervasive notion that the Indianization of South East Asia could not have been brought about by an upper-caste diaspora or conquest, because of the religious prohibition in Manu’s Dharmaśāstra that twice-born travellers would lose their caste, when travelling away from Āryavārta, the land of the Āryas, into the land of mlecchas, or foreigners, in general, and across the ocean in particular (Arp 2000: 2, 9, Bayly 2004: 728).

Already in 1870, Pandit Tarnatha Tarkavacaspati, the Head of the colonial Sanskrit College in Calcutta, had published a treatise in Sanskrit on the issue, with the conclusion that sea voyage as such was not interdicted by the Dharmaśāstra, an interpretation several French orientalists incidentally supported. More and more Indians had meanwhile followed the examples of Brahman-born Rammohun Roy, Dwarkanath Tagore, Rabindranath’s grandfather, and Rabindranath himself, who in the course of the nineteenth century had gone to England for study or business. In 1892, a gathering of pro-sea voyage proponents took place in Calcutta, in the house of the Raja of Shobhabazar, where a committee was formed that was tasked with investigating the sea voyage problem. Two years later, the committee published The Hindu Sea-Voyage Movement in Bengal, a compilation of newspaper clippings, letters, speeches, and reviews from widely esteemed personages supporting the movement (Arp 2000: 3, 74–6, 101). In 1892, too, Rabindranath Tagore wrote an essay with the title, Samudrayātrā, in which he criticized the fact that the whole sea voyage debate was only revolving around interpretations of the Dharmaśāstra, rather than on what common reason would dictate in terms of what would serve the country (Arp 2000: 2, 49, 227–8).

Tagore was in fact ‘fascinated by the generally accepted fact of the migration of Hindu colonists to Malaya, Indonesia and Indo-China’ (Das Gupta 2002: 456). He and his party embarked on their journey to the Dutch East Indies, in order to study ‘Hindu influences in Javanese religion, art and music’,¹⁴ and to visit Bali, ‘where the old Indian customs and manners are better preserved’¹⁵ still (Ramstedt 2011: 527, 535). In Bali, the Bengalis were enthralled by Balinese pageantry, but Tagore had the feeling the island was stuck in archaic rituals (Das Gupta 2002: 461–3). In Central Java, the Indians visited many of the Hindu–Buddhist archaeological remains, including Candi Prambanan and the Borobudur (Das Gupta 2002: 457–75). Their Javanese hosts were invariably leaders of the Javanese nationalist organization Boedi Oetomo, founded in 1908. They included Soeriosoeparto aka Mangoenegoro VII of Surakarta, who was also Chairman of the Java Institute, which he had co-founded in 1919 (Sunarmi 2019: 90–1), as well as the Surakartan nobleman Dr Radjiman. In 1917, Radjiman, a major leader of Boedi Oetomo, had openly chided Islam for having caused the downfall of the last East Javanese Hindu–Buddhist Kingdom of Majapahit, thereby bringing to a halt the further refinement of Javanese culture (Ramstedt 2019: 270). In Yogyakarta, Tagore met with the famous Javanese educator Ki Hadjar Dewontoro to discuss Asian alternative models to modern European education. In 1901, Tagore had founded a school in the traditional āśrama style in Santiniketan, where the medium for teaching was not Sanskrit, but English. Combining Indian and European approaches to education, Santiniketan comprised an art school, a music school, a research department, and a centre for rural reconstruction. In 1921, Tagore had added the international Viśva Bharati University (Das Gupta 2002: 454). Dewontoro’s Taman Siswa school in Yogyakarta, which established branches throughout the archipelago, maintained a relationship with Santiniketan long after Tagore had returned to India (Ramstedt 2011: 531–2).

The Colonial Plantation Economy

Before Tagore’s party had arrived in the Dutch East Indies, they had spent a month in Malaya and Singapore, and after their sojourn in the Indies, they continued to Siam (Das Gupta 2002: 451, 455). Malaya, Siam, Laos, Cambodia, Annam, Cochin-China, and Tonkin were ‘areas of largescale external labour migration’ of ‘notably low- or middling-caste plantation workers’ (Bayly 2004: 728), tin miners, and sepoys (Belle 2015: 22–4). They added to the presence of an older Chettiyar Community in the region (Mouhot 2005). The vast majority of Indian labour migrants aimed for British Malaya, which received altogether 4.25 million people, the vast majority from South India, between 1786 and 1957; 65.3 percent of all Indian migrants were plantation workers (Belle 2015: 19–20, Willford 2014: 6). The rest comprised educators, clerks, and businessmen, the most successful ones being the Chettiyars in Malaka, that is, the so-called Chitty Malaka Peranakan Indians, who had also dispersed to other economically thriving parts in Malaya and the Indies (Sikri 2013: 214–16). Just several thousands of Indians settled in Indochina (Devare 2008: 289).

Everywhere the Chettiyars settled, and they were generally much favoured by both the British and the Dutch colonial authorities; they contributed to the construction of Āgamic temples, mostly dedicated to Murukaṉ and Māriammaṉ.¹⁶ However, the emergence of a large-scale colonial plantation economy in Malaya during the nineteenth century built on an indenture of Indian labour, ‘which rested on a punitive framework of legally sanctioned compulsion and which incorporated many of the most brutal aspects of slavery’ (Belle 2015: 67). Plantation labour was organized strictly along caste lines. The lower castes were toiling under excruciating conditions with an exceedingly high mortality rate and no opportunity to ever leave their state of abject poverty, while Brahmans and members of Vaiśya castes were appointed as tax collectors and assessors, whose privileges included the possibility to acquire land tenure.¹⁷

To a far lesser extent, the booming Malayan economy needed and attracted English-educated professional Indians, such as Chettiyar, Parsee, Malayee and Muslim Tamil traders, Bengali clerks and civil servants, or Sikh militarymen (Belle 2015: 136, 141–2, 152–3; Sikri 2013: 217–18). The white-collar Indians, particularly the Chettiyars, shared the contempt of European colonial officials and plantation owners for the Tamil plantation labourers and their ‘barbarian’ customs. In the plantations, Hindu coolies had erected temples in accordance with the beliefs and practices of their home villages. In contrast to the āgamic temples, usually dedicated to Śiva, Viṣṇu, Gaṇeśa, Murukaṉ, or Māriammaṉ, the plantation temples were dedicated to village or tutelar deities, where the low-caste worshippers invariably also practised animal sacrifice (Belle 2017: 102).

By 1930, one of the most popular religious festivals practised in Malaya across caste was taipūcam (Thaipusam), which drew thousands of believers. However, already a decade earlier, ‘self-torturous’ practices, like ritual fire walking (tīmiti) or the ritual piercing of skin, tongue, or cheeks with steel skewers or hooks of heavy wooden or steel structures carried by devotees on their shoulders (kāvaṭi āṭṭam), which were an integral part of traditional taipūcam, had become the target of high-caste reform movements, seeking to ban them, along with the various animal sacrifices performed at the non-āgamic temples (Belle 2015: 105–8, 113–14). It had actually been in support of such religious reform that Rabindranath Tagore and his fellow Greater India School members had been invited to Malaya by British Malayan authorities (Sikri 2013: 276–81).

Other Indian reform movements in Malaya included the fiercely anti-caste and anti-northern Indian Adi Dravida and Self-Respect movements, which had emerged in reaction to colonial Aryanism and the promotion of Hindi as the Indian national language. In the early twentieth century, the British began to use these movements against the increasingly vocal Brahman-dominated Indian Congress. The colonial government of India, thus, did not hinder the dissemination of these movements to Malaya, where they battled social ills, like caste, alcoholism, the non-recognition of monogamous Hindu marriages among plantation labourers on the part of colonial and plantation authorities, lack of education facilities for Tamil children, and so forth (Belle 2015: 120–6, 154–6, Belle 2017, 76–80, 109–11).

Both movements also gained momentum in North Sumatra (Vignato 2000: 77–85), where some 170 plantations had opened along the east coast of North Sumatra between 1863 and 1890 (Mani 2006b: 53, Mani 2008: 48). The majority of Indians in Medan and environs were low-caste Hindu and Muslim Tamil coolies (Mani 2006b: 54–8), along with some 4,000 Chettiyars and around 5,000 Sikhs enjoying a much more profitable existence as merchants, moneylenders, and petty traders (Mani 2006b: 58–9). The colonial census of 1930 eventually counted some 21,000 Indians in North Sumatra. A comparatively small group of some 5,500 Indians, comprising Muslim and Hindu Tamils, Muslim and Hindu Gujaratis, Hindu Sindhis and Sikhs, resided in Java, 2,900 in Kalimantan, and about 1,500 on other islands. Most of them were single men, who had been born in the Indies (Mani 2006b: 49–51, Vignato 2000: 45–9, 69–73, 141).

Like in Malaya, the most popular religious festival in North Sumatra was taipūcam. Here, too, practices like kāvaṭi or fire walking were condemned by the local representatives of Hindu reform movements, predominantly members of middle and upper castes (Mani 2006b: 70–6). In 1911, the Sumatran Sikh community built a gurdvārā next to the Sri Mariamman Temple in Medan, with Granthis, that is, Sikh priests, directly brought over from India (Mani 2006b: 83–6, 103). The Sri Mariamman Temple, constructed in the town of Binjai in 1930, was the largest Hindu temple in North Sumatra at the time (Mani 2006b: 69, 77–8). One of the most influential Hindu organizations was the Deli Hindu Sabha, founded in 1913, which sought to foster Hinduism in the face of increasing conversion of Adi Dravidas to Catholicism and soon also Buddhism. At the same time, the Deli Hindu Sabha was a vocal promoter of socio-cultural and religious reform, advocating vegetarianism, the abolishment of animal sacrifice, as well as marriage of widows and between castes. Then, there was the Krishna Sabha in Medan, which represented the Vaiṣṇava segment of the local Indian Hindus. Last but not least, there was the Adi Dravida Sabha, formed by Adi Dravidas not willing to convert away from Hinduism (Mani 2006a: 63, Mani 2006b: 79).

Conversion to Buddhism, however, gained momentum in the 1920s. In 1885, Colonel Henri Steele Olcott, President of the Theosophical Society in Adyar (Madras), had published his Buddhist Catechism, shortly after his official conversion to Buddhism in Ceylon. Both his conversion and the publication of his catechism significantly contributed to a Buddhist revival in India, Ceylon, Burma, Japan, and the Dutch East Indies. With Olcott’s support, Iyothee Thass, one of the protagonists of the anti-Brahman and Dravidian movements in India, formed the first Tamil Buddhist organization in 1898 (Aloysius 2004: 206–7). Under the leadership of an Indian resident of Medan, W.S. Pillay, a member of the local branch of the Self-Respect movement, founded in 1925 by E.V. Ramaswamy in the Madras Presidency, members of the North Sumatran Paraiyar community started to convert to Buddhism in the second half of the 1920s. With Pillay’s support, Thass visited Sumatra in 1930, which stimulated further conversion to Buddhism among local Indians (Mani 2008: 61–7, Vignato 2000: 77, 83, 152–3, 165–9). By 1940, 500 families had officially become Buddhists (Ramstedt 2018: 270).

The outbreak of World War II and the Japanese occupation of the Indies prompted the evacuation of the Indian business community, evacuation and incarceration of some Anglo-Indians and Dutch planters, and a massive resettlement of Tamil plantation labourers to Medan. From among the incarcerated Indians, the Japanese drafted a unit of recruits for the Indian National Army (INA) to fight the British in Burma. This unit was reinforced by volunteers from among the Tamil community in Medan. There was also a substantial number of volunteers from Java, who joined the INA in Malaya (Mani 2006c: 98–103).

Indian presence in colonial Singapore, founded as a free port by Raffles in 1819, went back to the sepoys deployed to protect what was soon to become a thriving straits settlement. Early on, a couple of thousand Indian convicts were also shipped to Singapore from Sumatra and India to supply the labour force for large-scale public works. Additional indentured labourers included Tamil, Telugu, and Malayalees. The booming trade finally attracted Chettiyars and Muslim Chulia businessmen, as well as Armenian Christian, Bhagdadi Jewish, Parsi, Sindhi, Gujarati, and Sikh merchants, traders, shopkeepers, money changers and -lenders from India. Hindustani quickly became the lingua franca in Singapore where, from 1930 onwards, the Arya Samaj, a nationalist reform-Hindu organization, was the first to start regular Hindi classes for the interested public. After the victory of the Indian National Congress in the provincial elections of 1936/7 in India, many members of the non-Hindi speaking middle and upper castes in Singapore took up the language.¹⁸ The ill and unfair treatment of Indian coolies on the plantations in Malaya and North Sumatra, as well as elsewhere in the British Empire, had been fanning Indian nationalism since the late nineteenth century (Belle 2015: 158–69). A poignant example is Mohandas Gandhi’s well-known trajectory from a barrister of Indian coolies in South Africa to the vanguard of the nationalist movement (Gandhi n.d: 56).

In 1942, leaders of various Indian associations in Malaya and Singapore, including Swami Vivekananda’s neo-Vedantic Ramakrishna Mission, founded the All-Malayan Indian Independence League (Sikri 2013: 293), which immediately started recruitment for Subhas Chandra Bose’s Indian National Army. In 1943, Bose proclaimed the successful establishment of the Provisional Government of ‘Free India’ in Singapore, to which 230,000 Indians from Malaya alone would then swear an oath of allegiance. At the beginning of 1944, Bose’s government transferred to Rangoon, where it immediately sent INA military back-up for the Japanese to the Arakan Front and subsequently into action in India.¹⁹ After the defeat of the INA and the death of Bose in August 1945 (Bose 2011: 306, Sengupta 2012: 215), surviving Indian supporters either stayed on in Malaya and Singapore, or went abroad. The INA soldiers originally recruited from North Sumatra and Java never returned (Mani 2006b: 59).

Precarious Integration of Indian Hindus into Mainland South East Asian Societies

While the Japanese campaign in Burma had received significant support from the INA, it had also caused the exodus of some 500,000 Indians. After the victory of the Allied Forces in 1945, many of them returned. However, with the 1948 Citizenship Act issued shortly after Myanmar’s independence, further influx of Indian migrants was very much impeded. While the Burmese public generally admired Indian nationalist leaders, like Gandhi and Nehru, they hated the Chettiyars who had dominated trade and commerce in the pre-occupation period. They also despised low-caste Indians who had monopolized menial jobs of all sorts, like rickshaw pulling, etc. Those Indians, who did not take Burmese citizenship, or leave the country, had to face land alienation under the 1953 Land Nationalization Act, and finally the alienation of their businesses by the 1963 Nationalization of Enterprises Act, leaving them greatly impoverished until today (Lwin 2008: 485, 488–9; Chaturvedi n.d.: 7, 21–4). Some 1,000 Hindu temples have catered to the spiritual needs of those who have remained. These temples have invariably integrated Buddhist iconography, though, and are visited by Burmese Buddhists and Indian Hindus alike (Chaturvedi n.d: 28–31).

The presence of Indians has continued to be minimal in Thailand and the Philippines until today (Poolthupya 2008: 669; Salazar 2008: 499). French Indochina did have substantial Indian communities during the colonial era. They survived into the postcolonial period, but the victory of communism in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia in the 1970s quickly caused an exodus of Indians from the region (Devare 2008: 287–95).

In post-war British Malaya, the nationalist fervour of the INA returnees and the Indian Independence League helped usher in labour and other social reforms that irrevocably changed the dismal pre-war British plantation regime for the better, albeit without succeeding in alleviating the entrenched poverty of plantation and railways workers (Sikri 2013: 309–12). Renewed Indian nationalist pride did encourage a Hindu cultural and religious revival at the beginning of the 1950s, attracting specialists from India, skilled in temple administration and religious education. In 1954, an all-Malaya Hindu conference resulted in the establishment of the Malayan Hindu Sangam, seeking to project an image of purified Hinduism, purged from low-caste and sectarian practices and beliefs, such as kāvaṭi, fire walking or foot pilgrimage. In 1988, it publicly condemned kāvaṭi. Many Indian reform Hindu organizations had already established local Malayan branches. The Ramakrishna Mission, for instance, had opened āśrams in Singapore, Penang, and Petaling Jaya, while Swami Sivananda’s Divine Life Society operated an āśram at Batu Caves. A disciple of Swami Sivananda, that is, Swami Shatanand Saraswati, had visited Malayasia in 1971, where he had founded the Shiva Family, offering prayer meetings, bhajan, and meditation. The Shiva Family in turn established the Temple of Fine Arts, focusing on the education of classical Indian dance and music as part of religious worship. Other, more recent reform-Hindu sects expanding into Malaysia since the 1970s have been the Sathya Sai Baba movement,²⁰ the Hare Krishna Movement,²¹ Ananda Marga,²² Art of Living,²³ and the American Guru Sivaya Subramuniyaswami’s Saiva Siddhanta Church.²⁴ All these movements and organizations, but particularly the Sathya Sai Baba Movement, have had a strong appeal among the multi-ethnic urban middle class. In the face of increasing Islamism in Malaysia since 1969, the Sai Centres were able to draw on Mahatir’s Asian Value rhetorics as well as modern science.²⁵ However, the tensions between modernist middle-class and traditionalist lower-class Hindus have seriously obstructed Indian unity in the face of aggressive Muslim Malay nationalism.

A major hurdle for the social integration and emancipation of Indians in Malaysia has been the ethnicity-based arrangement of political representation after independence favouring native Malays, particularly after the communal riots in 1969 when the Malaysian government aggressively enhanced its pro-Malay political course.²⁶ This ethnic favouritism is taxonomically rooted in the three racial categories of the British 1891 Straits Settlement census: (1) Malays and other ‘natives’, such as the Semang or Senoi; (2) Chinese; and (3) Tamils and other Indians (Belle 2015: 51, Ramasamy 2008: 355). Moreover, Indians have been politically divided among themselves. The Malayan Indian Congress, a founding member of the National Front (Barisan Nasional) at Malaysia’s independence in 1957,²⁷ never succeeded in becoming an umbrella organization, despite the support of the Malaysian government (Sikri 2013: 326–39, 398).

Apart from the adverse socio-economic development, the majority of Indo-Malaysians keep experiencing until today, they have also been exposed to increasingly volatile socio-cultural and religious discrimination. A case in point has been the criminalization of Indian proletarian youth. Then, there is the growing faith-based hostility, fanned by the pervasive conflation of Malaysia’s national identity with Sunni Islam, propagated by UMNO, Malaysia’s leading political party, since the 1980s (Belle 2008: 462–66).

Unwanted Islamic indoctrination and wilful destruction of Hindu temples are just some examples. The first cases of temple destruction date from the 1990s. Some 70 Hindu temples in Perak were demolished, in order to make way for the construction of new roads. ‘National development’ also served as a reason to squash ‘squatter structures’, which were in verity old plantation temples built with the permission of the original owners.²⁸ A high-profile case of forced conversion was the Islamic burial, in 2005, of the deceased Maniam Moorthy, an Indo-Malaysian member of the first Malaysian mountaineer team ever to climb Mount Everest. The claim of his Hindu widow that Moorthy had remained a practising Hindu until his death was contested by Islamic authorities, who successfully claimed Moorthy’s corpse before a Shari’a court, while the widow’s claim had been refused to be heard by the civil court (Sosrowadoyo 2007; Willford 2008: 437). The criminalization of Indian Hindu youth became prominent right after the Kampung Medan riots of 2001. The riots had been provoked by a fight over road access between a Hindu funeral procession and a Muslim wedding party. The Hindu procession had ‘won’ at a high social cost: the public stigmatization of Hindu youth as rowdies (Seneviratne 2001; Willford 2008: 436, 439–46).

In response to what has been perceived as a protracted state discrimination against Hindus in Malaysia, a coalition of over 30 Hindu groups formed the Hindu Rights Action Force (Hindraf) in 2006. Hindraf has meanwhile extended its mandate also to the more general political and economic affairs of Malaysia’s Hindu population, as the Malaysian Indian congress had not been able to affect necessary socio-economic changes (Cangià 2014, Sikri 2013: 426–7). At the same time, earlier processes of Sanskritization and the alignment of village deities, ritual, and temples with Āgamic ones have continued. However, taipūcam has become the largest Hindu festival outside India, attracting not only the entire Malaysian Hindu community, but also participation from Sikh, Chinese, and Indians from North Sumatra (Belle 2008: 466–71, Belle 2017: 115–23).

Tensions between Muslims and Hindus in Malaysia have nevertheless continued to rise. In 2008, the National Fatwa Council (NFC) of Malaysia prohibited the practice of yoga for Muslims. Modern forms of yoga had become popular among urban professionals, not only among Indians and Chinese, but also among Muslims, both women and men. NFC Chairman Datuk Dr Abdul Shhukor Husin explained that the physical movements were not the issue. It was the meditation and mantra chanting, both standard elements of modern yoga, that would seriously interfere with fundamental tenets of Islam. A similar fatwa against yoga had been issued in 1984 by the Singapore Islamic Religious Council for the very same reasons (Ramstedt 2010). Temple demolition has continued, and so have forced conversions, signs that religious tolerance in Malaysia has become ever more tenuous. In 2019, UMNO formed a pact with the Pan-Malaysian Islamic Party,²⁹ which is not likely to improve the precarious situation for Hindus in Malaysia.

Precarious Integration of Indian Hindus into Postcolonial Indonesian Society

A few days after the issuance of Malaysia’s fatwa against yoga, the Indonesian Council of Muslim Scholars (MUI) decided to inspect several yoga centres in Jakarta, Bandung, and Bali, including centres of the Sai Baba and the Hare Krishna movements, as well as the Bali-India Foundation in Denpasar funded by the Indian Embassy in Jakarta, in order to assess whether the yoga classes offered there, would offend basic Muslim tenets. A couple of months later, MUI finally issued its own fatwa against yoga on the basis of the same reasoning the fatwas from Malaysia and Singapore had been based on (Ramstedt 2010).

Hinduism in Indonesia has been subject to Muslim control and discrimination since independence in 1950, starting with the delay of its recognition by the Indonesian state until 1964. When Hinduism finally became one of five, since 2006 six official religions, organizational leadership was not assigned to the Indonesian Indian community, but to Balinese priests and Hindu intellectuals. That was partly due to the uncertain citizen status of many Indians at the time, and partly due to the fact that they were not autochthonous Indonesians (bumiputra, from Sanskrit bhūmiputra), even if they had been naturalized. Indonesian Indians, like Indonesian Chinese, have never shed the aura of the foreign, which they have inherited from Dutch colonial racial classification. The 1930 census of the Dutch East Indies incidentally classified the Chinese in a category both separate from the ‘natives’ and the Indians, who were grouped into a category of their own, that of ‘other foreign orientals’ (Djalins 2015: 230–1, Tjiook-Liem 2009: 19).

In 1950, the Hinduism of the Indian communities in Indonesia was not (yet) at issue. An initial assessment of Balinese religious beliefs and practices by delegates of the Indonesian Ministry of Religious Affairs (MoRA), however, had rendered an unfavourable judgement in that they were deemed to be essentially ‘animist’ and ‘ancestor worship’, with only a thin veneer of Indic influence. In the following years, Balinese religious leaders set about streamlining Balinese tenets and rituals along the lines of monotheistic reform-Hinduism in India. At the time, relations between India and Indonesia were close, and exchange between Bali and India easy. In 1955, at the height of the non-bloc cooperation between India and Indonesia, the Indian Council for Cultural Relations (ICCR) established the Jawaharlal Nehru Cultural Centre in Jakarta (Ramstedt 2008: 1,230). Young Balinese intellectuals were sent—on stipends provided by the Indian government through the ICCR—to the Vishva Bharaty University, the Banaras Hindu University, and the International Academy of Indian Culture, founded in 1956 in New Delhi. Indians were also coming to Bali—the Indian reform intellectual Narendra Dev Pandit Shastri, for instance, who stayed on and took a Balinese wife. Pandit Shastri’s Indonesian language book Intisari Hindu Dharma (‘Essence of the Hindu Religion’), which had been funded by the Birla Foundation, became instrumental in convincing MoRA of the fact that Hinduism could become one of ‘the Religions adhered to by the Indonesian people’. The book provided a whole theological framework of the reform-Hinduism the Balinese leaders and alumni of the aforementioned Indian universities eventually ratified. In 1959, a section for Hindu-Balinese Affairs was opened within MoRA, which signalled the first steps of Hinduism being officially recognized. All major Balinese religious organizations had to merge into a formal representative body, the Parisada Dharma Hindu Bali. MoRA continued to fortify the conceptual distinction between ethnic traditions and world religions, though. It thus exhorted Hindu Balinese leaders to further purify Dharma Hindu Bali from ethnic traits (Ramstedt 2004: 9–14; Ramstedt 2019: 266–72).

Indian Hindus in North Sumatra came under similar pressure. In 1947, the Indian ambassador in Jakarta had appointed a Sumatra-born protagonist of social reform, D. Kumaraswami Pillay, as interim-consul in Medan. In 1948, Nehru supported the Indonesian struggle for independence by publicly protesting against the return of the Dutch to the archipelago at an Asian conference, and in 1950, he was the first foreign head of state to visit independent Indonesia (Dutt 1984: 254–5). Due to the cordial relations between Nehru and Sukarno at the time, the Indians in North Sumatra were able to attain Indonesian citizenship rather early, which made compliance with MoRA’s policies rather urgent. In 1954, Kumaraswami Pillay accepted the prestigious position of president of the management committee of the Sri Mariamman Temple in Medan. At the first committee meeting, he announced his intention to bring all religious practices at the temple in line with āgamic ritual, which would entail a ban on all ‘barbaric’ manifestations. His announcement fell foul, though, with the committee members, consisting of representatives of the oldest Tamil families in Medan, who firmly requested him to leave his office. His friction with the conservative temple committee made Kumaraswami Pillay convert to Buddhism (Vignato 2000: 166–7).

After the partition of India, some 2,000 Sindhis added to Jakarta’s Sindhi community who, in 1954, founded the Shiv Mandir in Pluit. The universalization of Hindu ritual at the temple gradually rendered it into a vibrant ecumenical house of worship. Apart from Śiva and the South Indian deities Murukaṉ, Ammaṉ, Bālājī, and Ayyappan, it also accommodated Guru Nānak (a major Sikh saint), Hanumān, Gaṇeśa, Kṛṣṇa (ISKCON), and Sai Baba (Sathya Sai Baba movement). The festivals and rituals scheduled at the temple include dīpāvalī, taipūcam, and agnihotra (Arya Samaj). The Devi Mandir, founded in 1982 in Kemayoran (Jakarta), underwent a similar process (Mani 2008: 244–5, Ramstedt 2008: 1,243).

In 1964, universalization efforts finally resulted in the recognition of Hindu Dharma Indonesia (HDI), and the Parisada Dharma Hindu Bali changed its name to Parisada Hindu Dharma Indonesia (PHDI). Between 1964 and 1980, Hinduism attracted adherents of other ethnic religions, who sought to salvage their traditions under its umbrella. The new Indonesian ‘Hindus’ included Javanese mystic sects, the majority of the Tenggerese in East Java, the majority of the To Wani To Lotang in South Sulawesi, members of the Sa’dan and Mamasa Toraja in South Sulawesi, the Karo in North Sumatra, and the Ngaju and Luangan Dayak in South and Central Kalimantan. That such mass conversion was possible in the face of fierce Islamic and to a lesser extent Christian opposition, was due to the fact that the PHDI had joined President Suharto’s GOLKAR party. Moreover, many Balinese had entered the police and the military and could thus provide physical protection for Hindu temples and believers throughout the country (Ramstedt 2004: 14, 17–19; Ramstedt 2008: 1,241). Every ethnic tradition had to make sacrifices, though, including the Tamil ones. In the early 1980s, kāvaṭi and firewalking were finally banned in Medan (Mani 2008: 247, Vignato 2000: 170–181).

However, new religious movements, like ISKCON or the Sathya Sai Baba movement met with resistance, too. The Sathya Sai Baba movement was first introduced to Indonesia in 1973, ISKCON in 1977, Ananda Marga Yoga in 1980, and Brahma Kumaris in 1982. They all attracted local members from across ethnic divides, as their centres spread across the archipelago.³⁰ Their relentless proselytizing efforts and growing influence roused fear and jealousy among conservatives, though. In order to curb the rising tensions, MoRA banned ISKCON in 1984 and ten years later the Sathya Sai Baba movement (Ramstedt 2008: 272).

Since 1999, the Post-Suharto democratization and decentralization process has provided new opportunities to express ethnic identities. However, the process has been accompanied by an increasing Islamization of Indonesia’s public space, which has caused Indian Hindus to take a low profile. In 2005, MoRA’s regional representative office in Lombok banned 13 so-called sects, including Ahmadiyya, ISKCON, and other proselytizing groups (IRFR 2007). Fear of proselytization also led MUI to follow Malaysia’s example and to issue its fatwa against yoga in 2009. Islamization in Indonesia has continued ever since.

Concluding Remarks

The situation of Indian Hindu citizens of contemporary South East Asian states has been configurated to a large extent by European colonialism, in terms of the conditions for their religious ideology and practice, the impediments to their socio-economic and socio-political status, and the personal life trajectories of their not-so-distant ancestors that make up their family histories and identities as individuals.

It is noteworthy, that only in the Dutch East Indies and its successor state, postcolonial Indonesia, have Indian Hindu diasporas succeeded in engaging in a deeper cultural encounter with members of the autochthonous population, sharing not only common citizenship but also a common cultural and religious orientation.

As ethnic and religious identities are continuously solidifying in India as well as in South East Asia, cosmopolitan spaces seem to drastically shrink. The tenuous relationship between Hindus and Muslims in both Malaysia and Indonesia hinge, not the least, upon Hindu–Muslim relations in India.

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¹ Oddie 2010: 42, Stietencron 1989: 11–12, Sugirtharajah 2003: ix–xi.

² Coedès 1975: 24, 49–135, 407, Mees 1935: 10–13, Ramstedt 2009: 353–6.

³ Bastin 1953, Blake 1991: 128, 136, Raffles 1830: 7–8, 11, Wilson 1882: viii–ix, 7; see also Ramstedt 2011: 526.

⁴ Ramstedt 2009: 353–61.

⁵ Carey 2007: 417–21, Weatherbee 1978: 66–7, 75, 83, Pemberton 1994: 32–67, Ramstedt 2011: 526, Ricklefs 2007: 41–2.

⁶ Bastin 1992: 3–5, Carey 1977: 294–308, Carey 2007: 421–9, Ricklefs 2006: 184–5.

⁷ Ballantyne 2002: 5–6, Dirks 2001: 44–51, 129–42, Oddie 2010: 52, Thapar 1996: 4–7, 199–228.

⁸ Ramstedt 2021: 168–9, Ricklefs 1998: 314, Ricklefs 2006: 231, Ricklefs 2007: 26–9.

⁹ Fakih 2012: 423–5, Giebels 1999: 25–6, 29–31, 33, Nagazumi 1967: 81–2, 146–50, 207, 266, 304, Nugraha 2001: xvii, 1–44, 77–87, Tollenaere 1996: 107–17, 281–91, 329, 354.

¹⁰ See https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/literature/1913/tagore/biographical/.

¹¹ Kopf 1969: 264, 280–90, Sartori 2008: 69, 102.

¹² Geels 1997: 21–72, and passim, Pigeaud 2012: xvi, 4, 7–45, 100–10, and passim.

¹³ Das Gupta 2002: 454, Ramstedt 2011: 532–3, Sartori 2008: 177–89.

¹⁴ A cable from Tagore to the Dutch ethnomusicologist Arnold Bake from 29 May 1927; see archive of the Royal Institute of Linguistics and Anthropology (KITLV) Leiden (letters by Rabindranath Tagore, signature DH 1214, second file); Ramstedt 2011: 527, 535.

¹⁵ Letter by Tagore to Mr de Boer from 17 June 1927; see archive of the Royal Institute of Linguistics and Anthropology (KITLV) Leiden (letters by Rabindranath Tagore, signature DH 1214, second file); Ramstedt 2011: 527, 535.

¹⁶ Belle 2015, 137–41, Belle 2017: 92–3, Dhoraisingam 2006: 17–19, Sikri 3013: 216–17, Vignato 2000: 72.

¹⁷ Belle 2015: 71–108, Belle 2017: 2, Sikri 2013: 225–34, Willford 2014: 20–3.

¹⁸ Rai 2016a: 8–10, Rai 2016b: 58–9, Sandhu 2006: 774–8.

¹⁹ Bose 2011: 3–6, 214–15, 242–303; Sengupta 2012: xvii–xx, 8–10, 30, 40–59, 80–1, 102–11, 206–7; Sikri 2013: 293–9.

²⁰ See also https://www.sathyasai.org/about-us/interfaith/malaysia1/.

²¹ See www.harekrishnamalaysia.com/.

²² See https://www.anandamarga.net.my/.

²³ See https://www.artofliving.org/my-en/.

²⁴ See https://www.ngohub.asia/organizations/persatuan-saiva-siddhanta-malaysia/.

²⁵ Belle 2008: 461, Belle 2017: 110–15, Kent 2007: xviii, 15–18, 31, 71–84, 101–4.

²⁶ Belle 2008: 462, Nagarajan 2008: 384; Sikri 2013: 401–5.

²⁷ See also, https://mic.org.my/ourstory/.

²⁸ Belle 2017: 120–1, Nagarajan 2008: 387, 395, Sikri 2013: 410–15, Willford 2008: 436.

²⁹ See https://headtopics.com/sg/malaysian-opposition-parties-umno-and-pas-formalise-pact-8269800/.

³⁰ Howe 2001: 163–98, Mani 2008: 245, Ramstedt 2018: 272, Somvir 2004: 260.

3

Inter-Asian Hinduism in East Asian Diasporic Nodes through a Material Lens

Ka-Kin Cheuk

South Asians in East Asia have received a good deal of scholarly attention, especially in recent years. For instance, several important ethnographic studies of South Asian migrant populations in East Asia have been published on the followers of Hinduism and Sikhism in Hong Kong, China, South Korea, and Japan (e.g. Azuma 2018, Cheuk 2021, Jia 2018, Jia and Tang 2012, Kahlon 2016, Kumar 2010, Law 1999, Murgai 2012, Osella 2022, Tam 2010, Wadhwa 2021). In addition, a few scholarly works focus exclusively on the theme of ‘Hinduism’ and ‘Hindu diasporas’—broadly defined—in contemporary East Asia (Burton 1998, Cheuk 2013). Nonetheless, the scholarly work is mostly concerned with topics confined within situated East Asian societies and countries and rarely engages with the cross-regional conversations and theoretical explorations in studies of Hinduism and Hindu diasporas outside of East Asia. Indeed, East Asia has arguably received the least attention from scholars in comparative and transregional studies of Hinduism and Hindu diasporas, especially in the fields of global history, anthropology, and sociology of migration. Thus, while the Hindu population continues to increase in East Asia, there is still a lack of understanding about the broader analytical significance of this shift, particularly in the context of contemporary globalization and transnationalism.

This chapter aims to address this knowledge gap by centring the studies of Hinduism and Hindu diasporas in East Asia in an Inter-Asian research paradigm. Following anthropologist Engseng Ho’s call for reconceptualizing Asia as an Inter-Asian space that is regionally expansive, and trans-historical in terms of time, as well as cross-communally interactive (Ho 2017), I seek to map out the Inter-Asian geographies of various diasporic groups and their related material objects, particularly those that have been closely connected with the rise and fall of Hindu diasporic communities in or across different periods of time. To borrow a term from historian Prasenjit Duara (1995), the Inter-Asian approach is particularly productive in ‘rescuing’ the connected, mobile, and circulatory biographies of people and things which are always on the move, given that the global importance of moving subjects and objects could otherwise be easily hidden or even hijacked by the linearized, chronologicalized, and above all nationalized history-making projects of the modern era (see also Duara 2020, Sen 2017). Therefore, instead of detailing the development of Hinduism in one particular East Asian locality, the chapter focuses on locating the diasporic ‘nodes’ in and of East Asia (Cheuk 2022b, Marsden 2021: 122–161, Marsden and Skvirskaja 2018). These East Asian diasporic nodes, which include but are not limited to Hong Kong and southeast China in East Asia and Kolkata and Kalimpong in South Asia, are the key sites for a deeper understanding of what I call ‘Inter-Asian Hinduism’—the variants and transformative materiality of Hindu practices and representations that are the nodal products of Inter-Asian diasporic flows, connections, circulations, and convergences.

More specifically, as this chapter shows, the East Asian diasporic nodes are the cross-cultural arenas in which the material meanings of Inter-Asian Hinduism have been created, transformed, disrupted, and mutated, largely because of the ongoing changes in diasporic flows that could neither be foreseen nor avoided. Precisely due to the transient nature of such diasporic flows, the chapter strategizes a material lens in documenting and analysing the changing meaning of Inter-Asian Hinduism in East Asia, given that concrete materials—including, for example, an abandoned Hindu temple in Hong Kong and made-in-China plastic idols that can be ritually transformed into sacred Hindu objects—are some of the most trackable material objects in the East Asian diasporic nodes.

The case studies included in this chapter are chiefly based on my long-term (since 2005), ongoing, and multi-sited ethnographic and archival research on South Asian diasporic communities in Hong Kong and China as well as on Chinese diasporic communities in India. I also draw on Internet and secondary sources in order to discuss some of the more recent development of Hindu material practices in different East Asian diasporic nodes.

Quanzhou, Fujian Province, China

In Engseng Ho’s Inter-Asian thesis, Quanzhou (泉州) in Fujian Province (褔建省), China, is identified as one of the most important nodes in historical East Asia. This is because Quanzhou’s globally leading maritime trade economy between the ninth and fourteenth centuries created a transnational economic model that has subsequently been reproduced in other parts of the world, such as South East Asia and the Indian Ocean, through the ongoing diasporic flows of traders and merchants in the wider oceanic space (Ho 2017: 920–1). During the heyday of Quanzhou’s maritime trade, the city hosted large numbers of foreign merchants and traders from Arabia, Persia, South Asia, and South East Asia, including Hindu diasporic traders who were Tamils who had originated from today’s South India. In her doctoral thesis, Risha Lee (2012) attempts to reconstruct a detailed chronology of the history of the Hindu temple that once existed in Quanzhou—a Śiva temple built by these Tamil diasporic traders—by gathering archaeological and material evidence from various secondary sources and local museum collections. Based on her research, the Śiva temple (known as the ‘foreign Buddhist temple’, or 番佛寺, in most ancient Chinese texts) was built in 1281 by a Tamil-speaking community in Quanzhou, but it was completely destroyed in the mid-fourteenth century ce during the time of the Chinese imperial dynasty’s transition from Mongol Yuan (1271–1368) to Ming (1368–1644).

Due to the lack of textual records, the most reliable evidence that Lee collected is the hundreds of stone architectural carvings scattered in different parts of Quanzhou that are the remnants of the Śiva temple. According to Lee, ‘117 of the [Quanzhou Maritime Museum’s] carvings are clearly architectural fragments from a south Indian style temple’, and they represent some of the strongest evidence showing the temple once existed in Quanzhou (2012: 155). After the temple was destroyed and maritime trade was abruptly halted by the Ming government, Tamil merchants no longer came to Quanzhou, and Ming’s China lost its global dominance in the maritime trade. The Hindu temple in Quanzhou did not survive and fell into ruin. Interestingly, most of the Śiva temple’s Indic carvings were taken away from their original location and reused to build the new southern walls of Quanzhou and a Buddhist temple called Kaiyuan Temple (開元寺; Lee 2012: 152, 154). The carvings, many of them subsumed under the Buddhist temple and other forms of buildings such as walls, were left untouched, and their preservation makes them some of the most important archaeological evidence of Hinduism and Hindu communities in premodern China (see Clark 1995: 73). Other historical port cities in China, such as Guangzhou, are believed to have lost all records and material traces of the premodern Hindu communities that very likely once existed in these ports. Considering the consequence of the unintended preservation before its rediscovery in recent years, Lee argues that Hinduism has become ‘integrated into [Quanzhou’s] permanent fabric’ (2012: 186) from the past to the present—at least in terms of local material cultures.

While the material fragments of the premodern Śiva temple can hardly be considered part of lived religion in today’s Quanzhou, they have been often incorporated into ongoing heritage preservation efforts in contemporary China. Indeed, the material legacy of the Hindu temple in Quanzhou has received renewed attention in recent years, especially since the Chinese government introduced the Belt and Road Initiative in 2013—which often appropriates the glorified story of premodern Quanzhou as part of contemporary China’s global diplomacy—and the serial sites of Quanzhou were inscribed on the UNESCO World Cultural Heritage List in 2021 (UNESCO 2021).

Kolkata and Kalimpong, India

The two Indian localities that this section deals with—Kolkata (also known as Calcutta) and Kalimpong—have been two of the most important Inter-Asian trading nodes in South Asia for several centuries (Harris 2008, 2013). For this reason, Kolkata and Kalimpong have also been places in which diasporic populations, such as Chinese communities, continue to be found. In fact, Chinese diasporic communities in India, especially those in Kolkata, have been studied by a number of historians, anthropologists, and human geographers, with several landmark ethnographic and historical works published over the last several decades (e.g. Bonnerjee 2010, Oxfeld 1993, Zhang 2015, Zhang and Sen 2012). The earlier works, such as Oxfeld’s 1993 book, have made a significant contribution in documenting the drastic transformation of the Chinese community in Kolkata after the India–China conflicts in 1962 and explaining how this became the key turning point when the community began its irreversible decline and many Chinese in Kolkata emigrated to Canada, Britain, or other Western countries. These works provide a strong foundation for other scholars to explore more specific issues, such as religious diversity within the local Chinese community as well as in other diasporic contexts. Most Chinese in Kolkata are followers of Buddhism, Christianity, or Chinese popular religions, which may make them appear different from the other local populations in Kolkata (e.g. Sen 2019). But many also engage in Hindu religious practices, particularly those that are common in Kolkata. Located in the Tangra area of Kolkata, the Chinese Kālī Temple (see Figure 3.1) offers a remarkable example of this.¹ Documented in a short video made by 101 India (2016), one of the caretakers of this temple is John Cheng, a Chinese man who had emigrated from India to America but returned to India in the early 2000s. In the interview, John Cheng called himself a ‘Chinese Hindu’ and said that in addition to performing pūjā in the temple, he was responsible for giving out noodles and chop suey as prasāda to both Chinese and Indian devotees. Zhang and Sen (2017: 218), who have done long-term research in the Tangra area, reveal that this temple is popular among local Chinese seeking a fertility blessing.

Figure 3.1 The Chinese Kālī temple in Tangra, Kolkata (photograph by author, July 2018).

Apart from their public religious participation in the Chinese Kālī temple, Chinese in Kolkata and other places in India often establish household Hindu religious shrines at home and in other private space (e.g. offices) which honour Hindu gods and goddesses, especially Hanumān, Śiva, and Gaṇeśa. Notably, it is not uncommon to see Hindu shrines alongside pictures, statues, and altars in non-Hindu religious traditions, including but not limited to Chinese ancestral worship, Tibetan Buddhism, and Christianity. In a trip to Kalimpong district of West Bengal in July 2018, I visited the former site of the Kalimpong Chinese School, which was established in 1942 and has now been converted into the Institute of Hospitality Management, Kalimpong.² There have not been many architectural changes made to the school building since the conversion, and the institute is still managed by a Chinese man, a long-time local resident who lives in the building and is also the caretaker of the local Chinese cemetery. In his living room, two altars house the saints, gurus, goddesses, and sacred subjects and objects of various religious traditions (see Figure 3.2). He worships—to name just a few—his deceased family members, Jesus Christ, several rinpoches, Buddha, Hanumān, and the Chinese warrior goddess Guandi (關帝; ter Haar 2017). He told me that every religion, including Hinduism, ‘is the same’ when he practises his faith.

Figure 3.2 Religious altars of a Chinese man living on the former site of the Kalimpong Chinese School (photograph by the author, July 2018).

Hong Kong

Such a cosmopolitan attitude is also found among members of the Harilela family, one of the richest and most famous Indian families in Hong Kong. The Harilelas belong to the pioneering group of the Sindhi diaspora, and they started their family business in Hong Kong before the Second World War (Cheuk 2021). Originally from Sindh, they first came to Hong Kong in the 1930s. Members of the Harilela family have developed their family business into one of the most prominent international hospitality groups in Hong Kong, with hotels and properties in different parts of the world. One of their hotels in Hong Kong, the Holiday Inn Golden Mile in Tsim Sha Tsui, has a statue of Śiva overlooking the lobby area. When the hotel was converted into a COVID-19 quarantine hotel in December 2021, the Śiva statue was the only item that was still on display to visitors; most of the other parts of the hotel were covered for hygiene reasons by makeshift sheets of white linen or whiteboards (see Figure 3.3). In a local newspaper interview (South China Morning Post 2019), David Harilela, who is the family’s patriarch, said that his family were followers of Hinduism but had adopted a very inclusive attitude toward other religions. Inside their family home, the Harilela family mansion, which is designed to accommodate more than 90 family members in Hong Kong, one room is designated as a Hindu temple in which Harilela family members and their guests pray, not only to their Hindu gods and goddesses but also to Jesus Christ and Buddha. In a local television interview, family member Mike Harilela described the temple in the following way:

Figure 3.3 The statue of the four-armed Śiva overlooking the check-in area of the Holiday Inn Golden Mile, which was converted into a quarantine hotel during the COVID-19 pandemic in late 2021 (photograph by the author, December 2021).

The most significant feature that keeps us united is our temple. The temple in our house is one of those rooms where we have a very large [space]…anybody can come and go pray there. It’s not limited to Hindu. It’s not limited to Christian. It’s not limited to anyone else. It’s open to all [family members and their guests].

(Asia Television Limited 2006, 11.23–11.52 mins)

Another family member, Bob Harilela, elaborated on what Hinduism means to the family and to the wider Hindu population. He gave the following explanation in Cantonese:

Our Hinduism is very special [to us], requiring us to believe in all the bodhisattvas of compassion (菩薩), and that’s why we have many bodhisattvas in India, such as Guanyin (觀音). Chinese also have their Guanyin, and our Guanyin is called Kali. (Asia Television Limited 2012, 233–234 mins, my translation)

In Hong Kong, it is actually very common for Indians to borrow some Cantonese words and phrases, such as ‘worshipping the goddess’ (拜神) and Guanyin to explain Hinduism to the local Chinese. The way in which they define Guanyin as the same as Kālī in Hinduism is particularly intriguing considering Guanyin’s Buddhist origin in ancient India and her great popularity as a localized deity for several centuries in southern China, particularly in the coastal regions (Palmer et al. 2019: 900).

Members of the Hong Kong Sindhi community, including the Harilela family, also have been actively involved in managing the Hindu temple, which was founded on 18 Wong Nei Chong Road in 1953 (Wah Kiu Yat Po 1953). Remarkably, the temple’s name is written in four languages on the side of the building: Chinese (印度廟 in Figure 3.4), English, Devanagari, and the Perso-Arabic script often used by first-generation Sindhis in Hong Kong ( in Figure 3.4); the latter clearly reflects the Sindhis’ influence in the temple’s affairs. Another feature of the temple showing the Sindhis’ engagement is the statue of Jhūle Lāl in the temple hall; Jhūle Lāl is the river goddess in the Sindhi religious tradition (see Figure 3.4).

Figure 3.4 The gate of the Hindu temple on 18 Wong Nei Chong Road, Hong Kong (left) and the statue of Jhūle Lāl in the temple hall (right) (photographs by the author, March 2009).

As the first Hindu temple open to the general public in Hong Kong, this temple serves as the main site where Hindus gather, marry, participate in religious festivals such as Dīvālī, and host funerals according to Hindu customs. Behind the temple, a small cemetery designated for Hindu and Sikh soldiers who had served the British Empire in the First World War was built even before the temple was founded (Mak 2023). However, probably because burial is not common among Indians in Hong Kong (Roundtable Education Hong Kong 2014), the cemetery has fallen into disrepair over the past several decades. In 2021, a group of Indians and local people rediscovered its historical significance and teamed up as volunteers to clean and restore the graves (Mogul 2021, Sarkar 2021, Westbrook 2021). This restoration of the cemetery adds to the overall importance of the cultural heritage of the Hindu temple; the temple building has been listed a Grade 2 Historic Building by the Hong Kong government since 2011 (Antiquities Advisory Board, Hong Kong 2023, Hindu Association, Hong Kong 2021).

In Hong Kong, another remarkable site that has received similar attention is the building that formerly housed a Hindu temple in Queen’s Hill, Fanling, the New Territories. The lotus-shaped Hindu temple, also known as the Gurkha Temple, was built in the 1960s. It was exclusively attended by the Nepalese Gurkha soldiers who were stationed in the Queen’s Hill barracks in the post-war British colonial period. The temple complex has been abandoned since 1996, when the Gurkha brigade was disbanded right before Hong Kong was handed over to China in July 1997 (Yeo 2021). While listed as a Grade 3 Historic Building by the Hong Kong government (Antiquities Advisory Board, Hong Kong 2023), it was not clear at the time of this writing (December 2021) how the temple site would be preserved. Nonetheless, more voices, including from the Nepalese community in Hong Kong, have been calling for greater public attention to be paid to the history of this temple. In 2021, a contemporary art project seeks to inspire new imaginations about this temple. Led by Hong Kong artist and rapper MC Yan (also known as Chan Kwong Yan, 陳廣仁), ‘Distant Luminous’ is a two-year sound experiment and team research project that has produced a range of visual objects and sonic records on the built environment of the Hindu temple in Queen’s Hill.³ In December 2021, these objects and records were exhibited for the first time in The Present Project,⁴ an experimental art gallery in Shum Shui Po, Kowloon. The ‘Distant Luminous’ exhibition is part of MC Yan’s larger project ‘Transcendence’, in which he invites viewers to explore the everyday meaning of religion though sensory experiences and to discover how such meaning can be creatively expressed through various forms of contemporary art (Ko 2021).

Yiwu and Keqiao, Zhejiang Province, China

Located in Zhejiang Province (浙江省), Yiwu (義烏) and Keqiao (柯橋) are two of the most vibrant international trading nodes for low-cost industrial products in China. Yiwu has long been known as ‘the world’s commodity market’ and ‘the world’s supermarket’ as it has been the major distribution centre for small commodities such as toys, stationery, footwear, small bags, kitchenware, and other bargain-store items, all of which are mass-produced within a short time and at a low cost (Hulme 2015, Marsden 2021). Not far from Yiwu, Keqiao is one of the most important supply centres for semi-finished textiles in the world, given that over one-third of industrial fabrics in China is traded in Keqiao’s gigantic and highly centralized marketplaces (Lu 2015). There has been a large trade volume between South Asia and these two Chinese trading nodes, and this trade continues to grow despite the ongoing global recession triggered by the COVID-19 pandemic. For instance, from January to July 2021 the trading volume between Yiwu and India increased 12.5 per cent (Yiwu City People Government, China 2021). Mainly for this reason, thousands of South Asian merchants, including Hindu diasporic traders from India, Nepal, Sri Lanka, and Afghanistan, are frequent business visitors to these places (e.g. Cheuk 2022a, Marsden 2018, Osella 2022). In addition, a large number of Indian traders, particularly Sindhis, have lived and worked in Yiwu and Keqiao for years or even decades.

In the Indian homes and offices I have visited in Yiwu and Keqiao, it is common to see miniatures and small plastic idols—known as would-be mūrti—depicting Hindu gods such as Hanumān, Kṛṣṇa, and Gaṇeśa. In Keqiao, where I have conducted long-term, ongoing fieldwork since 2010, I have observed numerous time my Indian interlocutors doing pūjā (an Indian religious ritual that involves adorning the images of gods and goddesses with red paste and burning incense) in their offices and homes. Only by doing so can the idols be ritually transformed into mūrti, which infuses the power of the gods and goddesses into the images (Ramachandran 2019: 94). Indians in Yiwu and Keqiao do this at least twice a day. In most cases, the first pūjā is conducted in the morning and the second one in the late evening. The smell of incense usually fills their offices because they burn it every day. Several of my Indian interlocutors went to their workplace on weekends and holidays just to do pūjā for the images of the Hindu gods and goddesses. Some also do pūjā for their calculators, rulers, and scissors to get blessing for the instruments that they constantly use in their textile trading business.

Since the mid-2010s, the Indian community in Keqiao also has organized itself to open a Hindu temple, allowing them to conduct Hindu religious rituals and celebrate several religious festivals in a large group. Given that Hinduism is not officially recognized as a religion by the Chinese state authorities (Cheuk 2013: 212), it is not possible for the temple’s management committee to publicly promote the temple’s activities and events beyond the local Indian community. In 2021, Keqiao-based Indian YouTuber Sanjay D Yadav produced several videos of Hindu religious rituals and festivals, such as Gaṇeśa Caturthī and Durgāpūjā, that took place in the Hindu temple in Keqiao.⁵ These videos provide crucial visual records of the communal religious life among the Hindus in Keqiao, especially during the time of the global pandemic.

In addition to the Hindu religious practices and activities in Yiwu among the Indian diaspora, the city is also noteworthy for being a major node for exporting the made-in-China would-be mūrti of Śiva, Lakṣmī, Gaṇeśa, Rādhā, and Kṛṣṇa to India (Patranobis 2012). In her book Strangers across the Borders: Indian Encounters in Boomtown China (2014), Indian journalist Reshma Patil provides a detailed account of the scale of this religious commodity economy between Yiwu and India. When visiting Yiwu’s Futian marketplace, she saw:

Hanuman, the divine monkey, painted on red nylon scrolls, Ganesha chortling in a polyresin bathtub and the horse-riding warrior king Shivaji of my home state, all made in China. I walked till my legs wobbled. (Patil 2014: 120)

As Patil recalls, a consignment of thousands of small plastic idols of Hindu goddess, densely packed into one container, could be shipped from China to India at any moment and each of these Hindu idols could become a retail item on sale for a hundred rupees in Khan Market in New Delhi or any other Indian city (Patil 2014: 118). Remarkably, as the Keqiao-based YouTuber Sanjay D Yadav mentioned, the Gaṇapati idols, which were used in the celebration of Gaṇapati Chaturthi in Keqiao, were actually bought in Yiwu.⁶

Concluding Remarks

This chapter has taken an Inter-Asian approach to the study of Hinduism and Hindu diasporas in East Asia. Locating various diasporic nodes provides new methodological possibilities in mapping out the material lives and afterlives of these diasporas. Although the analysis I have developed here has focused on material objects, this should not be understood to mean that the Inter-Asian framework does not have explanatory power beyond the material level. Indeed, as Peter van der Veer (2014) has powerfully demonstrated, it is methodologically possible for anthropologists and historians to trace the extremely complicated Inter-Asian historiographies of spirituality, secularity, and other ontological formations (and disjunctures) in China and India if they are able to creatively gather ‘fragments’ of various intercultural processes. In other words, by outlining an Inter-Asian approach to the study of Hinduism and Hindu diasporas, this chapter has explicated the theoretical significance of studying Inter-Asian Hinduism in the wider context of globalization and transnationalism and its potential application to the analysis of various complex issues in and beyond East Asia.

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¹ I thank Tansen Sen for bringing me to Tangra in Kolkata in July 2018.

² I thank Bhokraj Gurung for bringing me to this place in Kalimpong in July 2018.

³ See Instagram posts on this exhibition (https://www.instagram.com/artranscendental/) for more details (accessed 31 December 2021).

⁴ See the Present Projects website (https://www.present-projects.com/) for more information (accessed 31 December 2021).

⁵ For example, see Ganpati Bappa Morya, ‘Lord Ganesha Celebrate in Keqiao China’, YouTube, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XsbfetV8csk&t=620s (accessed 31 December 2021).

⁶ See ‘Ganpati Chaturthi celebration in China,’ YouTube, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KX4mpEUv0FQ&t=463s (accessed 7 October 2022). I thank Ankolika De for translating the Hindi words in this video into English.

4

Hinduism in the Caribbean

Prea Persaud

Introduction

Between the years 1838 and 1920, over a half a million Indians were brought to the Caribbean as part of the British indentureship trade, a system of labour that replaced slave labour in many of Britain’s colonies. Although Indians began as a minority group in the Caribbean, they now represent a large portion of the population in countries like Trinidad and Guyana and have made significant contributions to the landscape, food, and culture of the Caribbean. They have preserved the practices of their indentured ancestors and developed new religious traditions and festivals that sacralize the local landscape. They have also established religious schools, remodelled their temples to combat conversion tactics, developed Hindu organizations, and advocated for Indo-Caribbeans and Indian representation at all levels of government. As a result, the Hinduism that emerges out of the Caribbean demonstrates a combination of the particularities of the Caribbean context with the traditions Indians brought with them in the nineteenth century and later developed to better suit their physical and social environment. Caribbean Hinduism reflects the restrictions of the plantation system, tensions with Afro-Caribbean communities, the influence of the Canadian Presbyterian Church and Hindu missionary groups from India, as well as a desire to sustain and celebrate their hyphenated identities as Indo-Caribbeans.

History

Understanding the development of Caribbean Hinduism requires knowledge of the indentureship trade which influenced not only which traditions initially came to the Caribbean but also how Indians interpreted their religious beliefs and practices in light of their experiences on the ships and plantation estates. In 1834, the British government officially abolished slavery but, as part of the conditions for passing the abolition act, enslaved persons were required to work an apprenticeship period until 1840. Plantation owners initially capitalized on newly freed Africans who settled or squatted on land near the plantations by providing them with high wages and offering benefits such as huts to rent. The planters, however, were fearful of the power freed Africans wielded and they worked to reinsert their dominance through the continued ill treatment of the workers. As a result, the Afro-Caribbean population became more rebellious and the plantation owners struggled to maintain sugar production. By 1838 the industry was in crisis. Plantation owners cited the labour shortage as the main cause, leading to the development of several immigration plans to provide a steady and dependable supply of laborers. The most successful of these plans was the ‘The Coolie Trade’ or the trafficking of Asian labour from China and India.

Although the start of The Coolie Trade or the Asian Indentured Labour Trade is officially dated from 1838, it is noteworthy that the trafficking of Asian laborers began prior to the British abolishment of slavery. Sustained efforts to export Chinese labour began in the early 1800s with plantation owners bringing an experimental group of 192 Chinese laborers to Trinidad in 1806 (Yun 2009). While this experiment was unsuccessful, with only 20–30 Chinese labourers staying until the 1820s, the British were simultaneously gaining knowledge from the French importation of Indian labourers in Mauritius (Carter 1995, Younger 2010). This eventually led to ‘The Great Experiment’ or ‘The Gladstone Coolie Experiment’ named after plantation owner John Gladstone, the architect of the Indian importation scheme. As part of the Gladstone experiment, 396 Indian workers were sent to six sugar colonies in Guyana in 1838. Incidents of abuse were immediate and there was a high mortality rate among the labourers. As a result, in 1839 both the British Parliament and the Indian government suspended emigration from India. In 1844, the Indian government passed the Act XXI which repealed the prohibition of emigration to the West Indies while stipulating the recruitment of women and a qualified doctor on board each ship (Carter 1995, Younger 2010). The passing of this act helped to restart the trade and in 1845, 225 Indians (21 of whom were women) were brought on the first ship to Trinidad.

It is important to note that most of the data available on indentureship is taken from the latter 18 years of the system which has come to problematically represent the entirety of indentureship (Reddock 1985). Little is known about the actual working conditions of the plantation estates during the earlier period of indentureship. What is known is that labourers worked long hours (up to 15 hours a day) on the plantations, accumulated unrepayable debts (women, for example, were charged for work missed during their pregnancy), lived in cramped and unsanitary huts, and could not leave the plantations without permission. The abuses the labourers faced, combined with incidents of fraud and coercion during the recruiting process in India, led to a second suspension between 1848 and 1851 (Thorat). As a result of this second suspension, the British established a more comprehensive emigration process that worked to secure the welfare of the labourers. This included a new position of Protector of Emigrants, new laws recruiters had to follow, five- and ten-year contracts depending on the colony, a promise of paid return passage, and a quota of women recruits that had to be met before the ship could leave. Although the actual implementation of each of these requirements varied depending on the colony and year, these new rules allowed for the continuation of the system. In total, over a half a million Indians were brought to the Caribbean which included Guyana, Trinidad, Jamaica, St. Croix, Guadeloupe, Martinique, St. Lucia, St. Vincent, and Grenada (see table 4.1).

Table 4.1 Indian indentured labourers to the Caribbean

Locations | Period | Number of Indians
British Guiana | 1838–1917 | 238,909
Trinidad | 1845–1917 | 143,939
Guadeloupe | 1854–1887 |   42,595
Jamaica | 1845–1916 |   38,681
Surinam | 1873–1918 |   34,024
Martinique | 1848–1884 |   25,509
French Guiana | 1853–1885 |   19,296
St. Lucia | 1858–1895 |     4,354
Grenada | 1856–1885 |     3,200
St. Vincent | 1860–1880 |     2,472
St. Kitts | 1860–1861 |        337

Source: Shepherd 2006.

While some of the early labourers in the Caribbean came from South India, mainly the Madras region or what is now known as Chennai, the majority were from the Uttar Pradesh state of North India, including the districts of Allahabad, Azamgarh, Banaras, Kanpur, and Lucknow. Labourers also came from Bihar and what was formerly known as the Rajputana region which included Rajasthan and parts of Madhya Pradesh and Gujarat. Guyana received more South Indians than the other Caribbean islands which influenced the development of Hindu practices there and may be linked to the prevalence of Śakti worship early on. Approximately 85 per cent of the labourers were identified as Hindus and 14 per cent as Muslims (Vertovec 1992), but note that the labourers were migrating prior to the conception of the large umbrella term of ‘Hinduism’. As such, the labourers would have more closely identified with their caste and regional practices rather than the more encompassing concept of ‘Hinduism’ (Rocklin 2019). Most of the labourers were unmarried, but there were some who came as a family unit. The journey to the Caribbean took approximately three months, with shorter and less dangerous journeys happening after the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869. During the journey, the labourers distracted themselves with music and dance, the content of which was often centred on the sorrow they felt leaving India and the difficulty of the journey, topics that would continue to influence Indian culture and Hinduism in the Caribbean.

Gender

The ratio of men and women needed for departure from India fluctuated several times during the indentureship period because of the difficulty agents had in recruiting women labourers. The ‘Indian Woman Problem’ (Reddock 1985) referred to the clash between the gender ratio requirement and the plantation owners’ belief that women were not suited for the hard labour of sugar harvesting. This view persisted despite the fact that women generally had a higher survival rate than their male counterparts (Reddock 1985: 42). Planters were also unwilling to finance the cost of reproducing a second generation of Indian workers in the Caribbean although some argued that the inclusion of women was necessary for quelling possible rebellion among Indian men. They also reasoned that allowing for reproduction would be more cost effective in the long term than continuing to import labour. Part of the difficulty in recruiting women was due to the insistence of planters and the Colonial Office that agents seek only the ‘right type of women’, meaning women of a higher class and caste. Labourers were generally recruited from markets, railway stations, bazaars, and temples, with Mathura being a prime location for the recruitment of women (Reddock 1985: 43). Planters occasionally objected to these women, claiming that they were of a ‘low moral character’, leading recruiters to explain to planters that the women they were seeking would not be able to perform the kind of labour needed on the plantations. Adding to the difficulty of recruiting women was the extended background check that was needed before departure. The investigation could take one to three months and women who were pregnant, prostitutes, or described as ‘coarse low caste females’ were disqualified, although the latter two were overlooked when there was a shortage of laborers (Reddock 1985). The majority of women did not come as wives or daughters but as single women, many of whom were Brahman widows who found themselves living difficult lives in India after the death of their husbands, or women who saw it as an opportunity to escape unhappy family situations. Far from being the ‘ideal’ submissive and chaste women according to both the Indian male labourers and the planters, these women were often independent and strong-willed.

Life on the plantations was difficult for women, with many of them facing not only a hostile working environment but abuse from Indian men. ‘Wife murders’, or the murder and often mutilation of women by the men they were in a relationship with, was not uncommon. Women were often blamed for this violence and accused of infidelity or being promiscuous (Mohapatra 1995). In her influential work, Coolie Woman, Gauitra Bahadur notes: ‘Between 1859 and indenture’s end in 1917, more than 167 women were killed by intimate or would-be intimate partners in Guiana. Infidelity—or the fear of it—motivated the crime in most cases, colonial authorities claimed’ (Bahadur 2014: 108). Although the British generally saw this violence as a result of the inherent ‘savageness’ of Indians rather than a by-product of the colonial system which dehumanized labourers, they also sought to reform women into submissive and docile housewives. This was done primarily through Presbyterian schools which, in their efforts to ‘civilize’ Indian women, focused on transforming the women’s dress and mannerisms in addition to their religiosity. The sexuality of Indian women was also a point of concern for Indian men. Indian women were often encouraged to be like Sītā, one of the main characters of the Rāmcaritmānas, the most important text for Hindus in the Caribbean, rather than Surpanakhā, a demoness in the same text. In keeping with this comparison, some men chose to cut off the noses of their partners if they thought they were unfaithful, an act also committed against Surpanakhā in the Rāmcaritmānas. The implication was that, like Surpanakhā, these women were lustful and inappropriate in their actions and therefore deserved to be physically shamed. The independence of women, however, would later prove to be one of the most important factors in the preservation and continuation of Indian culture and Hinduism in the Caribbean.

Caste

It is commonly stated that Indians lost their caste status when traveling across the kālīpāni, or black waters, and therefore caste no longer exists in the diaspora. This argument that caste has been dismantled in the Caribbean or is no longer applicable is misleading. From the recruitment paperwork and ship records, it is clear that the indentured labourers came from a wide variety of caste backgrounds. According to K.O. Laurence, the majority of the labourers were from low castes with approximately 11–14 per cent coming from Brahman or high castes in Guyana and Trinidad (Laurence 1994: 111). This data, however, is incomplete because of the lack of full records and the spelling variations of castes and subcastes (Laurence 1994: 110). Laurence notes: ‘Many caste names meant different things in different areas of India and their significance could change with time, the caste being a somewhat variable social unit, and any attempt to classify the castes in terms of occupation and social status must be subject to error’ (Laurence 1994: 110). Additionally, while Muslim and Christian religious identity was recorded in the same column as Hindus’ caste identity, they too would have maintained some caste distinctions and hierarchies. Although planters preferred that recruiters not bring Brahmans because they were often difficult workers, Brahmans as well as a number of Indians without agricultural backgrounds emigrated to the Caribbean. An accurate picture of caste is also difficult because there are numerous accounts of labourers changing their caste identification during recruitment or after arriving in the Caribbean. These individuals are often referred to as ‘Brahmin-by-boat’ (Niranjana 2006), but the actual percentage of individuals who may have lied about their caste status is unknown. That being said, it is true that caste could not maintain the same divisions given the journey to the Caribbean and life on the plantations, both of which required labourers to interact with each other in intimate spaces, making it difficult to sustain the same ideas of purity. On the plantations, all Indians fulfilled the role of labourers regardless of their caste affiliation and their traditional occupation. Moreover, given the low number of women on the estates, individuals often married across caste and religious lines (interracial relationships were more common in those islands that did not receive a large number of Indian migrants). Despite this intercaste mixing, Brahman men, either by birth or boat, maintained a level of power in the Caribbean and emerged as leaders and spokesmen for the larger Indian community. They continued to take charge of religious practices and rites and would later take up more political roles, playing a pivotal role in the formation of Caribbean Hinduism.

Paṇḍits

The most important way in which Brahmans have held on to their power and influence is through the expanded role of the pundit (paṇḍit) in the Caribbean. In general, there are five types of religious leaders within the larger category of Hinduism: (1) ritual specialists—those people charged with performing both the daily rituals to the gods as well as special rituals, (2) astrologers—those skilled at reading astrological charts and giving advice based on their readings, (3) gurus—teachers who often have disciples and sometimes are worshipped as an embodiment of god, (4) ascetics—including swamis, yogis, and other renunciants, and (5) those individuals engaged in pastoral care or ministry. This last category might also include healers. While there are some overlaps between these categories, in general they represent distinct functions that different individuals perform. As such, discussing ideas of ‘priesthood’ in Hinduism can become tricky, particularly if the main concern is identifying forms of authority and leadership (Narayanan 2005: 23). As Vasudha Narayanan notes in her article, ‘Gender and Priesthood in the Hindu Traditions’, since a ‘priest’ can refer to a number of positions and roles within Hinduism, it is not necessarily the case that a priest is someone who holds significant power within the community (2005). Here is where the Caribbean context differs. Although the terms purohit or pujārī are not unfamiliar and are used in particular circles, such as within Kālī temples, generally Indo-Caribbean Hindus use the term ‘pundit’ to refer to a person, usually a male, who engages in all of the above roles with the exception of the ascetic, which still remains a separate category. In other words, paṇḍits in the Caribbean are not just ritual specialists who only perform pūjās: they also read astrological charts and advise people, take on celās or disciples, engage in pastoral care, and sometimes assist with healing rituals. Therefore, within the Caribbean context, ‘paṇḍit’ is a special term that refers to a specific role within the Hindu community.

Indo-Caribbean paṇḍits often have their own individual temples where they occupy the position of resident priest and can amass a following. The elevated role of paṇḍits can be seen in the development of the siṅghāsan—literally meaning ‘lion’s seat’, where kings sat—a raised throne-like seat reserved for the paṇḍit (Singh 1993). Pundits sit in the siṅghāsan when they offer their kathā, or reading and analysis of a religious text. Pundits may host other paṇḍits for satsaṅgs or yagnas (yajñas), two types of religious services which are focused on the discussion of particular texts, but weekly temple pūjās are usually completed by the resident paṇḍit and those they train. Often a paṇḍit’s son or family member takes over the duties of the resident paṇḍit when he can no longer complete them or wishes to pass them on. Paṇḍits are usually not given a stipend that allows them to be dedicated to religious work full time. As a result, most paṇḍits work full-time jobs and, since celibacy is not expected, they also have families that play an active role in their temples. There are, however, some paṇḍits who are able to make a living solely from their work as religious leaders because of their popularity. The most popular paṇḍits are those who can both explain the scriptures well and sing beautifully. These paṇḍits are often featured on popular TV networks that cover religious events and radio stations, which increases their popularity in Hindu Caribbean communities abroad, leading to frequent travel between the Caribbean, the US, and Canada. Although paṇḍits are usually male, over the last few years, there have been several female paṇḍits, typically referred to as paṇḍitās, who have also taken an active role in explicating the scriptures, performing pūjās, and leading yagnas.

Early Hinduism in the Caribbean

In the early years of indentured labour, there were more South Indian labourers than North Indian. Although the labourers demonstrated a wide variety of beliefs and practices, South Indians tended to display the religious characteristics of Śaivism and Śāktism, while many North Indians leaned towards practices associated with Vaiṣṇavism. Early patterns of Hindu worship in the Caribbean seemed to have been diffused and scattered. Different families performed rituals they remembered their parents doing (Vertovec 2000). The lack of unified practices and beliefs was a product of both the different regions that migrants came from and the variety of languages they spoke. Very few of the migrants spoke more than one language, and they were divided into groups with individuals who spoke different languages as a preventative against rebellion (Vertovec 2000). The lack of a common language initially made it difficult to establish collective religious activities. Gradually though, a common creolized Indian tongue was developed allowing for more shared rituals. Later, knowledge of their original languages was lost with the promotion of English in schools, although remnants of particular words can still be found in the everyday language of Indo-Caribbeans. Today, while mantras are still chanted in Sanskrit, and bhajans and devotional songs are sung in Hindi, most Indo-Caribbeans do not speak either language fluently, so religious services are conducted primarily in English.

In general, religious activities among indentured Indians were tolerated and sometimes even facilitated by plantation managers, because they believed it would pacify the Indians and prevent them from rebelling. Steven Vertovec notes, however, that some of the earliest Hindu activities became notorious among the planters, leading to their suppression (Vertovec 2000). These acts included extreme forms of self-mutilation, animal sacrifices, and even such practices as ‘fire walking’. These practices, deemed barbaric and crude, were banned by planters. Despite this, some of these acts remained underground and were still performed by some ‘Madrassis’. Today, while these practices are still conducted on the margins, often for healing purposes, the colonial disdain toward these rituals is echoed in orthodox groups, such as the Sanatan Dharma Maha Sabha, who are dismissive of these rituals and deem them to be a lower form of worship (McNeal 2011).

Firepass or Firewalking Ceremonies

Among these controversial early practices was the firepass ceremony. Although the practice of firepass, or firewalking, has been observed among North Indian Muslims commemorating Muharram, the firepass ceremony in the Caribbean, particularly in Trinidad, seems to have South Indian roots. In oral and written sources in Trinidad, it was also referred to as the ‘Madras Coolie Festival’, ‘the Madrasse Festival’, and ‘Thimi Therunal’ (Tamil for ‘fire festival’) (McNeal 2013a: 286). Regardless of its roots, the firepass was most prevalent among Madrassis, a term commonly used in the Caribbean to refer to South Indian labourers despite the fact that these labourers were actually made up of a wide diversity of regional and linguistic backgrounds. Keith McNeal notes that ‘an average of 80 per cent of these so-called Madrassis were equally divided between Tamil and Telugu speakers’ (2013a: 285) and were generally from urban or semi-urban areas. Madrassi Indians were not the preferred labourers among plantation owners, who argued that Madrassis were rebellious and lazy workers. British resistance to Madrassis, however, might have had more to do with British historians’ claim that South Indians were part of the ‘black races’ and therefore more ‘primitive’ and ‘backward’ (McNeal 2013a: 285). Planters in Guyana and Trinidad complained so much about South Indians that by the 1950s (Younger 2010: 144), most South Indian labourers were redirected to South Africa, and by 1960, Madrassi emigration to the Caribbean was terminated (Brereton 1981: 103).

McNeal writes that the firepass ceremony, from what can be derived from various written and oral sources, contained at least five elements: (1) the body and mind was purified through a fasting period where the practitioner abstained from meat and sex from anywhere between two and four weeks; (2) women were not allowed to participate; (3) a wooden pole known as a ‘tavasson maran’ (referred to as a ‘prayer tree’) was erected and climbed by a man on the day of the firepass. From the pole he would recite prayers and distribute prasād, food first offered to god(s) before being consumed by devotees; (4) firepass practitioners would first take a purification bath in the river or sea before crossing the fire; and (5) during the ceremony a specific type of drum was played (2013a: 286). The role of ecstatic trance manifestation in the ceremony remains unclear. It seems that some participants did enter into what may be described as an ecstatic spiritual manifestation while others did not. Many observers, however, seem to believe that being filled with some type of spiritual energy was necessary for a person to gain the ability to cross the fire pit. The firepass ceremonies are no longer performed on a large scale in the Caribbean, but they are sometimes still conducted as part of Kālī or Śakti worship.

Kālī or Śakti Worship

Although devotion to Kālī seems to be a minority tradition among Indo-Caribbean Hindus today, textual and oral historical evidence suggests that her worship was central to the religious practices of indentured labourers (McNeal 2013b: 956). Shrines dedicated to a form of the goddess are among the earliest remnants of Hindu worship in the Caribbean. Additionally, indentured labourers adopted other female figures as a representation of Śakti. The most well-known example of this is the worship of La Divina Pastora, or the Virgin Mary, as Suparee Mai, a form of the goddess sometimes associated with Kālī. Indentured labourers would routinely offer animal sacrifices to this figure in the Roman Catholic Church of La Divine Pastoral (The Divine Shepherdess) located in Siparia, Trinidad (McNeal 2003, Sirju 2013). Although animal sacrifices are no longer left at the church, many Indo-Trinidadians continue to worship Suparee Mai in present-day Trinidad.

The presence of firewalking during some iterations of Kālī Pūjā has led some to suggest that the worship of Kālī, like firepass, has Madrassi origins. McNeal argues that such a correlation might be misplaced. He writes that ‘the significance of this influence is thrown into relief when one considers the fact that the number of South Indians only constituted approximately 6 per cent of the 144,000 or so Indians who emigrated to Trinidad during the period of indentureship’ (2013b: 957). The pervasiveness of Kālī Pūjā during indentureship seems to indicate that the practice did not just come from South Indian labourers. According to Paul Younger, though, in Guyana, it was the South Indian labourers who first began to develop ‘self-consciously planned religious patterns’ (2018), the primary of which was the worship of Māriyammaṉ. While there are earlier oral reports that describe trances undertaken by pujārīs, or ritual priests, as part of healing rituals, most surviving Māriyammaṉ temples in Guyana were founded around 1916 and trace their origin to Albion temple priest Bailappa and Rajagopal (Younger 2018). From the 1921 account of Canadian overseer, Leslie Phillips, it seems that the early Guyanese Māriyammaṉ temples were uniform in their make-up. Younger summarizes the typical set-up: ‘the goddess Māriyammaṉ facing east, with Cankani Karuppu (derived from Caṅkilikaruppaṉ, a family village deity) on her immediate left, Munnecuvaram (another Tamil deity) opposite him, Maturai Viran (her protector) just south of her entranceway, Nakura directly in front of her, and the “Hindu (vegetarian) deities” in a separate area north of the group around the goddess’ (2018). This uniformity remains part of Māriyammaṉ worship today and can be seen in temples in Guyana and Trinidad.

In 1950s, some leaders attempted to place less emphasis on animal sacrifices, but this move was largely unsuccessful. This effort was again taken up by well-known pujārī Jamsie Naidu in the 1980s and 90s with more lasting success. Naidu also initiated other reforms including: (1) encouraging those experiencing ecstatic manifestation to speak in the local dialect instead of Tamil,¹ (2) allowing women, North Indians, and non-Indians to participate in ecstatic rituals, and (3) expanding the pantheon of deities to include the goddesses Gaṅgā and Koterie (Younger 2010). Naidu’s temple was influential in the standardization of Māriyammaṉ worship, which became subsumed under the larger category of ‘Kālī Mā worship’. Naidu was also pivotal in the revitalization of Kālī Mā worship in Trinidad, where it also goes by the name Śakti Pūjā. Today, Kālī or Śakti temples typically have weekly services and conduct a large annual pūjā in the spring over three days. This ‘Big Pūjā’, as it is commonly referred to, is seen as a recharging of the temple, offering devotees a chance to purify themselves and offer thanks to ‘De Mudda’ (‘The Mother’) as Kālī Mā is often called. During the annual pūjā, kargams, brass vessels containing several ingredients including dry coconut and neem leaves, are carried on the heads of devotees from a river or sea into the temple. As part of the ceremony, devotees, while experiencing ecstatic manifestations of Śakti, undergo whip lashing or dance through a fire pit (McNeal 2013b).

The narrative of Madrassis and their supposed darker skin, primitive nature, and low-caste chamar (tanner) identity continued to persist in the Caribbean even after indentureship. The term ‘Madrassi’ is sometimes used in a derogatory and dismissive way to refer to darker-skinned and/or South Indians. Orthodox Hindu organizations have deemed religious practices, including that of firepass and animal sacrifices, as undesirable and no different than ‘obeah’ or ‘black magic’ (Tsuji 2009: 74). For these reasons, Kālī worship remains on the margins in many locations, but is growing in acceptability and popularity. It is difficult to estimate the number of Śakti practitioners in the Caribbean because they do not neatly fit into a single category. Some devotees may singularly attend a Śakti-oriented temple, while others may only occasionally attend a Śakti temple when in need. Śakti temples also tend to have a larger portion of Afro-Caribbean worshippers than orthodox Hindu temples, leading some Kālī devotees to classify their temples as more in line with the culture of the Caribbean (Tsuji 2009: 76).

It would be incorrect, however, to say that there are no overlaps between orthodox Hindu temples and that of Kālī Mā temples. Worship of Kālī Mā has become more visible and acceptable with the growth of the Kālī Yātrā festival and, over the last few years, paṇḍits who are part of the mainstream tradition have worked to dispel what they see as pervasive misconceptions about Kālī worship in hopes of bringing it back into mainstream practices. In Jamaica and smaller islands, such as Guadeloupe and Martinique, Māriyammaṉ worship, along with the worship of other Tamil deities such as Maduari Vīran and Nagoumila, has continued to thrive among the small number of practising Hindus there. Similar to the worship of Suparee Mai, Māriyammaṉ’s worship in Martinique is connected with the Virgin Mary and Maduari Vīran is associated with Jesus. The mixing of Hinduism and Catholicism is reflective of the minority Indian population, many of whom identify with Catholicism while incorporating Hindu practices. The deity Nagoumila is another interesting hybrid because he is understood to be a half-Muslim and half-Hindu saint from South India who lived from 910 to 978 ce. In his chapter on Hinduism in Guadeloupe, Olivier Mounsamy writes that the indentured labourers, feeling abandoned by their Hindu gods because of their decision to cross the forbidden waters in their journey to the Caribbean, turned to a Muslim saint who they converted to a Hindu deity and began praying to in Tamil (2013). This syncretism is a necessary element of Caribbean Hinduism, which has had to adapt to varying circumstances in each of the locations where indentured labourers were sent.

Jhaṇḍīs

Triangle-shaped flags inserted on top of bamboo poles are a common sight in the yards of many Indo-Caribbean homes in both the Caribbean and the US. The flags on bamboo poles are referred to as jhaṇḍīs. They are erected during home pūjās and are an indicator that a Hindu person lives in that home. While the term ‘jhaṇḍī’ specifically refers to the combination of the flag and the bamboo, Indo-Caribbeans will sometimes say ‘jhaṇḍī flags,’ emphasizing the importance of the flag. Indo-Guyanese also use the term ‘jhaṇḍī’ to refer to religious prayers held at a person’s home. Although jhaṇḍī-like flags can be spotted near temples in North India, the commonness of jhaṇḍīs, especially its placement near homes, is unique to the Caribbean (Rampersad 2014).

During indentureship, jhaṇḍīs were used as an alternative to mūrtis, or statues that embody various forms of god, because the labourers were unable to bring many of their mūrtis. Today, jhaṇḍīs are placed in the yard of an individual after they have conducted a home pūjā. Home pūjās are done on a yearly basis or for special occasions, such as birthdays, anniversaries, or graduations. The presence of multiple jhaṇḍīs in a house’s yard indicates that the family has conducted many pūjās over a period of time. The flags of the jhaṇḍī are usually cotton and plain in colour but they may also come with a picture of the deity to be placed on the flag itself. The various colours of the flags represent particular deities, so devotees usually choose the appropriate flag for the deity to whom they are conducting the pūjā. A red flag, for example, is associated with either Hanumān or Durgā. Traditionally the bamboo for the jhaṇḍī must be freshly cut, should be straight and clean, and should have at least five joints or knots (Rampersad 2014: 62). After the jhaṇḍī is placed into the ground, it is generally not removed. There is some disagreement, however, about whether it should be removed or not once it is worn or damaged. Some have argued that removing the flag would be to desecrate it, while others have asserted that it must be removed when the flag is torn or damaged.

For many Indo-Caribbeans, the jhaṇḍī as a symbol for Indo-Caribbean Hindus became a useful political tool in their fight against Christian dominance (Ryan 1999). The importance of the jhaṇḍī is evidenced by the continuation of its practice in Indo-Caribbean homes and temples in the United States. For Indo-Caribbeans, jhaṇḍīs are a tangible object representing not just their religion but their Caribbean heritage, connecting them to their indentured ancestors. To see a jhaṇḍī in front of a home in the US is to know that person is Hindu and likely Indo-Caribbean. Hence, the same symbol which has been used in the Caribbean for religious and political reasons now acts as an identity marker for the Indo-Caribbean community in their double diaspora.

Texts

Hinduism in the Caribbean is dominated by the recitation of three texts: the Rāmcaritmānas, the Bhāgavatapurāṇa, and the Bhagavadgītā. Of the three texts, the Rāmcaritmānas, a version of the Rāmāyaṇa composed by Tulsīdās in 1574, is often regarded as the central text of Hinduism in the Caribbean and Tulsīdās is referred to as ‘the Father of Caribbean Hinduism’ (Singh 2010). The Rāmcaritmānas, commonly referred to as the ‘Rāmāyaṇ’, is so pervasive that it is customary for Indo-Caribbean Hindus to greet each other with the phrase ‘Sītā Rām’. The popularity of the Rāmcaritmānas may be linked to the fact that the majority of Indians in the Caribbean came from Uttar Pradesh and the Bihar regions of India where the bhakti tradition prevalent in the Rāmcaritmānas prevailed (Singh 2010). While it is likely that South Indian labourers brought their own version of the Rāmāyaṇa with them to the Caribbean, as with many other South Indian traditions, it was likely marginalized or absorbed into the North Indian religious and cultural traditions that became dominant. The story of Rām also became beloved because its central theme of exile was relatable to the indentured labourers who saw their time in the Caribbean as a type of exile, a forced choice similar to Rām’s decision to leave the kingdom. The dignity with which Rām spent his time in the forest presented an ideal on which Indians could model themselves, particularly for the early waves of indentured labourers who still had a desire to return to India at the end of their contract.

Sherry-Ann Singh argues that in addition to these reasons, the Rāmcaritmānas became popular because of its ‘propensity toward an anticasteist interpretation’ (2013: 751) given its focus on bhakti or devotion to God as a gateway to liberation. She writes: ‘Because of the small percentage and questionable pedigree of Brahmans (members of the priestly caste) in Trinidad, recitations and interpretations of the Rāmcaritmānas were often delivered by non-Brahmans who inevitably highlighted its anticasteist aspects’ (2013: 751). While the anticaste potential in the Rāmcaritmānas may be debatable, especially given the power Brahmans continued to hold in the Caribbean even as the narrative of the Caribbean as a casteless society gained traction, it is undeniable that Indo-Caribbeans used the Rāmcaritmānas as a way of interpreting their current social setting. The text also came to represent the racial dynamics of the Caribbean, with both the white planters and Afro-Caribbeans at different times likened to Rāvaṇ, the primary villain of the text. Some Indo-Guyanese, for example, referred to Forbes Burnham, a former Black president of Guyana, as Rāvaṇ to highlight what they perceived as his anti-Indian political agenda (Singh 2013: 751).

The shifting interpretations of the Rāmcaritmānas to align with particular social contexts is most clearly seen in the performance of the Rām Līlā, a dramatic form of the Rāmāyaṇa, which has taken place in Trinidad since the earliest period of indentureship (Mahabir and Chand 2015). The Rām Līlā, particularly in its earlier iterations, crossed religious boundaries with Indo-Trinidadian Muslims participating in its organization and performance and attending the final production. Singh notes that the influence of the Rāmcaritmānas can also be seen in ‘Christian hymns [which] have been composed and sung in the verse form of the Rāmcaritmānas in many Presbyterian churches’ (2013: 752). While this practice might be dismissed as simply part of the church’s missionizing efforts, it is clear that the Rāmcaritmānas was influential in how Indians understood their world and how other members of Caribbean society understood them. For example, Singh writes: ‘In his Nobel lecture, Derek Walcott, the Saint Lucian-born poet, dramatist, and winner of the 1992 Nobel Prize in Literature used the performance of Rama Lila in Felicity, Trinidad, as both a metaphor of history and a vital aspect of Caribbean Indians’ attempt at reconstructing some sense of community in the diasporic context’ (2013: 752). Walcott would also draw on the Rāmcaritmānas in his poems ‘Exile’ and the ‘The Saddhu of Couva.’

Types of Religious Worship

Religious worship in the Caribbean can be divided into three main categories: (1) pūjās, (2) satsaṅgs, and (3) yagnas (yajñas). Pūjās consist of two types: home and temples pūjās. Temple pūjās are usually held weekly, typically on a Sunday, during special events, and for festivals. The frequency of home pūjās varies, but many families conduct a yearly home pūjā in which they invite a paṇḍit and family and friends. In addition to the term ‘pūjā,’ these types of home worship are called ‘prayers’ or ‘jhaṇḍīs’ referencing the planting of jhaṇḍīs that are typically part of home pūjās (Persaud 2016). Additionally, families may conduct a home pūjā to mark certain events such as the birth of a child or a job offer, and celebrations such as birthdays or anniversaries. Satsaṅgs occur more frequently than home pujas and do not usually include a formal pūjā. Instead, satsaṅgs tend to focus on devotional songs or bhajans. Traditionally, many families invite local Rāmāyaṇ groups to read and sing verses from the Rāmcaritmānas as part of the satsaṅg they may be hosting. Marion O’Callaghan notes that historically, satsaṅgs would have occurred weekly in Trinidad, rotating from house to house within a village. As such, they served not only a religious purpose but also functioned as village recreation, allowing members of the community to gather regularly (1998: 6). O’Callaghan compares these satsaṅgs to Pentecostal, Evangelical, or Catholic charismatic prayer meetings in post-1970s Trinidad (1998: 6), but this type of gathering was a practice indentured labourers brought with them to the Caribbean, and as such represents a continuation of village practices rather than a new development in the Caribbean. In present-day Trinidad, the prevalence of in-home satsaṅgs has declined partly because people gather frequently for pūjās and satsaṅgs in temples and partly due to the increased popularity of large-scale yagnas.

Yagnas emerged out of the Bhāgavat tradition, a seven-night reading of the Bhāgavatapurāṇa. One of the 18 traditionally accepted Purāṇas, a genre of Hindu mythological literature, the Bhāgavatapurāṇa is centred around the incarnations of Viṣṇu and, in particular, the life of Kṛṣṇa. The Bhāgavatapurāṇa was a popular text among indentured labourers although its popularity is now eclipsed by the Rāmcaritmānas and the Bhagavadgītā. As extended readings of the Rāmcaritmānas became more popular, the Bhāgavat came to be understood as a type of yagna which is defined by extended nightly readings of any religious text. The most common text for yagnas is the Rāmcaritmānas but texts are often chosen in accordance with auspicious events and festivals or at the request of the yajamān, the person holding the yagna and performing the pūjā. Yagnas follow a standard format: they start with a pūjā performed by the host and their family under the guidance of a paṇḍit. The paṇḍit then presents a kathā, or a reading and analysis of a chosen text, followed by ārtī (offering a lit lamp to a deity) for the mūrtis, paṇḍits, and distinguished guests. Each session of the yagna ends with the sharing of prasād, food ritually offered to the deities and then shared amongst devotees, and nearly all include a meal. The meal typically includes curried chanā (chickpeas), roṭī (a kind of Indian flatbread), pumpkin, achar (amcūr, a type of cooked or preserved mango), rice, dāl (split peas), and bhājī (cooked spinach). These foods are so common for yagnas and pūjās that they are often referred to as ‘prayers food’. Originally organized as extended home pūjās that were held over multiple days instead of a single day, yagnas are now large public productions that can be as costly as a small wedding. O’Callaghan notes that ‘the Yagna “tent” matches the Pentecostal crusade tent and emerges at the same period—the post 1970s’ (1998: 7). While yagnas are still often held at people’s homes, they generally take place at temples, in part to accommodate the large crowds.

Evolution of the Caribbean Temple

Although modern Caribbean temples, or mandirs as they are commonly known, may differ in their outwardly appearance, they are generally consistent in their structure and design on the inside. Each temple consists of a space for devotees to sit, either on the floor or in chairs, facing an altar with numerous deities, a space near the front for musicians, and a siṅghāsan or raised seat for the paṇḍit to deliver his kathā. The altar typically consists of the following murtis: Gaṇeś, Rām and Sītā, Viṣṇu and Lakṣmī, Durgā and a few other goddesses, including Sarasvatī and Kālī, Śiva, Hanumān, and a Śiva liṅga. Temples are usually closed throughout the week and only hold services on Sunday mornings, unless there is a yagna or special event. Sunday morning services consist of bhajans sung by the paṇḍit, trained musicians, and regular devotees, a pūjā, a discourse given by the paṇḍit, ārtī performed by devotees, and a meal. This consistency reflects the history of indentureship and the limitations of the Caribbean context which led Hindus to standardize the temple form and worship services.

During the first two decades of indentureship, complex temple structures were largely unattainable because the movement of Indians was greatly restricted on plantations, and a number of Indians returned to India forgoing the need for permanent temple structures (Prorok 2003). The absence of a central worshipping area, however, was devastating for Hindus who were used to having shrines they could visit. Consequently, many Hindus recreated from memory smaller versions of the shrines they visited in India within their new homes in the Caribbean. By the 1860s, as the Indian population increased, more elaborate structures were built, although many families continued to have small shrines within their homes. These early rudimentary temples were occasionally built with the help of the plantation managers who saw it as a way of keeping Indian labourers culturally isolated from the rest of society. In her article, ‘Evolution of the Hindu Temple in Trinidad’, Carolyn Prorok includes a description of an early temple written by C. Kingsley in 1871:

The Coolie temples are curious places…Their mark is generally a long bamboo with a pennon atop, outside a low dark hut, with a broad flat veranda, or rather shed, outside the door. Under the latter, opposite each door, if I recollect rightly, is a stone or small stump, on which offerings are made of red dust and flowers. From it worshippers can see the images within.…Sometimes these have been carved in the island: sometimes the poor folk have taken the trouble to bring them all the way from India on board ship. Hung beside them on the walls are little pictures, often very well executed in the miniature-like Hindoo style by native artists in the island. Large brass pots, which have some sacred meaning, stand about, and with them a curious trident-shaped stand, about four feet high, on the horns of which garlands of flowers are hung as offerings. The visitor is told that the male figures are Mahadev, and the female Kali: we could hear of no other deities. (1991: 76)

These small places of worship were also common in Guyana and four structures from this period can still be seen today (Ramlakhan 2018).

Prorok divides the temples built from the 1820s until about 1917, the end of indentureship, into two categories: simple traditional and traditional. Simple traditional temples, the most common type until the 1920s, consisted of a ‘a bamboo/carat or a wood/tapia structure’ (1991: 77). The traditional temples, first appearing in the 1880s, are characterized by stone or clay-brick structures. These temples appear to have resulted from the increase in wages that Indians received and reflect the increasing permanence they felt about their settlement. By the 1920s, however, the majority of the Indian population in Trinidad had been born there and did not have personal memories of India, leading to significant changes in the form and structure of Hindu temples.

Prorok marks the second period of temple building as between the years 1921 and 1944. The rise in collective religious activity, the influence of the Christian missionaries, and Arya Samaj² debates during this period can be clearly seen in the emergence of a new temple form which Prorok names ‘the Koutia’. She states: ‘A koutia in India usually has no sacred significance attached to it. It is a place where the person who performs the daily puja and takes care of the temple (pujari) sleeps, but in Trinidad it took on the function of assembly hall’ (1991: 80). Koutias were originally constructed alongside traditional temples as temporary structures for visiting holy men and festivals. By the 1920s, however, koutias became permanent additions. Interestingly, the term ‘koutia’ is still used by older Indo-Trinidadians as synonymous with ‘temple’. In general, though, the term in present-day Trinidad refers to the altars located outside Hindu homes in their own enclosures. These koutias are built away from the home so that it does not become ‘contaminated’ by the cooking of meat or the presence of alcohol within the home.

As more and more Hindu missionaries came to the island, the koutia form quickly became a meeting place and a centre for the community. The missionaries originally used the space to give lectures, but as Hindus struggled to attain a political presence, the koutia also became a political battleground between the religious ideologies of the Arya Samaj and orthodox Hindus. One missionary’s arrival, Mehta Jaimini, an Arya Samaji who visited in 1928, led to such discontentment among resident Brahmans that six new temples can be traced back to his initial visit (Prorok 1991: 82). It was the koutia, complete with a dome and/or facade, that became the new standard temple form in the late 1950s. Its popularity was so prominent that Prorok terms it the ‘Trinidadian temple’ (1991: 83), but the pervasiveness of this form far exceeds Trinidad and is commonly found in all Caribbean temples, including Indo-Caribbean temples in the United States.

The development of the Indo-Caribbean temple was a response to Christian missionary efforts and a declaration of the strength of the Hindu community. It signalled a visible shift in the Indian community’s perception of their place in society. By dotting the landscape with various temples, Indo-Caribbeans affirmed their intention to be permanent fixtures and challenged perceptions of Hinduism as uncivilized. Caribbean temples with their ‘benches facing an altar area for the devotees to observe ritual activity, and the housing of all deities under one dome’ were a recognizable form that could stand on par with Christian churches (Prorok 1991: 83). Temples also continued to act as community centres, and religious organizations began to sponsor programmes that taught Hindi, Indian dance, and music within the temple. The last simple traditional-style temple in Trinidad was built in the 1970s, and the majority of temples that were remodelled were done so in the Trinidadian style. Trinidad’s oil boom in the 1970s increased the wealth of the Indian population and led to the creation of more ornate temples reflecting the increasing prominence of their members.

In addition to the creation of temples, Indo-Caribbeans have worked to sacralize the local landscape through rituals and linking them to sacred stories and locations in India. The Caroni River in Trinidad and the Albion stream in Guyana, for example, have been liken to the Gaṅgā and the Kāverī River in India. Swami Ganapathy Sachchidananda, the founder of the Dattatreya Temple in Trinidad, claims that in a previous birth, he was born by the Aripo River in Trinidad. For him, the Aripo is not like the Gaṅgā but is the Gaṅgā (Persaud 2021). In Cedros, Trinidad, devotees believe a local mud volcano to be a form of Durgā called Balka Devi whose worship they trace back to their indentured ancestors.

Religious Organizations

The largest Hindu religious organization in the Caribbean is the Sanatan Dharma Maha Sabha (SDMS), also simply called the Maha Sabha, which exists in both Trinidad and Guyana. Both Maha Sabhas became a national voice for Hindus in the political arena and were important for the standardization of Hindu practice and the development of Hindu schools. Bhadase Sagan Maraj, the founder of Trinidad’s SDMS, was a wealthy businessman who was awarded a contract for dismantling the American army camps set up in Trinidad during World War II (Younger 2010). Using these abandoned buildings, Maraj built Hindu primary and secondary schools, giving Hindu children a place to receive both a secular and religious education without attending Christian schools. Maraj also used SDMS as a base to establish Trinidad’s first Indian political party—the People’s Democratic Party (PDP), later renamed the Democratic Labour Party (DLP). DLP was vital in defeating a campaign to create a federation of the British West Indies, led by the prominent historian Eric Williams, who would become Trinidad’s first prime minister.

Another influential group in the Caribbean has been the Arya Pratinidhi Sabha (APS) of the Arya Samaj movement. Critical of Brahmans and mūrti worship, Arya Samaj missionaries clashed with local paṇḍits when they first arrived in the Caribbean in the early twentieth century. They would continue to have a contentious relationship with SDMS, but like SDMS, the Arya Samaj established prominent Hindu schools whose students were recognized nationwide. Although the relationship between APS and SDMS has been more cordial in recent years, APS’ ordination of Pandita Indrani Rampersad in 1993, the first non-Christian female clergy member in Trinidad, was opposed by many orthodox Hindus within the SDMS organization (Rambachan 2013).

Rampersad’s ordination was supported by other Hindu organizations, including Hindu Prachar Kendra, founded by Ravindranath Maharaj or Raviji. Raviji is responsible the creation of pichakaree, a musical form similar to calypso with explicit Hindu references. During Phagwah celebrations, the Hindu Prachar Kendra hosts a pichakaree competition and encourages artists to create songs on a theme decided yearly by the temple’s committee. Raviji has introduced several other practices including the Hindu Parliament, which is dedicated to the discussion of how to apply Hindu ideals to the current social context, and the Gangadhaara Tirtha in Blanchicheusse, Trinidad. This festival works to sacralize the landscape of Trinidad by recognizing a local river as a form of the Gaṅgā (Persaud 2021). During the festival, devotees make offerings to temporary mūrtis along the river’s bank and perform Hindu life sacraments such as the shaving of a baby’s first set of hair. A prize is also given to a woman who has made a significant contribution to the community.

In addition to these organizations, there are also several guru organizations in the Caribbean, including temples dedicated to Sathya Sai Baba and Swami Sachidananda, Chinmaya Mission, the International Society for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON), organizations governing the performance of śakti pūjās, such as the Guyana Maha Kali Religious Organization, and various yoga and meditation groups (Gosine 2013).

Festivals

The three largest Hindu celebrations in Caribbean are Dīvālī, Phagwah (Holī), and Śivarātri. Of these three, Dīvālī is the most lavishly celebrated and is recognized as a national holiday in Trinidad and Guyana. In Caribbean countries with a significant Indian population, Dīvālī commemorates the return of Rām from his 14-year exile into the forest. In the weeks leading up to the celebration, Hindu radio and TV stations play Dīvālī songs and broadcast yagnas, newspapers run articles focused on Hinduism, schools hold Dīvālī events, and there are several cultural shows, many of which include a Rām Līlā performance. In Trinidad, bamboo sticks are split and curved so that small clay lamps, dīyās, can be placed in them. They are then used to make elaborate decorations. In addition to these celebrations, the National Council for Indian Culture in Trinidad hosts a nine-night celebration on lands donated by the government, now referred to as the Diwali Nagar site. This event begins with a pūjā and a discourse given by a prominent paṇḍit, and for the course of the nine nights, there is singing, dancing, and food. Local businesses, Hindu groups, and charitable organizations also set up displays. Every year the site is visited by thousands of people, Hindu and non-Hindu alike, including the current prime minister. The celebration of Dīvālī has become so ubiquitous in Trinidad and Guyana that business and restaurants, even fast-food restaurants like Kentucky Fried Chicken, have ‘Diwali Specials’ and sales. Dīvālī is also celebrated by Indo-Caribbean Hindus privately in their homes. On Dīvālī day, families conduct pūjā at home, light dīyās around the house, and share food among family and friends.

Like Dīvālī, Phagwah is widely celebrated across the Caribbean although it is only a national holiday in Guyana. This festival is often observed in public venues like parks where the participants can easily throw abīr or coloured powder on each other. As part of the celebrations, there is often singing, dancing, and the chowtal (chautāl) competitions. Chautāl is a Bhojpuri folk music genre brought by indentured labourers to the Caribbean (Manuel 2009). During chautāl, singers sit in a circle with a ḍholak (a two-headed drum) player at one end and a dhanṭal (a long steel rod-based percussion instrument) player at the other and sing lines of Hindi text. Many Hindu schools in the Caribbean hold youth chautāl competitions as a way of preserving the tradition. Pichakaree is another musical form that has gained popularity in recent years. Pichakaree, named after the long tubes used to pitch abīr during Phagwah, are songs sung using a combination of English, Hindi, and Bhojpuri. Devised by Raviji, the genre was created as a type of calypso that would allow Hindus to provide social commentary and critique. In addition to Dīvālī and Phagwah, popular religious celebrations include śivarātri, the birthdays of Rām and Kṛṣṇa, and Kartik-Nahan (kārtik snān), a ritual in which devotees take a purifying bath in the sea. There are now also more localized traditions such as the Lucian-Indian funeral feast in St. Lucia (Manian and Bullock 2016) and the introduction of new festivals, like pongal, or the growth of celebrations, like Gaṇeś Utsāv (Patasar 2016), as travel between the Caribbean and India has increased.

Although not an explicitly religious event, another important festival worth mentioning is Indian Arrival Day. A national holiday in Trinidad, Guyana, Jamaica, St. Lucia, and Grenada, Indian Arrival Day recognizes the history of indentureship and the contributions Indo-Caribbeans have made to individual countries as well as the larger Caribbean society. For the celebration, Indo-Caribbeans usually build a replica of the ship that first brought Indians to their individual countries and gather in parks or on beaches to tell the stories about their ancestors. Hindu temples and organizations also work to educate the larger public about Hindu practices and beliefs brought by indentured labourers. By emphasizing the history of Indians in the Caribbean during this annual holiday, Indo-Caribbeans seek to celebrate their ancestors as well as their current lives within the Caribbean.

Conclusion

Despite being a minority group, Hindus in the Caribbean have managed to not only preserve the traditions of their ancestors but have also transformed the culture of the Caribbean and created a space for themselves in the larger community. Although they sometimes point out that they still face discrimination, Caribbean Hindus are also confident in their community and their ability to continue their religious practices. In recent years, they have worked to extend their influence outside of the Caribbean, with Caribbean paṇḍits regularly visiting Indo-Caribbean communities in the United States and Canada. Indo-Caribbeans from countries with a larger Hindu population have also established relationships with other Caribbean islands with smaller populations to help them revive their traditions and preserve their history.

Hence, while we can talk about the development of Hinduism in the Caribbean as a reflection of its history and social context, including indentureship, the restrictions of life on plantations, influences of Christian missionaries and Hindu reform movements, and tension with the Afro-Caribbean community, it is equally important to note that there is a variety of traditions within this larger category of Hinduism in the Caribbean. It is not so much Caribbean ‘Hinduism’ as it is Caribbean ‘Hinduisms’. The fact that multiple Hindu traditions are able to thrive in the Caribbean demonstrates the success of Indo-Caribbean Hinduism, because diversity is no longer a threat to its survival but is rather a contributing factor to its persistence. With a sacralized landscape and a set of unique traditions and customs, Hinduism has rooted itself in the Caribbean and is now an integral part of ‘Caribbeanness’ itself.

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¹ McNeal notes that this change was in part a result of Naidu’s work with anthropologist Philip Singer and the director of Guyana’s only mental hospital, Enrique Araneta (2013: 955).

² A reformist Hindu organization started by Dayanand Saraswati on 10 April 1875 that promotes the ultimate authority of the Vedas and rejects other Hindu religious texts as well as the presence and worship of any mūrtis.

5

Hinduism in Suriname

Stuart Earle Strange

Hinduism in Suriname, though distinctive, is similar to the traditions of neighbouring Guyana and nearby Trinidad and Tobago, with shared histories of large-scale South Asian indentured labour migration. With 19.9 per cent of Surinamese identifying as Hindu as of 2022, Hinduism is the largest religion of people of South Asian descent (who self-describe as Hindustani), themselves a plurality among Suriname’s highly diverse demographics. With nineteenth- and early twentieth-century migrants’ lives radically upended by unforgiving labour on sugar plantations in an insalubrious and alien land, Hinduism became both more universal in its ideologies and more exclusive in its practice. Separated from the vibrant specificity of a panoply of local Hindu traditions, Surinamese Hinduism mirrors wider trends in the Hindu diaspora and become that particular kind of paradox: a universalist ethnic religion. The child of conciliation, organizational innovation, and transnationalism, present-day Surinamese Hinduism is consequently a notional unity that masks numerous controversies over practice and interpretation.

A Little History of Suriname

Two facts shape the particularity of Surinamese Hinduism: first, the retention of a South Asian language (Sarnami) as both the medium of everyday domestic relations and much of Hindu ritual, and, second, the transformation of Hindu practices occasioned by Dutch colonial policies, especially the granting of land to Asian workers. These dynamics have produced a Hindu practice and politics that emphasizes Hindu ‘ethnic’ difference and its preservation. Hinduism has been thus transformed into a more homogeneous ‘genetic religion’, whose traditions are understood to be immutable and hereditary within a multi-ethnic/racial and religious nation-state.

Surinamese Hinduism must be understood against the backdrop of colonial Caribbean racial slavery. Originally English, Suriname became a Dutch colony in 1667 and played an important role in the burgeoning Caribbean sugar industry powered by enslaved labourers from Central and West Africa. Suriname was a paradigmatically brutal slave society; until abolition in 1863: tens of thousands of Africans were worked to death by a small minority of European planters and overseers. Following emancipation and 10 years of ‘apprenticeship’ on their former plantations, Afro-Surinamese ‘Creoles’ gained de jure freedom in 1873. Even before the completion of this probationary period, however, European planters already planned the mass importation of supposedly temporary Asian workers to undercut potential Afro-Surinamese economic and social influence. Following the lead of British Guiana, where planters had been experimenting with indentured South Asian labour since the 1830s, the Dutch colonial elite secured their own supply of cheap ‘British Indian’ workers (van Lier 1949; Hoefte 1998).

The first indentured Hindustanis disembarked in Suriname in June 1873. By the time indenture was abolished in 1916, 34,304 South Asian migrants had arrived. While not alone among Asian migrants (there were also labourers from south China, and later, Javanese from the Netherlands’ empire in Indonesia), they were the most numerous. The Dutch authorities had always claimed that migrants would return to India at the expiry of their contracts, but most stayed. Afro-Surinamese Creoles, and especially educated Dutch speakers who increasingly advocated for rights in proportion with their central role in Suriname’s history and economy, saw this as a direct challenge. Relying on their status as Christians who emulated European ideologies of cultural respectability, Creoles drew a pointed contrast between themselves and predominantly ‘heathen’ Hindu and Muslim migrants to oppose Asian entry and integration into Surinamese society. Eager to revive the profitability of a colony faced with demographic decline that had not slowed with abolition, Dutch colonial authorities ignored Creole protests and, after initial reluctance, started to encourage Asian migrants to settle on abandoned plantations and marginal land—opportunities they did not extend to Creoles. Prioritizing colonial racial capitalism, with its fantasy of homogenously diligent and docile Indian ‘coolie’ labour, over the alleged cultural superiority of Christianity and acculturation to Dutch norms, colonial authorities saw Asians as both an economic boon and a continued check on Creole self-determination (De Klerk 1953; Hoefte 1998).

With access to subsidized land, Hindustanis rapidly established themselves as independent peasants and dominant players in the domestic economy through supplying foodstuffs like rice, vegetables, and dairy products. The flourishing of Hindustani smallholders and traders occurred alongside the diminishment of caste differences. Being forced together on transport ships and crowded plantation barracks limited the salience of caste identities based on purity and the regulation of proximity, while the much higher ratio of male to female migrants made its social reproduction unduly difficult. In this way, race and religion replaced caste as the defining social distinctions in Hindu life (Fokken 2018).

With the legal recognition of Hindu and Muslim marriages in 1941, both religions gained official status in the colony. This ratified the right to run independent Hindi language schools, temples, mosques, and charitable institutions. Economic and cultural status made Hindustanis into major political players in the negotiations that would lead to Surinamese home rule after the Second World War and independence in 1975 (Hoefte 2014).

Despite its weakening as the key opposition in Surinamese politics, the contrast and competition between Creoles and Hindustanis promoted by Dutch colonial policy and ideology remains influential in contemporary Suriname. Both Dutch colonial officials and Creole elites measured the deservingness of Asian migrants in terms of conversion to Christianity or the perceived similarity of their practices to Protestant notions of what religion should be. Hinduism was accorded status only in as much as it was seen to resemble Protestantism—definitions also taken up and amplified by nineteenth-century Indian reformers like Dayanand Saraswati, the founder of Arya Samaj, the second largest Hindu affiliation in Suriname. Identifying ‘true’ religion with a purified essence modelled on Protestant dogmas of the supremacy of written scriptures and individual faith, these ideologies have substantially influenced how Surinamese talk about and practise Hinduism. At the same time, Hinduism has also become an ethno-racial religion and an emblem of what collectively distinguishes Hindus from other Asians, Afro-Surinamese, and Amerindians. Hindu belonging in Surinamese society is thus suspended between Hindu conformity to inherited colonial hierarchies of religious respectability and Hinduism as a means by which Hindus imagine their exceptionalism—principally, what they account as their superior acumen in ‘developing’ the nation.

Language and Surinamese Hinduism

Surinamese Hindus are predominantly, though not exclusively, descendants of immigrants from the Gangetic plain—today’s Indian states of Bihar and Uttar Pradesh. The relative cultural uniformity of Hindu immigrants combined with the linguistic politics of Dutch colonialism to enable a koiné of eastern Hindi dialects, called either Hindustani or Sarnami, to become the common language of Surinamese of South-Asian descent. These same linguistic politics, however, also ensure that the majority of Surinamese Hindus are not educated in standardized Hindi, and therefore are unable to read and write the Devanagari script. Because the language of government, education, and the formal economy remains Dutch, and the market and informal public spaces are the reserve of Sranan—Suriname’s English Creole lingua franca—Sarnami is primarily confined to domestic and ritual settings.

The retention of a South-Asian language sets Surinamese Hindus apart from other Caribbean Hindu communities. In comparison to effectively monolingual English-speaking Guyana and Trinidad and Tobago, Sarnami noticeably limits the participation of non-South-Asian Surinamese in Hindu practices, heightening the sense of their ethnic exclusivity. Many Surinamese Hindus also describe Sarnami as exacerbating their feelings of distance from India. Unable to read Hindi or speak its high-status registers, Sarnami speakers are self-conscious of their marginality. Though many are fluent in English, Surinamese Hindus are nonetheless peripheral to the Anglosphere and therefore not as adept at dealing with the many ways that English has become the primary transnational vehicle of Hindu identity, discourse, and politics.

Contemporary Hindu Practice

Though Surinamese Hinduism is more complicated than the division suggests, Surinamese Hindus identify themselves as followers of either the majority Sanatan Dharm (eternal order) tradition and the paṇḍit-led worship of deity images (mūrti),¹ or the iconoclastic Arya Samaj reform movement. In both cases, Hinduism is critical to safeguarding the ‘honour’ (ijjat) of the Hindu community in relation to other ethno-racial and religious groups. A ‘genetic’ religion based on shared descent and assumptions of cultural unity, as in other parts of the Indian indentured diaspora, Hinduism has come to focus on the metaphysical equality of all Hindus (Kelly1991).

The collapse of the caste system and ready access to land promoted this change. Surinamese Hinduism was therefore constructed around the ritual maintenance and demarcation of the patrilineal Hindu household (Lalmohammed 1992). Surinamese Hindus built a version of the jajmāni system focused on the ritual patronage of Brahman priests (paṇḍits, who may or not be of Brahmanical descent) by notionally independent patriarchal joint-families or nuclear households. Families have ongoing relations with their paṇḍit, who performs life cycle rites (saṃskār) like a child’s first haircut, weddings, funerals, house consecrations, and also celebrates major personal events like birthdays (De Klerk 1951). This arrangement powerfully reinforces paṇḍit authority, as their mediation is important for even basic religious rites (van der Burg and van der Veer 1986, Bakker 1999). Sanatan Dharm doctrine emphasizes a bhakti devotional ethos focused on an affective relation of care and identification between the devotee and a favoured deity (iṣṭadeva) (Prentiss 1999). Even the most passionate private devotions, however, remain tethered to paṇḍit-led rituals—something that, alongside the expense of these rites, is resented by even committed Sanatan Dharm Hindus (van der Burg and van der Veer 1986).

This ‘brahmanization’ of Hindu ritual has resulted in the contraction of the Hindu pantheon to a handful of pan-Indic Purāṇic deities (van der Veer and Vertovec 1991). Surinamese Hindus retain the cultural inheritance of Northern Indian Vaiṣṇav bhakti devotionalism—the worship of Viṣṇu as the supreme being/reality (Parātman/Brahman). Texts like Tulsīdās’ Rāmcaritmānas, a vernacular retelling of the Rāmāyaṇa, and Rāmlīlā performances that re-enact its pivotal scenes, remain standard. Buttressed by sermons, bhajans, and devotional Indian Hindi language films and programmes that air constantly on Surinamese television, Vaiṣṇavism colours how most Surinamese Hindus imagine Hinduism. Devotion to Śiva and Śakti (the Goddess) is equally popular, however. No matter who the focus of worship is, generally subsidiary deities like Sarasvatī, Gaṇeś, Hanumān, and Gaṅgā Mā (the personification of the Ganges) are always present. Most Hindu homes have a pūjā corner or room where they perform daily or weekly domestic devotions by offering flowers and incense to these deities. Domestic devotions may also be performed at a stand of jhaṇḍī—bamboo poles hung with flags that act as aniconic representations of the deities and the most visible sign of a household’s ‘orthodox’ Hindu identity.

During Sanatan Dharm rituals (kathā), paṇḍits guide devotees in making pūjā offerings to the pantheon of Sanskritic deities. The size and centrality of the images that embody these deities vary depending on to whom a temple is consecrated, but all these same deities, in one form or another, are included in almost every one of the smaller temples that are scattered throughout Suriname’s capital, Paramaribo, and the districts of Wanica, Commewijne, and Nickerie. These tend only to be attended on major Hindu festivals and remain subsidiary to paṇḍit-led domestic rites and the jajmān relation. One notable difference between Surinamese temples and those in Guyana is the presence of pews and other obvious borrowings from churches.

It is events at family homes that enable paṇḍits to perform their authority while projecting the ideal of the Hindu tradition most fully as a cohesive whole. In these rites pūjā is accompanied by fire sacrifices (havan/hom). The paṇḍit reads sacred texts in Hindi and Sanskrit and explains them to the audience, often by singing bhajans to the accompaniment of a harmonium. In this way, paṇḍits instruct the wider Hindu community on the mythical foundations of orthopraxy. Elaborate collective meals are served as a ritual service (sevā) to a large number of invited guests, including family, friends, and neighbours. By establishing networks of ritualized reciprocity among families otherwise spread out among widely distributed plots of land, these events enable the Hindu community to coalesce and become visible to its members. They also broadcast differences in wealth and influence between Hindu households. Nevertheless, the goal is to encourage a broad sense of Hindu collective identity centred around paṇḍit-led performances of ethno-religious prosperity and the steadfast retention of the Hindu identity that is held to enable it.

The limited diasporic pantheon and primary concern with the household parallels significant changes in how Surinamese Hindus perceive the sacred through the landscape. India is saturated with pilgrimage sites (van der Veer 1988). These can be of local, regional, or national importance, but as signs of the continued presence of the deities in the material world, sacred sites exert profound influence on everyday Hindu practices. In Suriname, this sacred geography is held to be unique to India, with the exception of reverence for the many rivers that drain Suriname’s rainforest interior. Each river has thus become a version of the Gaṅgā, used as a tīrtha (ford)—a crossing point between worlds where Hindus worship and purify themselves. Just as all rivers may become the Gaṅgā, the deities are identically accessible everywhere through Brahmanical ritual. This further supports the turn towards the home and the family as the focus of Hindu ritual life. These changes are part of broader universalist claims about Hinduism as humanity’s original religion. Censure from, and comparison to, hegemonic Christianity fostered a theology of encompassment. As all souls are fragments of the Hindu Godhead, all other religious traditions are seen as derivations from the originating truth of Vedic Hindu practice, a metaphysics that is ensured by careful rhetorical stress on Hinduism’s ultimate monotheism. Hindus thereby strategically recognize the validity of other religions while subsuming them to their own tradition.

Arya Samaj and the Organization of Surinamese Hinduism

What I have so far described is representative of the majority practices of ‘orthodox’ Sanatan Dharm Hindus. Surinamese Hinduism, however, cannot be understood without appreciating the pivotal role of the Arya Samaj reform movement in its development. By remaking Hinduism in light of Protestant criticisms, Arya Samaj was highly effective in rebutting claims of European and Christian superiority. Started in late nineteenth-century Northern India, Arya Samaj—which accounts for 3 per cent of Suriname’s Hindu population—sought to purge Hinduism of ‘accretions’ and ‘return’ Hindu practice to a purported Vedic monotheism without priests, images, animal sacrifices, or castes (Kelly 1991: 126). Arya Samajis hoped to replace what they saw as a fractured and corrupt multitude of Hindu traditions with a single lay-led religion of absolute truth based on ‘purified’ Sanskrit texts, the fire sacrifice, and moral instruction.

Because they provided a ready-made egalitarian ideology of ancient ethnic pride and independent Hindi medium educational and institutional services, Arya Samaj missionaries were particularly successful in Suriname (Bakker 1999: 100–5). This rhetorical success in the highly constrained colonial public sphere, however, came at the expense of the affective pull of bhakti devotionalism and the pragmatic concerns with personal and familial flourishing that characterized most Surinamese Hindus’ lives.

In answer to the strident condemnations of both Arya Samaj and Christian missionaries, the paṇḍit Paltan Tewarie established the Shri Sanatan Dharm Maha Saba Suriname in 1929 (Bakker 1999). Sanatan Dharm cannily split the difference between projecting a unified Hindu identity and maintaining much of what was familiar and valued in popular Hindu practice. In the name of ancient, immutable tradition, Sanatan Dharm made Hinduism into a ‘modern’ organized religion with clear leadership, scriptures, and doctrines easily identifiable to colonial authorities. The institutionalization of the Sanatan Dharm additionally confirmed the paṇḍits’ role as the primary mediator of Hindu identity within Suriname’s ‘plural’ society. By certifying its member paṇḍits through a central committee that regulates ritual and doctrine, the Sanatan Dharm continues to encourage the idea that there is a single Hindu ‘orthodoxy’, and projects the existence of a notionally cohesive Hindu interest to the state through its ties to political parties like the currently governing United Reform Party (VHP, formally United Hindustani Party) (Dew 1978: 75).

Monopolizing ritual knowledge and the interpretation of sacred texts, paṇḍits have likewise absorbed many of the traditionally non-Brahmanical soteriological, therapeutic, and apotropaic concerns of popular Hinduism (van der Veer 1991). Brahmans formed maybe as much as 15 per cent of Surinamese immigrants, a sufficient number to ensure that they remained conspicuous and accessible (De Klerk 1953). The absence of non-Brahmanical ascetics among migrants, for instance, led to the eclipse of renunciation as a significant social option. While the soteriology of Hindu asceticism remains a value, it is one largely understood as another of the benefits of a householder’s patronage of Brahmanical rites or the reserve of the pious elderly. Similarly, though Hindu deity mediums and non-Brahmanical healers still practise, they are marginal to paṇḍits who submit concerns with suffering caused by sorcery, malign spirits, and divine punishment to both recondite Hindu astrology and a bhakti devotional metaphysics (Strange 2021). Many afflictions and misfortunes are in this way transformed into opportunities for ‘orthodox’ piety, whether through elaborate regimes of domestic worship or offerings to planetary deities. As I have described elsewhere (Strange 2019, 2021), however, certain popular practices—like those concerned with dangerous indigenous spirits not easily absorbed by respectable Brahmanical orthodoxies—do exert a powerful, if subterranean, influence on many Hindus that is ‘outside’ (bahār) of Brahmanical authority.

Brahmanization of Surinamese Hinduism has, in this way, largely erased or co-opted competing sources of religious authority (and the alternatives they articulate). In a context where Hindus always perceive Hinduism to be vulnerable, Hinduism’s propagation has therefore become the core aim of Hindu ritual. Emerging at the confluence of multiple debates over Indian identity and what forms a ‘modern’ Hinduism should take, Surinamese Hinduism reflects the tensions of making a complex polyphonic tradition amenable to both the demands of the post-colonial nation-state and an aspirant middle class anxious about racial and religious respectability. These influences only deepen the sense among many Surinamese Hindus that the primary purpose of Hindu life is the maintenance and reproduction of Hindu dharma through Brahmanical rituals and ethnic/religious endogamy.

Conclusion: Transnational Presents

A full quarter of the Surinamese population migrated to the Netherlands at Suriname’s independence. The largest portion of these migrants were Hindus (Dew 1978). Hinduism in Suriname remains strongly informed by this connection. Many esteemed Surinamese paṇḍits and Hindu intellectuals live between Suriname and the Netherlands. Hindu devotional texts and programmes increasingly appear in Dutch. Though Suriname has maintained its links to India, the connection with the Netherlands continues to dominate how Surinamese Hinduism is imagined and practised. India’s economic and cultural influence has similarly grown in importance. The two countries are connected to a degree never before possible. There is more direct influence from Indian Hindu organizations, among them an active contingent of the Hindu right. Though the effects of these influences remain uncertain, it does appear that the aggressive communal violence of Indian political Hinduism is checked by the everyday realities of Surinamese pluralism. With falling Hindustani birth rates, Suriname is currently undergoing another demographic transformation. This, alongside the grim reality of Suriname’s vulnerability to climate change, will undoubtedly reshape Surinamese Hinduism in unexpected ways. What is certain, however, is that Hinduism will endure as a defining presence in Surinamese life.

References

Bakker, Freek L. 1999. Hindoes in een Creolse wereld: Impressies van het Surinaamse Hindoeïsme. Zoetermeer: Meinema.

De Klerk C.J.M. 1951. Cultus en Ritueel van het orthodoxe Hindoeïsme in Suriname. Amsterdam: Urbi et Orbi.

De Klerk C.J.M. 1953. De immigratie der Hindostanen in Suriname. Amsterdam: Urbi et Orbi.

Dew, Edward. 1978. The Difficult Flowering of Suriname: Ethnicity and Politics in a Plural Society. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff.

Fokken, Margriet. 2018. Beyond Being koelies and kantráki: Constructing Hindostani Identities in Suriname in the Era of Indenture. Hilversum: Verloren.

Hoefte Rosemarijn. 1998. In Place of Slavery: Social History of British Indian and Javanese Laborers in Suriname. Gainesville: University Press of Florida.

Hoefte Rosemarijn. 2014. Suriname in the Long Twentieth Century: Domination, Contestation, Globalization. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

Kelly, John D. 1991. A Politics of Virtue: Hinduism, Sexuality, and Countercolonial Discourse in Fiji. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Lalmohamed, Bea. 1992. Hindostaanse Vrouwen: De geschiedenis van zes generaties. Utrecht: Jan van Arkel.

Prentiss, Karen Pechilis. 1999. The Embodiment of Bhakti. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Strange, Stuart Earle. 2019. ‘Indigenous Spirits, Pluralist Sovereignty, and the Aporia of Surinamese Hindu Belonging.’ Ethnos 84: 4, 642–59.

Strange, Stuart Earle. 2021. Suspect Others: Spirit Mediums, Self-Knowledge, and Race in Multiethnic Suriname. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.

Suriname Census. 2022. URL: www.StatisticsSuriname.org/index.php/Statistickon/downloads/category/30-census/, statisticken-2022/.

Van der Burg, Corstiaan and Peter van der Veer. 1986. ‘Pandits, Power and Profits: Religious Organization and the Construction of Identity among the Surinamese Hindus.’ Ethnic and Racial Studies 9 (4): 514–28.

Van der Veer, Peter. 1988. Gods on Earth: The Management of Religious Experience and Identity in a North Indian Pilgrimage Centre. London: Athlone Press.

Van der Veer, Peter. 1991. ‘Religious Therapies and Their Valuation among Surinamese Hindustani in the Netherlands.’ In Oxford University Papers on India: The Modern Western Diaspora, vol II, 36–57. Delhi: Oxford University Press.

Van der Veer Peter and Steven Vertovec. 1991. ‘Brahmanism Abroad: On Caribbean Hinduism as an Ethnic Religion.’ Ethnology 30 (2): 149–66.

Van Lier, Rudolf. 1949. Samenleving in een grensgebied: Een sociaal-historische studie van de maatschappij in Suriname. Nijhoff: ‘s-Gravenhage.

Stuart Earle Strange, Hinduism in Suriname In: Hindu Diasporas. Edited by: Knut A. Jacobsen, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198867692.003.0006

¹ Because there is no single standardized Sarnami orthography, this article uses Sanskrit/Hindi romanization for clarity.

6

Hindu Diaspora and Hinduisms in Africa, with Special Focus on South Africa

Pratap Kumar Penumala

Introduction

In presenting Hinduism in Africa, the chapter limits itself to three important regions—East Africa (Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania), Southern Africa (South Africa and the island nation of Mauritius as well as La Réunion) and West Africa (Ghana). The reason for this limitation is that although there are Hindus throughout Africa presently, as India begins to expand its trade there, the three regions mentioned have come to represent the vibrant emergence of Hinduism on the African continent unparalleled with countries elsewhere in Africa.

Contact between Africa and India is steeped not only in history and geography but also in mythology and folklore. In Paleogeography it is believed that once upon a time the two regions, Africa and the Indian subcontinent, were part of one land mass known as Gondwana. In recent scholarly discussions, some have suggested that so much focus on trade connections via the Persian Gulf and Arab merchants in order to understand the Africa–India contacts has ignored the micro context within which material objects and artefacts were found. For example, the presence of ‘Shanga lion’ on the East African coast does not tally with the trade explanations, as it resembles an African lion and not an Asian lion. Obviously it could not have been brought to Africa by a trader. Rather, it is an object that seems to have been made by someone who lived in Africa and was familiar with both the Asian lion and the African lion. Therefore, scholars who are involved in archaeological investigations and methods suggest that examining closely such artefacts, though they might be in small quantities, could reveal a richer and more qualitative understanding of the connections between India and Africa (see Hawkes and Wynne-Jones 2015).

Although one could speculate about the origins of Hinduism in Africa going back to the very early times, historically the regions of Africa that are profiled in this chapter have been linked to India through colonialism.

Hinduism in Mauritius

While Barbados was the first colony to introduce a colonial slave system, Mauritius was the first island colony where the experiment of Indian indentured labour system took place on the eve of the end of the slave system of labour beginning in 1834 when the first batch of Indian labourers, 75 in total arrived. Although the Act that abolished the slave system was passed into law in 1833, in Mauritius it became effective only on 1 February 1835. So, the arrival of Indian labourers in 1834, well ahead of the formalization of the Act demonstrates the urgency with which the British Empire sought to protect the sugar industry in the colonies. But there is some evidence to argue that people from Madras were brought to the island between the eighteenth and the early nineteenth centuries to work in the ship-building industry. But by 1810 they became assimilated into the local populations. Hazareesingh notes,

They had not the same powers of resistance to the pressures of social change from the local indigenous society and they soon lost all their national identity. In these circumstances it was easy to bring them into the pale of Western cultural influence. They became Christians, adopted European names, and by 1810 they had all merged with the mixed population of the island and had lost all traces of their native culture. (1966: 242)

By 1860, Mauritius established itself as a leading sugar cane producer, and by 1891 the Indian population grew to 370,588. In 1910, the indenture system was abolished in Mauritius, and by 1911, 87 per cent of the colony’s population was Indian (African Democracy Encyclopaedia Project 2009). During the transportation of Indian indentured labour, the ratio of men and women was kept at 100:40—for every 100 men, 40 women were allowed. However, most women were used in menial labour rather than in the sugar plantations (Dey 2014: 990).

Mauritius became independent in 1968. In terms of ethnicity, Mauritius is 68 per cent Indo-Mauritian, 22 per cent Creole, and 10 per cent others; in terms of religious affiliation, 52 per cent Hindu, 31 per cent Christian, and 15 per cent Muslim. Naturally, it saw the division between Hindu majority and Muslim minority in its political life. In some way, scholars have suggested that India’s sectarian tensions became imported into Mauritian politics. Although Mauritius boasts of a Hindu majority, the form of Hinduism found there is described as ‘Creole Hinduism’. Claveyrolas, describes such form as follows—‘Such Creole Hinduisms result from the cohabitation, within a small island, both (1) between several Hindu traditions (from various castes and regional origins) and (2) with non-Indian religions (Christianity and Islam) and foreign cultures (Western or African)’ (Claveyrolas 2018a: 1). He further describes it as constantly evolving as new temples and sacred places are constantly built and old ones regularly renovated. The first sign of Hindu temples emerged soon after 1860 as ‘plantation shrines’ mainly dedicated to the village goddesses such as the goddess Kālī, and with the arrival of Tamil Hindus who were not indentured, but free passengers, more grandiose looking temples along the lines of their counterparts in India came to be built. The smaller shrines too, over time, were rebuilt as grand buildings with clear identifiers of North Indian and South Indian styles—North Indian temples are usually referred to as Mandirs, whereas the South Indian ones are known as Kovils (Claveyrolas 2018a: 2–3). As most of the shrines and temples were built on the plantation land, plantation owners gave the land freely, and often even donated money liberally to the construction of the temples. Such collaboration between the plantation owners and the labourers is seen as a mutually manipulated strategy. While Hinduism flourished, some Hindus did convert to Catholicism, in an effort to seek better job prospects on the plantation. However, some returned to Hinduism after leaving the plantation land. Such manipulation of religion by both the plantation barons as well as the labourers demonstrates the social significance of religion in the context of Mauritian socio-political life.

Hindu Indians began establishing their religious identity with the temple building from as early as 1867 in the northern part of the island, and Tamils began their religious shrines in the Port Louis area. They began observing festivals such as Durgāpūjā, Rāmnavamī, Dīvālī, Śivarātri, Ekādaśi, and the Fire Walking ceremony. Hinduism was sustained by theatrical performances such as Rāmlīlā and Indrasabhā. Although the priests known as Brahmans were not scholars as such, they were highly regarded for their priestly work (Hazareesingh 1966: 248–9). In the early days, marriages were mainly within the group (in-group), and generally arranged (Hazareesingh 1966: 251). Over time, inter-caste relations and marriages did occur largely due to the fact that in Mauritius, as it is in other diasporic contexts, caste carried less ideological characteristics of rank and hierarchy (Claveyrolas 2015, Hollup 1994: 313).

As happened in South Africa, once labourers moved to villages outside the plantations, the nature of Hinduism and Hindu identity began to change in Mauritius. Temples became more and more sanskritized, the old rituals of animal sacrifices are replaced with Brahmanical rituals, and temples are redesigned as per the Sanskrit sacred codes. This transformation also resulted in the mutual appropriation and cooperation between North Indian and South Indian devotees who tend to attend each other’s festivities—the Tamils would attend the Śiva pūjā at a North Indian temple, and North Indians would attend a Firewalking ritual dedicated to the goddess Draupadiyammaṉ (Claveyrolas 2018a: 5). Another significant development is in the way sacred Hindu geography within Mauritius has evolved. Hindu religious festivals often connect sacred places and temples in a procession that covers more or less the national landscape. For instance, the Śivarātri festival brings pilgrims from all over the island and, as they journey through the land, the different temples and shrines serve as shelters for the pilgrims regardless of their denominational differences. Hindu sacred geography is also intrinsically linked to India by linking the waters of the Mauritian lake to the River Gaṅg through a mythical subterranean connection, albeit, the Gaṅg water was imported to mix with the lake’s waters to make it a ‘genuine Hindu’ sacred site (Claveyrolas 2018b). In a sense, India remains as a pivot in the Mauritian Hindu identity. This Indian connection has been harnessed by Hindu Mauritians to improve their social status in the island politics. Claveyrolas points out,

In the context of rapidly changing India-Mauritius relations, members of the Indo-Mauritian elite asserted themselves, during the first half of the 20th century, as leaders and conquerors of the island, but also as objective allies of the British from whom they would later obtain political power. Since the advent of Independence, political power has been held by descendants of Indian indentured labourers (mainly Hindu Bhojpuris from the Vaish caste) who represent 60% of the population, most of which is Hindu. After many decades of distant relations with India, the 1990s witnessed a revival of cultural, political and economic links. (Claveyrolas 2015: 3)

It is also this Indian connection that enables them to gradually distance themselves from the ‘creole identity’ despite the fact that they shared with other Mauritians ‘the structures, constraints and consequences of the plantation system’ (Claveyrolas 2015: 3). A journalist recently described Mauritius as the only Hindu majority nation in Africa where ‘India’s political and religious clashes are played out on a smaller stage in the far south of the Indian Ocean’ (Leudi 2018).

Hinduism in La Réunion

Réunion is on the southeast coast of Africa about 550 km from Madagascar’s east coast.¹ From the sixteenth century onwards, it began to be populated by French and people from Madagascar. The island was first discovered by the Portuguese in 1507. Later, in the early sixteenth century it was occupied by France and was ruled from Mauritius. It was only in the latter part of the seventeenth century it began to be colonized by the French with the establishment of the French East India Company there. During the French rule, it had different names. It was first named after the house of Bourbon and then Île de la Réunion to commemorate the union of the revolutionaries from Marseille, and then changed its name to Île Bonaparte with the arrival of Bonaparte as its first consul. In 1793, it received its present name of La Réunion. In the seventeenth century, slave labour was imported from East Africa and later on, in the nineteenth century, other labourers including the Indians (known in records as Malabar Indians) were brought there.² The commonly spoken language was French Creole, while some people spoke Tamil as well. Later, the Gujarati Muslims joined the population who maintained their cultural values more distinctly than the other Indians. In terms of social stratification, Whites and Indians occupy higher social and economic status.

While Catholicism is the majority religion, Hinduism occupies a place behind it. In the earlier period, Tamil people were forced to go to church and adopt Christian values. In the eighteenth century the Catholic priests systematically prevented construction of Hindu places of worship. Although the majority of Indians have been Christianized, they continue to refer to Hindu gods for important matters. Generally, what is considered as ‘folk’ Hinduism is the dominant feature of Hindu practice and is closely associated with notions of bad luck.³ Despite placing many restrictions, the official French policy could not eradicate Hindu beliefs entirely. Scholars have pointed out that

Christianity became for the Tamils a matter of mere public display, acted out to satisfy the island’s ‘others’ and to demonstrate integration into the mainstream society. Meanwhile, Tamils in La Réunion today face an important dilemma emerging from within: to reform or not to reform their Hindu folk rites, as a brahmanic Hinduism is recently imported from India and propagated among Tamils of the younger generation. (Ghasarian 1997: 286)

The two main rituals of Tamils on the island nation, that is, Firewalking and kāvaṭi are often associated with what some have described as ‘therapeutic rituals’ (Govindamma 2006).

Hinduism in Réunion is quite visible despite the general French ethos of secularism. According to the World Population Review⁴ of 2021 statistics, of the total population of the 900,666, Indians are estimated to be about 25 per cent with about 10.7 per cent Hindus. In a detailed interview in Hinduism Today, a Hindu priest speaks about juggling between holding a regular job and practising as a priest and trying to preserve his Tamil culture. The priest (Serge Ajaguin-Soleyen) says,

The rituals learned from our grandfathers were transmitted orally and committed to memory. I was not satisfied. During the creation of the Tamil school, by Gobalsamy and Mr. Dali, we had the opportunity to be initiated into the language. I wanted to learn the longer chants, I wanted to understand the meaning. By coincidence, the ILA (Institute of Languages and Anthropology) was created at the University at that time. I was enrolled, we were among the first from Saint-Paul. Under the impulse of Mr. Sinouvassen, who became my second professor of language. I am with him still, and it is towards him that I turn when I have difficulties of comprehending a text.⁵

He made efforts to introduce Tamil ‘ceremonies (Sadurti, Kartigai…)⁶ and changes in clothing—the veshti for men and the sari for the women’. At the same time, he is also keen to modernize the practices and rituals:

I would like to change some of the prohibitions. When I see the number of temples which have been built in Reunion, and the number of priests they have, it is necessary to ensure that these temples continue to live on. There are currently prohibitions against temple worship for a certain number of days, for example at the birth of a child. The woman who had a child is regarded as impure and cannot enter a holy place. Also there are prohibitions regarding death. We’ve tried to explain that the impurity is related to matters of health for which people were formerly quarantined. These are precisely two points of prohibition which we should re-examine today.

He admits that Réunion Hindus live between two cultures—European and Indian. He elaborates,

With the monthly ceremonies (sadurti, kartigai, parnumi, amavasi…). Whereas before, we observed only three ceremonies per year. Now we celebrate the birth of Ganesh (Sadurti), Kartigai, the festival of Mourouga; Yegardesi, the festival of Maha Vishnu; Amavasi, the festival of the ancestors; Paunemi, the festival of the moon. Each one means the Hindu Pantheon is now called upon every month. I think that this will continue, and we’ll eventually invoke the Pantheon every week, then each day. The real difficulty for people who work, is the very demanding and rigorous attendance over a period of ten days each time. Therefore we have to loosen up certain injunctions and prohibitions, so we can live Hinduism on a daily basis.

Hinduism in Réunion is not only mixed with Roman Catholic rituals, but also Muslim. They observe a uniquely local ritual associated with a local god, named Nargoulan. It is believed that

This local god is one of the instances where people of Reunion island take part of one religion and assimilate it in another. The origin of this celebration goes back to a group of indentured labourers whose ship was caught in a storm. They said their ship was saved thanks to the prayers of a Muslim man who was travelling with them. The symbol of this divinity is thus a hand which points to the sky on top of a mast. Ceremonies honouring this local divinity usually take place after those honouring Lord Ganesh.⁷

Other festivals and rituals observed on the island nation are associated with Poṅgal, Durgāpūjā, Tamil New Year, Māriammaṉ,⁸ and a goddess known as Petiaya associated with black magic and protecting children. Lang (2021) points out that Hindus in Réunion are less aware and less interested in Indian nationalistic ideas and politics. Instead of looking for recognition from India, they are keener to be recognized within Réunion society and state (Lang 2021: 12). She describes some of the practices of Hindus, such as Karly [Kālī] festival, and karèm/carême (fasting) which involves abstaining from meat, fish, eggs, alcohol, and sexual relations. They observe the firewalking fasting for 18 days that include sleeping on the floor to express penitence, not shaving and not watching TV or participating in social media (Lang 2021: 16). As part of purity rituals, menstruating women are not allowed to enter the temple, or even in the house: they are made to sit or sleep in the veranda. In the midst of their desire to practise their religion, Lang points out that ‘Some Reunionese Hindus reveal strategic ways of engaging with diverse religious and magico-religious practices that reflect their economic, social and personal aspirations’ (Lang 2021: 23).

There is no doubt that Hinduism in Réunion has undergone substantial changes through indigenous forces. It is noted that Indians that came to Réunion are from the middle and lower castes and tribes. It is only by underlining the background that we can determine the losses and adaptations to the new situation, suggests Benoist (1979: 23). He argues that the changes in the religious practices of Hindus in Réunion need to be accounted for vis à vis the readjustment of religious values in relation to the rising socio-economic status of people (Benoist 1979: 26). He compares the Christianization of many of their practices to the process of Sanskritization in India while safeguarding the essentials of their religion (1979: 28). He also points out that by drawing from the Indian Tamil temples of Śiva, Subrahmanian, and Murukaṉ, the new middle class is giving a new face to the Réunion Hinduism (Benoist 1979: 30). Despite this focus on temples by the middle class, Benoist argues, that one should not lose focus of the lineage cults practised in their homes (Benoist 1979: 34). And despite the Brahmanization of the temples, the core deities remain central in the temples—Gaṇeś, Maliemin (Māriammaṉ), Kālī, Draupadī, Arjuna, and Arouvan (Alvan in Creole) (Benoist 1979: 37–8). He says, while the previous generations confined some of the practices that seemed incompatible with modern society to private space in the homes, the modern elite are ambiguous about such practices, notwithstanding their participation due to family ties (Benoist 1979: 46). It may be useful to close this narrative of Hinduism in Réunion with Benoist’s comment that the Reunionese have been able to abandon those aspects that came under global pressure and kept those that were most important, that is, the family rites, the representation of the supernatural and the means of communicating with it, the image of the causes and treatment of diseases, and the purity and impurity attached to certain behaviours, to certain foods, and certain gestures (Benoist 1979: 63).

South Africa

Indian presence in South Africa formally begins with the introduction of the indenture system of labour in the Natal colony during the mid-nineteenth century. Between the period of 1860 and 1911, nearly 146,000 Indians in 364 ships were brought to Natal colony as part of the indenture system. There were also non-indenture Indians who were known as ‘passenger Indians’ who came at their own expense to trade in South Africa. And these passenger Indians were mostly from Gujarat. The indenture workers came from both South India and North India, and while South Indians became homogenized into two groups—Tamil and Telugu, the North Indian groups became homogenized into the broad category of the Hindi-speaking community (Kumar 2013). As most indentured labourers worked under very difficult conditions, and while the merchant Indians faced several obstacles for trading, South Africa gave rise to great freedom fighters such as Mahatma Gandhi, who lived in South Africa from 1893 to 1914 and led a movement that is widely known as Satyagraha. Even after the end of the British colonial rule and the subsequent rule by the Afrikaner dominant National Party, the citizenship status of the Indians was only settled in 1961 (Kumar 2013: 6).

From the very onset, the indentured labourers began to build temples and shrines throughout Natal and later in other parts of South Africa. The initial period of temple building enabled the Hindus to maintain their religious beliefs and practices, albeit in very rudimentary ways, as most of them came with neither educational background nor with a middle-class social background. They were mostly from rural parts of India, and brought with them the many popular Hindu festivals, rituals, and beliefs that they established in Natal. As the majority of them came from non-Brahman communities, the predominance of non-Brahmanical rituals and celebrations, such as Māriammaṉ, Draupadiyammaṉ and Gaṅgāmma, Sītalā, Hanumān and Gaṇeśa, are more common forms of religious expressions. One unique feature of Hindu temples in South Africa is their ability and willingness to make them as inclusive as possible to cater to a wide variety of religious and regional orientations. As such, one temple complex, such as the Sri Vaithyanatha Eeswarar Temple on Umgeni Road in Durban, contains the main temple dedicated to Śiva, an adjoining smaller temple for Viṣṇu, and on the far end of the complex a goddess temple dedicated to Māriammaṉ.

While the initial period until the first decade of the twentieth century was dominated by the temple-based ritual traditions, since 1905, with the arrival of the Arya Samaj and other new Hindu movements and their leaders, Hinduism in South Africa began to be transformed to include more Vedānta-based traditions. While the Arya Samaj attempted to reform Hinduism in Natal by emphasizing the ancient Vedic teachings and Havan ritual and the 16 traditional Hindu saṃskāras, it also created a division within the Hindi-speaking communities, between those who called themselves Sanatanists (traditionalists) and those who identified themselves as Arya Samajists. The other organizations, such as the Ramakrishna Centre of South Africa (established along the teachings of Ramakrishna Mission) and the Divine Life Society of South Africa, emphasized the Vedānta teachings and weekly satsaṅgs for their followers. South African Hindu practice could be summed up between these two broad orientations, that is, temple-based ritualism and Vedānta-based modern traditions of Hinduism. However, Hindus generally are used to frequenting both these centres of traditions as most Hindus are not sectarian oriented but rather more inclusive. Although there is a growing trend among the youth and educated middle class to oscillate towards the Vedānta-based organizations, one finds that the temple-based ritual orientation is just as dominant to date.

Favourable Winds of Change for Hinduism in South Africa

As outlined earlier, both temples and philosophically oriented institutions provide a plethora of expressions of Hindu ways of life. Given the enormous diversity that exists within the Hindu society in South Africa, since the inauguration of the new democratic state, various India-based organizations and institutions made their way into South Africa in the last two decades. As more and more business people from India made it to South Africa to establish their businesses’ interests and as more and more professionals also follow in their wake to find careers, there is a new wave of Hindu resurgence that seems to be taking place. This is of some interest, especially in the wake of concerns from the Hindu leadership about the growing number of converts from the Hindu fold to other religions, such as Christianity. The impact of conversion can be seen particularly among the poorer Hindu families in the areas such as Phoenix, Chatsworth in Durban, and Lenasia in the Johannesburg region. The arrival of the new immigrants seems to have offered an opportunity, though not a planned one, but one that occurred in the process, to re-energize Hinduism. Unlike the overt attempts to transform Hinduism at the turn of the twentieth century by institutions such as the Arya Samaj, this time change seems to be happening more organically than in a pre-planned and deliberate orchestration. Here one must also take into account the growing educated classes among the Hindus. The growth of middle-class society within the Hindu fold seems certainly greater than in other communities.⁹ Although the temple-based religious modalities continue to dominate, even within those temples there is a gradual tendency towards upward mobility, somewhat along the lines that M.N. Srinivas (1965)¹⁰ outlined many decades ago.

In line with the explanation that Srinivas had offered later on (1956: 481ff), wherein he prefers the term ‘Sanskritization’ to ‘Brahmanization’ as the latter is more complicated, with complex Vedic rituals and permitted only among the twice born, I consider the developments of temple modes of worship and the redesigning of the temples in recent times in South Africa as a part of the broader Sanskritic cultural process. Not only the new generation of Hindus are keener to include Sanskrit mantras chanted by the newly established Sri Lankan Brahman priests, but also are actively inviting the sculptors from South India to redesign the old temples, including the traditionally associated non-Brahmin Māriammaṉ and other goddess temples, along the lines of the Sanskrit textual codes. In this regard, I refer to the recently redesigned Māriammaṉ temple in Mt. Edgecombe Township in Durban area. From its humble beginnings as a simple structure made of metal sheets, it now stands as a colourful temple with the massive superstructure decorated with all the Sanskritic gods and goddesses on the panels. It is worth noting that the old Māriammaṉ image is now directly associated with the Sanskritic goddess Durgā in the temple’s iconography, as highlighted in the central panel in the forefront of the temple gopura. The contemporary Māriammaṉ ritual in most temples is devoid of non-vegetarian offerings. Such acts indicate the conscious moving away from the previously lower status to which the non-Sanskritic goddess temples have been confined. This is in stark contrast to the humble beginnings of these non-Sanskritic temples (see Figure 6.1). In the earlier phase of the temple development, Māriammaṉ shrines are located on the far end of the temple complex where either Viṣṇu or Śiva is the principal deity, as in the case of Sri Vaithianatha Eswarar Temple on Umgeni Road in Durban.

Figure 6.1 Gaṅgāmma shrine on Belair Road, Cato Manor, Durban (photograph by author).

The association of the non-Sanskritic goddess with the Sanskritic gods and goddesses in fact had begun by the early twentieth-century temple constructions (see Figure 6.2).

Figure 6.2 Shree Ambalavanavaar Alayam, Cato Manor, Durban (photograph by author).

But in recent years, with the increased contacts with India, the temple renovations made more conspicuous and spectacular representations of the classical Hindu temple iconographic elements (see Figure 6.3).

Figure 6.3 The newly renovated Māriammaṉ temple at Mt. Edgecomb, Durban (photograph by author).

This gradual Sanskritization of the Hindu worship and life is coupled with the growing trend towards intellectual aspects of Hinduism such as Vedānta philosophy. This is obviously facilitated by the growing number of Indian-based svāmis and gurus visiting South Africa and establishing their brand of Hindu philosophy. What is intriguing is the more recent role played by the Indian consular missions in increasingly bringing to South Africa India-based Hindu gurus, and cultural and religious leaders, musicians and performers, and propagating yoga. This latest particular trend in the outlook of the Indian missions in South Africa is in contrast to their earlier approach in distancing themselves from religious aspects and remaining neutral. This could, in some ways, be linked to the present ruling party in India, the Bharatiya Janata Party, which has a strong Hindu orientation as its political strategy. In Durban, the Indian mission has named its cultural centre ‘Swami Vivekananda Cultural Centre’, clearly indicating its Hindu cultural leanings—they often send out invitations to prominent Hindus to their regular cultural programmes that tend to profile Hindu culture.

Contemporary Hindu Society in South Africa

Hindu social organization began in its very early stages ever since the arrival of indentured workers in 1860. The initial social stratification was based on class distinction between the indentured workers and those who came in pursuit of private business interests. The latter Passenger Indians included both Hindus and Muslims. Due to their relative economic advantage the Passenger Indians tended to identify themselves separately, while some Gujarati merchants went even as far as to claim a status on par with their European counterparts, based on their fairer complexion. Such class prejudice is reflected initially in the attempts of the merchant Indians to distinguish themselves from the indentured workers by classifying themselves as ‘Arabs’. The indentured workers were pejoratively called ‘coolies’ and ‘samis’ by the Europeans. In an attempt to avoid being cast in the same mode, the Gujarati merchants called themselves ‘Arabs’ and the Parsis called themselves ‘Persians’ (Arnold 2001: 46). Arnold also notes that Gandhi’s earlier views also reflected this prejudice since he identified himself with the merchant interests initially rather than with the underclass (Arnold 2001: 49).

As the Indian community in South Africa began to grow and become settled, the internal social disparities and prejudices began to surface. Initially, the community was divided along linguistic lines as Tamil, Telugu, Hindi, and Gujarati, Soon, within each community, subtle caste distinctions continued to operate. Some of my informants from the older generation often pointed out to me that in the very early days some from the higher order used to discriminate against those from the lower order—for example, some Padayachi families in the Tamil community used to disallow families they felt were inferior to them. Likewise, in the Gujarati society, the mochis and the barbers were treated separately. Many of the earlier religious and community organizations were in fact organized along caste lines—for example the Kathiawad Pattani Soni Association among the Gujaratis (see Kumar 2013: 107). Scholars, however, generally agree that caste as a social-organizing institution virtually disappeared in South Africa. But there seems to be some leftover caste consciousness lingering in the air, and it is evident in the way that last names in most South African Indian families are maintained—virtually most of the South Indian last names are derived from the caste name, for example Naidoo, Padayachi, Pillay, and so on. Other linguistic groups too maintained a fairly good number of caste names as last names, for example Singh in the case of the Hindi-speaking people, and Soni, Patel, and so on among the Gujaratis (see Kumar 2012).

East Africa

Linguists, anthropologists, and ethnologists have for some time suggested links between India and East Africa. East Africa south of Abyssinia was generally known as ‘India Tertia’ (Homburger 1956: 21). Homburger also suggested that connections between South India and East Africa date back to the pre-Christian era (Homburger 1956: 19). Another source for earlier connections between India and East Africa is from ad 60 the Periplus of the Erythrean Sea—which is attributed to a Greek sailor (Amiji 1975: 33). Alpers suggests that certainly by the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries there is evidence of the presence of Gujarati traders in East Africa who were brought there by the Muslim Sultanate in Gujarat (Alpers 1976: 24). But, with the arrival of Portuguese in East Africa, the conspicuous presence of Gujarati merchants becomes visible (Alpers 1976: 30–3). By the mid eighteenth century they began to remain for longer and make more permanent settlements (Amiji 1975: 34). It was however with the introduction of the indenture system both in East Africa and South Africa during the British colonial rule that a greater Indian presence became a permanent feature in these parts of Africa. In the case of East Africa, the Sultan of Oman, Seyyid Said, moved his capital from Muscat to Zanzibar, which enabled more Gujarati merchants to arrive under the Sultan’s patronage. The general colonial economic policy of the British initially gave generous titles and grants to the Gujarati merchants in Uganda and in Tanganyika for supporting the British (Gregory 1981: 261). In the post-colonial period, most Gujarati merchants left East Africa (Uganda, Kenya, and Tanzania) to settle in various western countries such as the UK and US. The general social background of the Gujaratis included Bhattia, Lohana, Bania, and Patidar (Pocock 1957).

Perhaps the most prominent Hindu religious organization that has flourished in recent years is the Svāminārāyaṇa movement. In the last two decades the BAPS Swaminarayan Sanstha has built four major temples in Nairobi, Mombasa (both in Kenya), Dar-es-salam, and in Mwanza (Tanzania); and built religious centres at Nakuru, Eldoret, and Kisumu. Svāminārāyaṇa branch is a Gujarati Hindu institution. Through their temples and satsaṅgs at these temples they disseminate Hindu religious ideas to the larger society. Through weekly assemblies and monthly and annual festivals they gather to celebrate their Hindu heritage. They also have a large temple in Kampala (Uganda). In fact, there are two Svāminārāyaṇa temples in Nairobi—one that was built in 1945 and has a different organizational background that distinguishes itself from the newer temple. The older one is affiliated to the order of Acharya Devendraprasadji and was built by Tejendraprasadji Maharaj. The newly built Svāminārāyaṇa temples, both in Nairobi and elsewhere, affiliate themselves with Pramukh Swami Maharaj. Annual camps known as ‘Shibir’ are ways through which the Svāminārāyaṇa community encourages youth to cultivate Hindu ideals and engage in spiritual exercises.

Comparable to the success of the Svāminārāyaṇa movement in East Africa is the presence of the International Society for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON) group. There are two temples of the ISKCON branch in Kenya. The ISKCON periodically organizes major festivals in celebration of Kṛṣṇa, their beloved deity. In January 1998, the ISKCON organized a major spiritual tour called ‘East Africa Spiritual Revival Tour’ covering Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania. Their aim was to bring about Kṛṣṇa consciousness among the people, not just of the Indian community in East Africa, but the entire African society. Since then, such festival tours have become more or less annual events—2003, 2004, and 2005. In 2009, they organized a major tour called ‘Harinama with Mahavishnu Swami’, mainly through the streets of Nairobi city in Kenya. They also organized a major festival in the town of Kisumu in Kenya during the same year. The tour covered several towns and villages throughout Kenya and then went on to cover Uganda. It is through these festivals and spiritual tours that the Hare Krishnas, as they are popularly known, make their presence felt among the African communities. Their target communities are not restricted to the Indians but to the rest of African society. This way, they hope to claim certain universality of their faith.

Also there is a Śrī Veṅkaṭeśvara temple in Nairobi and a Śrī Ayyappan temple largely established by South Indian communities. During October 2010, the Telugu Hindu community organized an impressive festival of brahmotsavam at the Śrī Veṅkaṭeśvara temple in Nairobi. The Telugu community is a relatively small group established in the last decade due to opportunities which became available to Indians in the Information Technology field. What is interesting is the recognition of prominent members of the Telugu Hindu community as well as the religious leaders and priests during the festival. Perhaps the most visible part of the programme was the religious music festival and the procession through the streets of Nairobi, with members of the community dressed and decorated in the various forms of deities such as Viṣṇu, Brahmā, and Śiva.

The Sathya Sai Baba organization is also quite visible in East Africa, mainly Kenya. Their work is characterized not only by their religious work, but significantly in the field of education. They have in recent years established schools in relatively remote places like Kisaju, Kenya, in an effort to offer educational facilities to African children. In addition to Sathya Sai branches, there are six Brahma Kumari centres in Kenya. They mainly teach Vedānta philosophical ideals and largely reach women through their gatherings.

West Africa

West Africa (Ghana) is a somewhat special case in regard to the presence of Hinduism there. Unlike the normal process of emergence of Hinduism either through organic evolution due to the presence of Hindu community or through the missionary activity of new Hindu organizations, Hinduism in Ghana has emerged primarily through indigenous initiatives. There is a belief in African culture that foreign healers and powers are greater than local ones. In this regard Wuaku argues that

the Ghanaian discourse on Hinduism’s wonder working, magico-religious power is a product of local imagination and indigenous religious creativity. It originated in local interpretations of narratives about powerful Hindu gods and spirits, and other imaginaries about India that flowed from India into Ghana after the Second World War—interpretations largely informed by Ghanaian cultural notions. (Wuaku 2013: 2–3)

Therefore, in understanding Hinduism in West Africa in general and Ghana in particular, we need to look at alternative ways in which Hinduism was established. In this context, Wuaku’s work is seminal for our understanding. Also key to our understanding of West African Hinduism is the groundbreaking work of Henry Drewal (Drewal 1988a and 1988b). According to Henry Drewal, West African early interest in Indian rituals and beliefs is related to the worship of Mami Wata and snake charmers thought to be from India. The establishment of colonial power in Africa by the mid-nineteenth century made available to West African society the images and beliefs from India that inspired the ‘dramatic developments in Mami Wata beliefs, iconography, and ritual performances’ (Drewal 1988a: 110). Mami Wata is thought to be a water spirit from India who travelled to West Africa and is said to be most beautiful and has the powers to both destroy as well as to bestow gifts on her devotees. In iconography she is depicted as the mermaid with flowing hair and is identified with the Indian goddess Lakṣmī. As the images of Indian gods and goddesses began to appear in photos and chromolithographs on the West African coast (Nigeria, Sierra Leon, Gambia, and Ghana) and particularly the images of snake charmers, Drewal argues that ‘[T]he enormous popularity of the snake charmer lithograph led to a growing African market in Indian prints of Hindu gods, goddesses, and spirits over the last thirty years’ (Drewal 1988a: 116). In this regard, the supply of these prints by the Gujarati traders is also underlined. Additionally, Wuaku notes that stories about Ghanaian medicine men, women, and charm makers travelling to India ‘for the purpose of revamping their powers or to consult with Indian spiritual agents, still circulates in Ghana, telling of how Mami Wata ferries these local purveyors of spiritual powers across the oceans to their destinations in India’ (Wuaku 2013: 43). The early interest of African people in the Indian pantheon was to tap into the mysterious powers they thought the deities possessed. As Drewal points out:

In the beginning, Africans considered the prints simply as ‘decoration’ until they began to ‘study’ them. When they studied them, or interpreted their iconography, they came to view the prints as religious icons that held secrets to be unlocked. More importantly, Africans determined that there was a direct connection between these Indian images, the beliefs associated with them, and Indians’ success in financial matters (just as mermaids and other icons such as marine sculptures and saints’ statues had been linked with European wealth and power). But Africans were not content simply to study images, they began to analyze Indian actions as well. They examined Hindu rituals in relation to these religious icons and attributed their own meanings to them. Finally, Africans enlarged the knowledge gained from the images and the actions of Hindus by seeking additional information in their books, pamphlets, and religious paraphernalia. Using all these resources, Mami Wata devotees continue to evolve an elaborate faith, actualizing it in their sacred spaces and ritual performances. (Drewal 1988b: 173)

Coupled with this interest among the West African people, Wuaku points out that the Ghanaian soldiers who served in the British army during World War II also were instrumental in transporting the Hindu religious ideas, particularly related to that of Śiva to Ghana. Wuaku recounts in his ethnographic accounts how Ghanaian soldiers survived in South Asia by deploying magio-religious powers that they acquired from their Indian contacts (Wuaku 2013: 47). Wuaku further notes,

[I]n one story featuring the powers of Shiva, the Hindu deity, a soldier from the village of Larteh had a Shiva devotee for a lover during the war. The lover introduced the soldier to Shiva worship and taught him to chant Om, a symbolic mystical Hindu utterance, whenever he was in danger. According to the story, any time the fighting would become fierce and the soldier would sense that the situation was getting out of hand he would chant ‘Om’ three times and miraculously the tide would begin to turn in his favor. (Wuaku 2013: 47–8)

Soon such accounts spread throughout the rural side of Ghana and influenced local people to turn to these foreign powers.

Two important Hindu religious traditions became established in Ghana. One is directly related to the indigenous people’s acquisition of foreign cults and the other is the Hare Krishna movement (ISKCON). Evolving out of the indigenous interest in foreign mystical powers, a strong Śaivite worship became entrenched in Ghananian society. Its establishment is connected to a local healer by the name of Kwesi Esel who became deeply influenced by the foreign powers and by his desire to acquire those healing powers and went to India. After living for some time among monks in the Himalayas he returned to Ghana and established ‘The Hindu Monastery of Africa’ along the lines of the Divine Life Society, and traced his lineage to Swami Sivananda after he was initiated by Swami Sivananda in 1975 in Ghana. Esel’s monastic order is Śaivite. Kwesi Esel developed an eclectic form of Hinduism drawn from the Śaiva background and, mixing it with African beliefs and practices, spread it throughout many villages in Ghana and became very popular as a miracle worker among the village folk. Among other things, the miracles, according to Wuaku, formed the basis for the Hindu monastic order (Wuaku 2013: 103). The monastic order that was established in Odokor has a temple which is replete not only with Hindu symbols but also local Akan religious symbols. The practice of occult rituals is well known in the community although they are said to be done in relative secrecy—‘One rumour goes that because Hindu religion involves occult practices and is associated with sorcery, Swamiji deliberately planted the trees to hide the temple so that they could perform their rituals in secrecy’ (Wuaku 2013: 106). Because of this sort of integration of Śiva worship with African indigenous rituals, Wuaku suggests that Śiva worship has been domesticated in Ghana. Although, it does follow some core neo-Hindu lifestyle features, such as following a vegetarian diet, and practising non-violence and asceticism, these are not prescribed for the general followers. The community at the monastery follow ‘weekly congregational devotion, yogic meditational exercises, the chanting of mantras and selfless service to larger society’ (Wuaku 2013: 123). The festival of Navarātri and the worship of Durgā has a particular impact on women in the organization.

The other tradition that has become successful in Ghana is the Hare Krishna movement. An itinerant leader of the Hare Krishna movement from India, Swami Jalaka Das visited Ghana, Nigeria, and Sierra Leone around 1977–8 and enlisted a few members into the movement. In 1979 another group of Hare Krishna members from the US led by Bhakti Tirtha Swami visited to strengthen the establishment of the movement firmly. In 1980 a temple was established in Lagos, Nigeria, and in 1981 the group rented a house in Alajo, Ghana, to begin the work of the movement, and in 1982 a second temple was established in Odokor, Ghana. In 1990, the temple was shifted to Akrade, Ghana, but soon they returned to Odokor as it was more accessible to people. The temple and the movement is led by Prabhu Srivas, a Nigerian married to a Ghananian (Wuaku 2013: 152–3). For local people, the Hare Krishna movement was another example of the power of foreign gods and many began to convert to the movement due to the ‘miracles’ associated with it. The Radha Govinda Temple of the Hare Krishnas was later established near Accra on the way to Meidi. The main temple communities are located in Accra, Kumasi, Winneba, Tarkwa, Nkawkaw, Sunyani, and Takoradi. There are life members who contribute to the organization and ‘outside’ members live mostly around Accra and other distant places. Each of the temples has a leader and Prabhu Srivas is the main leader of the movement (Wuaku 2013: 159–65). As in most Hare Krishna temples, the daily routine in the temples begins in the early morning around 3:30 and 4:00 a.m. and by 6:30 a.m. the devotees begin to arrive for the morning rituals.

In Ghana, both the Hindu Monastery of Africa and the Hare Krishna temples were largely led by local people and both forms of Hindu practice led to a substantive ‘Hinduization’ of West Africa. The role of miracles and other indigenous beliefs are largely the reasons for the success of these organizations.

Conclusion

The Hindu religious traditions that continue to flourish in Africa are varied. They vary from region to region. While scholars have noted the peculiarities of the Mauritian Hinduism as being ‘creole’ in nature, West African Hinduism is mostly syncretistic and is driven by the local interests and beliefs of indigenous African people. East African Hinduism is largely of Vaiṣṇava orientation, due to the predominance of the Gujarati merchants. However, the Réunion Hinduism and Mauritius Hinduism are exceptions to such dominance. South African Hinduism, on the other hand, is a mixture of strong non-Brahmanical rituals and Brahmanical temples as well as the continuously emerging Vedānta-based neo-Hindu organizations. In a sense, Hinduisms, if we may refer to the varied nature of the Hindu traditions in Africa as such, represent a wide range of the heterogeneous backgrounds of history, migration, and socio-economic and political struggles of Hindus endemic to the regions in this part of the world. We need to pay attention to their adaptions to these forces, as well as to the indigenous adjustments, in our understanding of the diverse nature of Hinduism in Africa.

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Kumar, P. 2012. ‘Place of Subcaste (jati) Identity in the Discourse on Caste: Examination of Caste in the Diaspora.’ South Asian Diaspora 4 (2): 1–14.

Kumar, P. 2013. Hinduism and the Diaspora: A South African Narrative. Jaipur: Rawat Publications.

Lang, Natalie. 2021. Religion and Pride: Hindus in Search of Recognition in La Réunion. New York: Berghahn Books.

Leudi, Jeremy. 2018. ‘The Tiny African Country India Almost Invaded.’ In Asia by Africa. http://www.jeremyluedi.com/portfolio/2018/6/25/the-tiny-african-country-india-almost-invaded (accessed on 5 May, 2023).

Pocock, David F. 1957. ‘“Difference” in East Africa: A Study of Caste and Religion in Modern Indian Society.’ Southwestern Journal of Anthropology 13 (4): 289–300.

Srinivas, M.N. 1956. ‘A Note on Sanskritization and Westernization.’ The Far Eastern Quarterly 15 (4): 481–96.

Srinivas, M.N. 1965. Religion and Society among the Coorgs of South India. Delhi: Asia Publishing House. (First published in 1952).

Visagie, Justin. 2013. ‘Race, Gender and Growth of the Affluent Middle Class in Post-Apartheid South Africa.’ Economic Research South Africa Working Paper 395, 1–33.

Wuaku, Albert Kaful. 2013. Hindu Gods in West Africa: Ghanaian Devotees of Shiva and Krishna. Leiden: Brill.

Pratap Kumar Penumala, Hindu Diaspora and Hinduisms in Africa, with Special Focus on South Africa In: Hindu Diasporas. Edited by: Knut A. Jacobsen, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198867692.003.0007

¹ Madagascar is 400 km from the east coast of Africa.

² https://www.britannica.com/place/Reunion/ (accessed on 2 May 2021).

³ https://www.everyculture.com/No-Sa/Reunion-Island.html/ (accessed on 2 May 2021).

⁴ https://worldpopulationreview.com/countries/reunion-population/ (accessed on 2 May 2021).

⁵ ‘Hindu Priest of Reunion Island was interviewed’, in Hinduism Today, 2007/8/15.

https://www.hinduismtoday.com/blogs-news/hindu-press-international/hindu-priest-of-reunion-island-interviewed/7011.html/ (accessed on 2 May 2021).

⁶ Vinayaka Chaturthi and Kartigaideepam.

⁷ https://www.indian-ocean.com/religions-beliefs-and-religious-celebrations-in-reunion-island/.

⁸ It is interesting to note that the Firewalking ritual here is also associated with Māriammaṉ, rather than only with Draupadiamma as practised elsewhere.

⁹ This is not to discount the post-apartheid phenomenal growth of middle class among African populations. Although social scientists have primarily considered income level as the criterion for the definition of middle-class (see Visagie 2013), I have taken note of the levels of education also as part of the criterion.

¹⁰ Also see Srinivas 1956.

7

Hindu Diaspora in Oceania (Australia, New Zealand, and the Pacific)

Alison Booth, Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat, Philip Hughes, Purushottama Bilimoria, and Rajendra Prasad

Introduction

The geographic region known as Oceania spans the Southern-Western Pacific Ocean and comprises Australia, Aotearoa (New Zealand), islands in Melanesia (including Fiji, Tonga, Vanuatu, and New Guinea), and parts of Micronesia and Polynesia (Tahiti, Samoa)—with their own distinct ethnic populations and cultures. However, in this case, the hallmark Polynesian language and culture have penetrated and made a palpable presence across much of the antipodean waters (that is, in Melanesia territories as well). In total, Oceania spans a land mass of 8,525,980 square kilometres and a population of over 42 million.¹

Hindu diaspora studies have hitherto focused attention more centrally on the northern hemisphere, mainly North America and the former colonizing empires in Europe/Great Britain as the destination of Hindus migrating out of India (or double-migrating from other colonies and regions). However, it is little known that the arrival of ‘Hindoos’ to at least one of the territories in Oceania occurred just two decades after the US Declaration of Independence in 1776, which is when the first fleets began to arrive in Australia (1787–1860). Although they were mostly seamen disembarking and, in a few cases, staying back in the newly colonized continent, they would still be counted as the first ‘Hindoos’ (a term used for all Indian nationals from the British-controlled subcontinent extending to the north-western frontiers of Afghanistan) to set foot in modern-day Australia. Most significant migrations of Hindus proper occurred in the 1870s, in all three regions covered under Oceania: Australia, Aotearoa (New Zealand), and Fiji Islands.

This chapter has been constrained to limit the regions impacted by the Hindu diasporic history to these antipodean post/colonial outposts. In 2023, the British Union Jack still continues to appear in the flags of the dominions of Australia and New Zealand; while Fiji has become a full Republic (though its flag still displays the proverbial Union Jack). There is little information on Hindus having settled in territories or islands in any significant number in the scattered island-kingdoms throughout Oceania. There are, however, some accounts of a handful (maybe two) Indian Gujaratis having migrated to Tonga without their family back in 1918–1920:² one was a bootmaker and another a tailor; they were practising Hindus. I recall my family having connections, even as late as the 1960s, with Gujarati families that operated their own footwear and general merchant stores in Tonga; their offspring of mixed ethnicity were known to be in Tonga managing a much-expanded family business enterprise as recently as 1981 (Pale 1981: 77). There is some information also of Hindus (along with other Indians) from Fiji being recruited by Pacific Island governments, for example New Hebrides, New Caledonia, Vanuatu, Kiribati, and Nauru, as artisans and contracted professionals. Some have moved in situ as representatives of their Fiji-based companies, for example of the major business firm from western Fiji, Punja & Co (with their trade-signature ‘Choice of the South Pacific’). They thus reside in Vanuatu, Solomon Islands, Samoa, Kiribati, Tonga, etc., for a few years and then move back to Fiji. Besides Fiji-Indian Hindus, there have also been a recent wave of expatriate Hindus from India in Papua New Guinea and Tonga, again as contracted skilled professionals. Some have been working there for decades in a number of different industries: mining, financial services, teachers, IT- and health professions, etc. Since many are there for a protracted period, they have brought their families as well. In all of these Pacific Islands and regions, Hindus have worked assiduously to maintain their faith and even erected shrines in their own yards—for example, with Mr Hari Prasad in the New Hebrides (Pale 1981: 43)—and in the 1970s replicated the Fiji–Hindu model of ‘Ramayan Mandali’ for worship among the handful of locals.

In the chapter that follows, a more-or-less cohesive historiography of the Hindu diaspora in Oceania (with the aforementioned caveats) is attempted by scholars working in each of the regions. In significant ways, the diasporic experience in each of the three regions could be read as being disparate or differentially marked. It is rather unique in the case of Fiji which experienced the phenomenon known as ‘Girmit’ (pigeon-Hindi for agreement that the indentured recruits had signed with the British agencies in the subcontinent before their departure). The contours of the history, settlement, and demographic profiles of the Hindu diaspora in the respective regions and their contexts are sketched in as much detail as possible within the space afforded.

The accounts overall also throw light on how traditions—sets of lived belief and practices and ceremonies and culturally determined observances—are transmitted across the vast oceanic expanse to regions afar. These traditions encounter languages and cultural artefacts that had hitherto not been known to the ‘banished Rāmas and Kuntīs’, who are thence challenged to find their own roots and identity in the new, albeit unknown, waters. The chapter offers insights and observations about how Hinduism travels, adapts, reconfigures, survives, and continues to provide ritual sustenance, meaning, and the wherewithal to the forlorn adherents to perpetuate their strained livelihood in lands that confronted them with their own unrecognizable people with seemingy alien cultures and ways of life (palpably for not resonating with the caste matrix or known sects and cults within their own community). The Hindu faith-tradition also serves as a conduit for increasing connectivity, and in some cases (especially with second and third generation) incentivizes a re-discovery of a receding heritage-tradition in a mostly videśi or ‘phoren’(foreign) ambience back to the homeland. But there are also vignettes into how the host society receives, views, and treats the newcomers, whose tradition might appear somewhat ‘alien’ if not also idolatrous; and how these responses and indeed responsive attitudes change over time as the dominions move towards a pluralist and more inclusive cultural matrix for the twenty-first century.

Fiji

Background

Fiji is an independent nation lying in the middle of the south-western Pacific, approximately 2,500 km north-east of the nearest point in the Queensland coast of Australia and 2,000 km from the north of New Zealand. The indigenous people of the land, the i-taukei,³ are believed to have migrated from South East Asia about 3,500 years ago, crossing through Melanesia. The first contact with Europeans was with explorers, marooned sailors, traders of sandalwood, and finally the missionaries (Derrick 1950). In 1874, Fiji became a British colony. Between 1879 and 1916 the colonial government brought in about 60,000 labourers from India under a five-year ‘agreement’ (girmit)⁴ to work on the sugar cane plantations (Lal 2017). The colonial government introduced the indenture system after slavery was declared illegal in 1833. They took the first batch of Indians under the indenture system to Mauritius in 1834 and to the other colonial countries. The last country to receive the Indian labourers was Fiji.

Almost 75 per cent of the Indian migrants came from North Indian areas and boarded the ships from Calcutta, while the others came from Madras from 1903. The majority of the migrants were typical village people, and their religion and caste are illustrated in Table 7.1 as recorded by Gillion (1956: 148).

Table 7.1 Emigration from Calcutta to Fiji, 1879–1916

| Percentage
Hindus |
 Brahmins and other high caste |   16.1
 Agricultural castes |   31.3
 Artisan castes |     6.7
 Low castes and Outcastes |   31.2
Muslims |   14.6
Christians |     0.1
| 100

Source: K.L. Gillion, 1956: 148. ‘The Sources of Indian emigration to Fiji.’ Population Studies 10 (2): 139–57.

Most of the migrants were Hindus. While in Fiji, their religious practices and beliefs became a major part of their lives. The demands of the plantation work coupled with the atrocities committed by the overseers on the farm made life a narak, ‘hell’.

To find some inner peace, the migrants turned to their religious texts for spiritual peace most of the time. A dilemma facing them was that to engage in any Hindu prayer, one needs to be ritually clean and pure but the journey across the kālāpāni (deep and dark ocean water)⁵ had eroded all their caste heritage and they considered themselves impure to conduct religious rituals (Sanadhya 1991: 22). However, regardless of that, they engaged in the reading of the Rāmāyaṇa story, since it was commonly believed that ‘it was less dangerous for a heavily polluted man to undertake such reading. Unlike other rituals with their complex exchanges, there is little chance with these rituals of improper performance or unworthy status causing a rebound of worse troubles from a mistreated deity’ (Sanadhya 1991: 22). Also, the migrants saw their lives in a parallel way to that of Rām who was exiled for 14 years. The return of Rām after 14 years to his kingdom gave them a hope that one day they would return to their motherland. The recitation of the Rāmāyaṇa story also required little of the expertise and ritualistic performance that would be expected of a paṇḍit.⁶ The language of the Rāmāyaṇa story, that is, the Rāmcaritmānas, was also easy to read and comprehend since it was mainly written in Awadhi.

Awadhi together with Braj, Bhojpuri, and Maithili, were the other major dialects spoken by the migrants. With the social and cultural evolution, their language also went through a synchronic change. In addition to Bazaar Hindustani which they picked up in Calcutta (it was the lingua franca there), all these dialects and a bit of English mixed together formed a new variety of Hindi, Fiji Hindi (Siegel 1985). Fiji Hindi kept evolving and borrowed a lot from the Fijians. Eventually, it became the mother tongue of all the children born during and after indenture. The later arrivals including the South Indians from 1903 to 1916 had to learn Fiji Hindi to communicate effectively with everyone. Most South Indians were followers of the Hindu religion.

From as early as 1881, the vibrant Hindu community kept increasing with more arrivals amongst the migrant population and continued to do so as shown in the census report (Somerville 1986: 26) below (see Table 7.2).

Table 7.2 Hindus in the Fiji population

The Rise of the Hindu Religious Groups

With the increasing number of Hindus and in their quest for spiritual growth, Hindus began organizing themselves. One of the earliest organizations was in the form of Rāmāyaṇa Mandalis.⁷ The sugar company gave the indentured labourers Wednesday as a day off (Somerville 1986). The tradition of reciting Rāmāyaṇa (Rāmcaritmānas) in Mandalis on Tuesdays exists to this day. This gave them an opportunity to get together on Tuesday evenings and recite the Rāmāyaṇa (Rāmcaritmānas) till late. This practice moved out of the coolie lines⁸ when people began settling in other parts of Fiji after completing their indenture period. The end of indenture gave the Hindus more space to engage in their daily spiritual life:

When they built their own villages, they recovered a healthier and cleaner moral life…In one part, a temple had been built in the middle of such a Hindu village…This showed us that religion itself had begun once more to take its true place in Hindu homes. (Andrews and Pearson 1916: 43)

The term ‘villages’ refers to the Indian settlement. The Mandalis of these settlements began constructing small temples and began performing the Rāmāyaṇa there on Tuesdays. The effect of the Rāmāyaṇa performances was so immense that plays based on the life of Rām, Rāmlīlā began in Fiji as well. The first Rāmlīlā was held in 1902 (Kelly 1988: 48).

Over time, Indians in Fiji developed their own unique identity which had elements of their ancestral heritage from India, but at the same, time adapted it to suit their new home. Hindus in Fiji developed their own way of devotion mainly based on bhakti⁹ and shredded most of the elements associated with Hinduism from India. As noted by Lal:

They rejected the caste system and preached, instead, the fundamental oneness of humanity and the principle of equality and brotherhood among all. The path to salvation, they taught, lay not in spiritual asceticism or pursuit of knowledge of the sacred scriptures but in devotion (bhakti), in complete surrender to the Lord, and in singing songs of His praise (bhajans). This approach appealed to the migrants, most of whom were simple, non-literate people from rural India, many escaping from the tyranny of the Brahmanical socio-religious order. This emotional, egalitarian, and non-intellectual tradition has become an integral part of the Fiji Indian moral order. (2000: 241)

The mandali system spread all over Fiji in the name of Sanatani Sabha, and in 1930 Pandit Ram Chandra Sharma from India gave it a formal recognition in Ba where a lot of these groups had converged for a meeting (Kelly 1988). In 1934 it became known as the Sanatan Dharam Mahasabha, and in 1958 Sanatan Dharam Pratinidhi Sabha, which was and still is the largest Hindu organization in Fiji. Most of the temples that had sprung from early days in various settlements all over Fiji thus came under the umbrella of the Sanatan Dharam Pratinidhi Sabha of Fiji. The majority of these temples are not specifically aligned to any one deity but contain many of the worshipped deities in the Hindu pantheon. One of the most prominent Sanatan temples in Fiji is the Naag Mandir situated in Vanua Levu, the second largest island in Fiji. The temple is built around a stone in the shape of a snake which has kept on growing. The management has increased the height of the temple to cope with the growing stone several times. People, not only from Fiji, but from also from abroad, visit the temple in the belief that whatever they pray for is bestowed on them.

Another Hindu organization which came into existence in 1904 was the Arya Samaj movement (Bilimoria 1985). This movement preached Hinduism based on the Vedas.¹⁰ It became successful, not only as a religious group, but also as a very major player in the education of the Indian children and continues so today. To create ‘a society where everyone is literate and conforms to acceptable moral, spiritual, cultural and social values’ (Arya Pratinidhi Sabha of Fiji 2018), has been its guiding tool. Today the Arya Samaj owns and operates 13 preschools, 14 primary schools, and 6 high schools. Apart from these, they also in 2005 managed to establish the University of Fiji which has a campus in Lautoka and another in Suva. The University of Fiji also has a medical college and a school of law within it. The university, under the management of the Arya Samaj committee, has grown a lot over the years and attracts students from other countries in the Pacific. Unlike the Sanatan Hindus, Arya Samajis do not have many temples, as their Vedic philosophy of worship does not warrant the construction of temples. They have district branches all over Fiji and most meet for their devotional activities every Sunday, mostly in one of their school premises.

The South Indians began arriving in Fiji in 1903 and though they were Hindus, their form of worship and rituals was quite different from what was practised by the Sanatanis and the Samajis. In 1926, under the inspiration of Sadhu Kuppuswami, the TISI Sangam was formed in Nadi by the Hindus from South India. Initially, small South Indian temples came up in settlements just as the Sanatan temples had done. One Hindu folk-ritual which they brought with them was the fire-walking ceremony. Kelly (1988) observes that the South Indian fire-walking ceremony and other related ceremonies were great spectacles to witness. This still happens today in their temple in Suva, Mahadevi Marriamman Temple, which holds the biggest fire-walking festival in Fiji every year. It attracts people of all ethnic groups and religions. Other South Indian temples around Fiji still have a fire-walking ceremony on a yearly basis. Since then, Sangam has grown a lot and occupies an important place in the Hindu community in Fiji. It owns some of the biggest temples and schools in Fiji. The Sangam organization in Fiji operates 21 primary schools, five secondary schools, two vocational training centres and a nursing school. The nursing school is the only private school in the entire Pacific. The biggest temple in Fiji, Sri Shiva Subramaniya Swami Temple in Nadi, is also managed by the Sangam organization. The sculptural artwork for the temple was done by artists brought from India.

Apart from these major Hindu organizations, the Kabir Panth was formed by Babu Oro Das in 1894 (Somerville 1986). When he returned to India, he left the group in the hands of capable disciples. Their numbers are small, but this group still exists today.

There were a few Hindu groups who came as free migrants to Fiji in search of business and work. One of the largest groups was of Punjabis who were mostly Sikhs who came from the districts of Jalandhar, Ludhiana, and Hoshiapur (Gillion 1956). There were very few Sikhs in Fiji before that. A Sikh by the name of Chota Singh had gathered around 80 disciples and began the Guru Nanak Panth around 1984 in Labasa (Somerville 1986). The arrival of the Sikhs strengthened the society. There are several schools and gurdvārās administered in Fiji by the Sikh society. Festivals such as vaisākhī are organized in the gurdvārās and are open to all to join.

The other group of independent migrants were the Gujratis. They came mainly from a small area near the city of Surat. The Gujratis pursued traditional caste occupations which included trading, tailoring, shoemaking, hair-cutting, laundry, and jewellery (Gillion 1956: 156). They mostly settled in the business districts of Suva and Ba and established the Viṣṇu Lakṣmī temples in these two places. To date these temples are often frequented by the business owners for blessing of prosperity. They also manage some schools in Suva, the capital of Fiji.

Political Impact on Indian Population

The Hindu community in Fiji continued to flourish and practise their religion without fear or oppression. The descendants of these migrant workers had happily accepted Fiji as their home. The first coup in 1987 shattered that sense of belonging amongst the Indians in Fiji. The coup, carried out in the name of Indigenous rights, created fear amongst the Indians. There were open calls by the nationalist movements for Indians to be repatriated to India. The Indian population in 1986 was around 52 per cent of the total population. The Hindus made up around 70 per cent of the Indian population (Fiji Bureau of Statistics). The coup created an outward movement of Indians mostly to Australia and New Zealand. Contrary to popular belief ‘only a small minority of highly skilled professionals and wealthy businessmen were able to migrate. For the majority, migration was not a realistic option as most Indians neither had family ties nor money to start a new life in another country’ (Sharma 1987: 2099).

Despite the setback, Hindus continued to live and practise their religion in Fiji, but their numbers began dwindling from that point in time. Most parents prefer their children to seek employment outside Fiji and those who can afford to, send their children abroad for higher education. The second coup of 2000 again saw Indians leaving Fiji but strict regulations in many countries made it hard. The exodus has continued to date and now there is a large diaspora population of Fiji Indians in Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and the US, where they have taken with them their form of Hinduism.

The population of Indians in Fiji has continued to decline since then. This is confirmed by the projection by the Bureau of Statistics (2007), whose estimates show that the Indian population will continue to decline as shown in Table 7.3.

Table 7.3 Projections of the ethnic composition population of Fiji from 2007 to 2030

New Entrants

Despite these political setbacks in the last few decades, a lot of Indians from India have entered Fiji on work permits. This has seen a few new Hindu religious groups setting up in Fiji. In the early 1970s the ISKCON group entered Fiji. They sent a disciple, Upendra Dass Adhikari, to Fiji to spread the message of the founder of the movement, Swami Prabhupada. He writes:

The children flock to the sound of the holy name and shout with clarity and volume, Hare Krishna, Hare Rama…The temple is packed on Sundays. Fijian girls dance joyfully to Hare Krishna. Literally everyone who sees us says, ‘Hare Krishna’. People are willing to give us something to help us with our great work of spreading love of Krishna. (Back to Godhead, 1970–1973).

The movement is quite recent in Fiji, but has established itself quite well. The group’s teachings are based on the teachings of the Bhagavatgītā and it opens its doors to anyone who is interested. ISKCON has a temple in Suva, Sri Radha Goloka Bihari Temple, which organizes a number of programmes. The temple has a gathering every Sunday when a large number of devotees attend. The other temple, Sri Krishna Kaliya Temple, is based in Lautoka. This temple was the first in Fiji and the founder of ISKCON, Shri Prabhupada, laid its foundation himself. Most recently, in 2010, a three-level multimillion dollar complex that houses the Shri Radha Damodar Temple was opened in Sigatoka.

In 2000, Fiji Sevashram Sangh was established in Fiji and is affiliated with the Bharat Sevashram Sangh, a registered charitable organization in India. It operates purely on voluntary membership. Hindus from all different sects are members and participate in all the activities organized by the Sangh. Indian nationals who have come to Fiji in recent times constitute most of the membership. The Sevashram Sangh runs weekly activities like Yoga classes, Bhagavadgītā chanting classes and Raṅgoli¹¹ classes. On Saturdays, tuition classes are organized for high-school students. The Sevashram introduced the Gaṇeś Utsav in Fiji and it has become a very big event today. Thousands of devotees celebrate the festival and congregate in huge numbers on the last day to immerse the mūrtis of Gaṇeś in the sea. It has almost taken a national stage, and dignitaries are invited to grace the event. The prime minister and the president of the country have participated in this function in the past. Additionally, Fiji Sevashram organizes regular student camps in most parts of Fiji. In times of natural disasters, Fiji Sevashram has become one of the most prominent volunteers to reach out to the affected people. Recently, to mark the twentieth year of service to Fiji, a commemorative stamp was launched by the prime minister. He remarked, ‘Your countless acts of compassion have had an impact too wide to capture in words. But to put it simply, your commitment to service is exactly how great societies and great nations are built. Your work makes us all proud to call ourselves Fijians’ (Cava 2021). The Sangh has two centres, one in Suva and the other in Lautoka.

The other new Hindu organization in Fiji is Vishva Hindu Parishad (VHP), Fiji Chapter. VHP Fiji has also thrived on a voluntary membership. Since 2014, VHP Fiji has organized five National Hindu conferences in Fiji and brought under one roof representatives from many Hindu organizations, which was in line with the aim of the event. The president, Mr Jay Dayal stated, ‘This conference is neither a religious nor a philosophical conference but a community conference. Organizations such as TISI Sangam, Gujarati Samaj, Arya Samaj Pritinithi Sabha of Fiji, Fiji Sevashram Sangha, Sathya Sai Service Organization, Art of Living Foundation, Brahma Kumari, International Society for Krishna Consciousness, Student associations and Social and Cultural organizations have shown interest’ (World Hindu News 2014). The organization has been active in humanitarian work. After cyclone ‘Winston’, VHP Fiji gave out close to $200,000 worth of assistance to the affected families, (Litia 2016). The group has an active youth wing which organizes most of its activities throughout Fiji.

Festivals

Hindus in Fiji celebrate most of the festivals associated with their religion. A public holiday is mandated for Dīvālī for Hindus. Apart from Dīvālī, Hindus celebrate Holī, Rāmnavamī, Kṛṣṇajanmāṣṭami, and Rakṣabandhan. Traditionally, Holī was celebrated in Mandalis who would sing chautals¹² and go to homes playing with colours. Now, while this still happens in the rural areas, the urban centres are witnessing a more Bollywood type of celebration, with huge crowd gatherings. Media companies play a huge role in organizing it. The grandeur of the occasion is immense and everyone now looks forward to it. The whole day is spent dancing and playing with colours.

The Rāmnavamī celebration is a nine-day event which marks the birthday of the god Rām. Almost every Hindu village or settlement will celebrate this festival. The Mandalis organize this event in their own communities. Similarly, Kṛṣṇajanmāṣṭamī is celebrated for eight days to mark the birth of Kṛṣṇa. In both celebrations, holy books, Rāmāyaṇ and Bhagavadgītā are recited for people to listen and learn from the lives of Rām and Kṛṣṇa.

Apart from these big festivals, now Hindus celebrate many other festivals which have either being introduced by the Indian nationals here or from the TV serials from India. Festivals such as Tulsī Vivāh, Karvā Chauth, Savitrī Vrat, and so on, have slowly found their place amongst the urban Hindus, at least for now.

Future

Despite the declining numbers, the Hindu community in Fiji is thriving, and its ideology and beliefs seem to be passed on to the new generations. The 2013 Fijian Constitution has declared Fiji a secular state and everyone has the freedom to practise their faith freely. Hindus remain the majority population in the Indian community and their practices and rituals are as alive today as they were during the indenture times.

Australia

History and Statistics

The sixth continent that came to be known as terra australis has been inhabited by the Aboriginal and Torres Island people—who are hereby acknowledged as the first custodians of the land—for nearly 60,000 years. There were over 500 Indigenous groups, with an estimated population of 1.1 million,¹³ and with many languages spoken, living in harmony with the natural surroundings. One account suggests that around 400 ce, traders travelling from South India landed in the northern-most tip (Dikshitar 1971: 37–43; 72–109). It has also been suggested that the Indian practice of yoga and tantra has a connection with the psychic practices of the Aborigines. A philological connection between some Aboriginal languages and those spoken in Dravidic (southern) India has also been proposed (Westrip and Holroyde 2010: Chapter 1). However, the first solid evidence of South Asians in Australia is traced to the late eighteenth-century settlement history.¹⁴

The modern nation of Australia had its beginnings with British colonization c.1788 ce, and culminated in the formation of the Commonwealth of Australia in 1901. The British began to arrive in the first fleets from 1787 to establish penal colonies for exiled convicts; gradually the settlers occupied much of the land (deemed by British colonial office as terra nullius), and established farms, pastures, and mining industries across the continent. Aboriginal labour, including child labour, was relied upon to work on pastoral farms, and as domestic servants (Gregory and Gothard 2009); however, the Indigenous population tragically dwindled to a few hundred thousand, and children were placed in foster institutions managed by Christian missionaries.

Coolie Labour

The colonies were always in drastic need of labour and therefore neighbouring regions were resourced for workers. Some crews may have arrived in the first fleets (1787–1823) (Menon 2011: 3). The lascars (seamen) on trading ships docking at local ports since 1796 were mostly Indian and Sri Lankan (formerly called Ceylonese), some of whom remained in Australia (Kenna and Jordan 2008 (vol I): 183, 203). Around 1837, 40 Dhangars (shepherds) from Eastern India were recruited to work on plantations and more indentured Indians arrived. Since women were not permitted to join them, a few married into the Indigenous families. The settlers found the Indians very valuable as servants owing to their submissive and mild manners, honesty, and docility. Demand for the importation of Indians or ‘Hindoos’ therefore rapidly grew.

In tandem, however, violent reactions arose from the public against ‘the niggardly Indians with their idolatry and morals’, and the perceived competition with White labour, eventually leading to the ‘Emigration Restriction Act’ of 1901 (also called White Australia Policy) enacted in British India out of concern for its citizens abroad (Bilimoria, Bapat and Hughes 2019: 85).

In Australia, the Indian labourers, while taken good care of by their masters, faced alienation from mainstream society; whatever they earned, they sent to their families back home or paid their passage back to India. Some who died were buried or cremated locally. Servants in the employ of the migrating British ‘Sahibs’ also arrived and some were permitted to stay back. After the opening of the hinterlands in the 1860s, camels were brought over with cameleers known as ‘Ghans’ (short for Afghans, mostly Muslims), a few Hindus and Sikhs were also among them.¹⁵ All of them however were called ‘Hindoos’ by the British and local authorities (Carey 1996: 155).

In 1851, as Australia experienced a gold rush, demand for labour grew again. Chinese and Indian workers were recruited; some later became licensed hawkers and carted their imported wares to rural areas.¹⁶ In 1871, there were in Australia some 2,000 persons from the subcontinent (58 Ceylon (Sri Lanka)-born).

Resistance to ‘Hindoo’ Immigrants

Public reaction to Indians surfaced again; an article in 1893 aired stereotypes common in the colonies (Illustrated Weekly News, 1 May 1893): Hindus and ‘Mahometans’ were chided for hoarding money to take it back ‘home’. The Hindus were despised because they would not take food from others or attend church services. Six Hindus absconded from [a farmhouse] because they were not being served daal! In 1893, 531 ‘Hindoos’ remained across Australia, mostly Sikhs living in the north-east.¹⁷ The bania instinct¹⁸ also arose among the Hindu immigrants: 30 merchants from Sindh settled in Melbourne in 1898.

The ‘Immigration Restriction Act’ of 1901 heralded the ‘Whites Only Policy’ and stalled the inflow of Indians, with the exception of a few merchants and students, for the next six decades. The 1911 Census recorded a mere 3,698 India-born people, of whom only 500 were Hindus (the rest being Sikhs and ‘Ghan’ Muslims), including their Australia-born offspring, usually of mixed parentage. A famous Sindhi-Hindu merchant family by the name of Pamamulls later established a thriving opal business which continues to this day with the third generation. The Pamamulls have been known for their philanthropic support to the fledgling Hindu community.

A Hindu could scarcely survive in the country. In 1914 the Hindu activist Totaram Sanadhya visited Australia and received the proverbial welcome: ‘All black; have you got no soap?’ Sanadhya commented on the absence of religious identity among the dispersed Indians who survived by intermarrying and assimilating with the host society (Sanadhya 1919, 1973: 72).

Diplomatic Visits

In 1922 the Indian diplomat and Hindu leader, Srinivasa Sastri, visited Australia. His political intervention, backed by a council of churches, led to Indian residents gaining certain civil rights and privileges, electoral franchise, and pensions. About the same time, Jiddu Krishnamurti and Annie Besant of the Theosophical Society fame visited Australia; the visit was well publicized (Bilimoria 1989: 23–4).

Nevertheless, well-entrenched prejudices in the Australian psyche about the zealous ‘Hindoo’ continued to be printed. The cremation rite witnessed in the outback aroused allusions to ‘Suttee’ (satī, ‘widow-immolation’). The image of Gandhi as the ‘Hindu extremist’ and ‘plucky little bloke in a loincloth’, continued to be circulated (The Argus, 2, 27, 30 June 1922). But the fears were unfounded as the number of Hindus in Australia by 1933 had noticeably diminished.

By 1947 there were 2,189 Indians (this included migrating British residents from India), 244 recorded as Hindus; by 1954 up to 2,647 Indians; 450 were Hindus. The group that experienced marked improvement was that with 50 per cent European blood (Anglo-Indians), exiting the subcontinent after Independence.

With slightly relaxed family reunion and temporary visa regulations for merchants, travellers, and students, the numbers started to rise in mid-1960s. The sixth continent appealed to urban-educated secular professionals as a safe refuge from poverty, religious orthodoxies, a crippled educational system, and caste-ridden life back home.

Disrupted Diaspora

Nevertheless, migration from South Asia has never been a continuous process; rather, it has occurred as labour need emerged and authorities permitted immigration. Until the late sixties, only a handful of academics, doctors, and librarians were allowed to settle. In the early seventies, the nation, under the leadership of Gough Whitlam abolished the ‘White Australia’ policy in view of its racialist slant, and adopted ‘multiculturalism’ as the mainstay of the immigration and cultural policy. This allowed people from India and the wider Indian diaspora—such as East Africa, Fiji, Malaysia, New Zealand, Britain—to arrive in larger numbers, reflecting a significant demographic shift. With the new migrants came professional skills, aspirations, variety of faiths, liberalism, and cultural diversity mirrored in their religious festivals and cuisines. Students, IT professionals, and engineers have been arriving in large numbers since the 1980s. In 2016, nearly 30 per cent of Hindus were employed in management and commerce, 17 per cent in engineering, 15 per cent in information technology and 10 per cent in health. Many had high status positions with 31 per cent working as professionals and 11 per cent as managers. The 2016 Census showed that Hindus living in Australia had higher levels of education than any other religious group. Of all Hindus, 45 per cent had a university degree, compared with just 18 per cent in the whole Australian population. In 2016, some 43,000 Hindus were studying at a university, constituting 10 per cent of all Hindus in Australia.

Post-Independent Trends

The 2016 Census found that 63 per cent of all Hindus immigrants were born in India and another 13 per cent were born in Nepal. However, many people of Indian and Sri Lankan Tamil descent who had migrated to or been born in other parts of the world also chose to make their home in Australia (in some cases to flee the political turmoils and coups in their country). Since the majority from these groups are Hindus, Hinduism is one of the fastest growing religions in Australia, growing by almost 200 per cent between 2006 and 2016 (Table 7.4).

Table 7.4 Hindu immigrants living in Australia in 2016 by year of arrival

Years | No. of Hindu Immigrants Living in Australia in 2016 | Percentage of Hindu Immigrants Living in Australia
1900–1945 | 10 | 0.0
1946–1955 | 112 | 0.0
1956–1965 | 312 | 0.1
1966–1975 | 2,517 | 0.7
1976–1985 | 7,046 | 2.0
1986–1995 | 29,077 | 8.2
1996–2005 | 61,491 | 17.2
2006–2016 | 226,387 | 63.4
Year of arrival not stated | 8,436 | 2.4
Total | 356,958 | 100.0

Source: Australian Census, 2016 (Hughes, 2019: 168).

Note that this table does not include Hindus born in Australia (Bilimoria, Bapat, Hughes 2019: 168).

According to the 2016 Census, more than 440,000 Hindus, accounting for 1.9 per cent of the population, called Australia home. Most of these Hindus live in the two largest cities in Australia: Melbourne and Sydney, where they constitute around 3 per cent of the nation’s population which is close to a total of 25 million. Relatively few tend to settle outsides of those cities, that is, in the regional areas unless finding lucrative work or professional placement motivates them to do so.

As Table 7.5 shows, in 2016 there was also a sizeable community of Hindus born in Australia.

Table 7.5 Birthplace of Hindus living in Australia in 2016

Birthplace | Numbers in the Hindu Community in 2016 | Percentage of the Hindu Community
Born in Australia of Australian-born parents | 4,834 | 1.1
Born in Australia with one or both parents born overseas | 75,360 | 17.1
Born overseas | 356,817 | 81.0
Born at sea or not described | 3,292 | 0.8
Total | 440,303 | 100.0

Source: Australian Census, 2016 (Hughes, 2019: 167).

Gurus, Current Practices and Temples

One of the first visible signs of institutional development of Hindu religion in Australia was with the arrival in the early 1960s of Hindu gurus and swamis who established āśrams¹⁹ and Vedānta centres in the major cities, and foundations dedicated to Ramakrishna-Vivekananda, Baba Muktananda, Swami Sivananda, Sri Chinmoy, and Swami Chinmayananda. The Hare Krishnas—formally known as the International Society for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON)—established temple-centres in the seven major cities, and a thriving farm-community with a school in New South Wales. Yoga schools, first established in the 1950s, have also proliferated all over the country, with intensive yoga workouts and retreats regularly conducted by adepts of yoga, both classical and popular.

Before the mid-1970s, there was a marked absence of religious and spiritual fellowship among the Hindus, other than that provided by the itinerant gurus. Solemnizing marriage through proper Vedic rites proved even more difficult. However, the situation slowly improved and resources became available to address urgent community needs, such as traditional last rites (antyeṣṭi) for the deceased, and worship of one’s chosen deity at a temple. Hindu marriage celebrants are nowadays available in the urban centres. Hence, there has been a gradual shift in focus towards temple- and communal-oriented worship amongst resident Hindus, reflecting the growing and more culturally diverse population.

Hindu Temples

The first Hindu temple in Australia was opened in Melbourne, by the Hare Krishnas (ISKCON) in 1975, and continues to be a popular site of devotion (bhakti) for Hindus across Victoria. As the population grew, ethnic Hindus began setting up their own temples in disbanded church-halls or warehouses, and in due course of time built their own traditional Devasthānas (lit. abodes of the gods). Initially, temple precincts tended to be more ecumenical, allowing major deities to be worshipped under one roof. Thus, the prominent temple of the Hindu Society of Victoria, Inc. in the outskirts of Melbourne (called Shri Shiva Vishnu Temple) features Śrī Veṅkaṭeśvara [a South Indian form of Viṣṇu], Śiva in his liṅga form, and Gaṇeśa, Lakṣmī, Viśālākṣī, and Āṇṭāl in adjacent shrines, officiated by priests from India and Sri Lanka. A similar situation exists at the Helensburg temple in the outskirts of Sydney, which was inaugurated in 1989.

Melbourne and Sydney in 2021 boasted over a twenty-five Hindu temples in each city, each belonging to particular religious traditions such as Śaivites, Vaiṣṇavites, Śāktas, and worshippers of Murugaṉ and Gaṇeśa. There are also temples or shrines devoted to the very popular saints Sai Baba of Shirdi and Sathya Sai Baba. There are lesser numbers in the nation’s capital, Canberra; Perth has a growing Hindu presence with the largest Svāminārāyaṇa temple in Australia erected by one of the Svāminārāyaṇa sects, namely BAPS or Bochasanwasi Akshar Purushottam Swaminarayan Sanstha; other large Svāminārāyaṇa temples have been established in four of the major cities by another sect of Svāminārāyaṇa known as Maninagar Shree Swaminarayan Gadi Sansthan Mandirs and Mandals. By 2022 Hindus would boast of having established some 43 temples across Australia.

Festivals of Hindus in Australia

Hindu temples are built either in North Indian style (with modern embellishments) dedicated to Rāma, Kṛṣṇa, or Durgā, or in the South Indian (Chola-Pallava-Vijayanagara) architectural style, complete with large gopuras (tall entrance domes), ornate shrines, congregation halls, and deities representing their following in the south. While Tamil and Telugu Hindus are actively involved in the main temple-centres, Hindus from Fiji and Malaysia have tended to have their own worship centres or mandalis (devotional collectives) and mandiras (temples).

Regardless, Hindu festivals such as Gaṇeśa Chaturthī, Dīpāvalī, Holī, Lohri, Makar Saṃkranti (Poṅgal for South Indian Hindus), and garbā are celebrated publicly with great fanfare and patronized by all of the temple and community centres. It is worth noting that there are now two municipal councils in Victoria that officially celebrate the festival of Gaṇeśa Chaturthī (birth of the elephant-headed god Vināyaka). The Visarjan parade of the Gaṇeśa effigy is witnessed through the suburban streets accompanied by sounds of cymbals and chanting by devotees, culminating in the immersion of the surrogate icon in a lake, river, or sea. The Bengali community celebrates Durgāpūjā for nine days each year (Navarātri), culminating in the Dāśahara (Dussehra) festival that other Hindus also observe. Life-size effigies of Durgā are installed in community halls, around which religious and cultural programmes occur throughout the festive period.

During Dīpāvalī or Dīvālī, city buildings in the major cities are lit at night and cultural programmes are performed in the city square for an entire week. Such activities are strongly supported by the respective State Governments. Associations of people belonging to various language groups in India have been ensuring that their cultural heritage is maintained among their offspring or the second-third generations. Classical dance classes, such as bharatanāṭya, Kathak, Odissi, and Mohiniattam, have mushroomed in major cities and townships.

Women, Role Organizations and Adaptation

The migration model that Australia has largely favoured for Indian migrants gives highly skilled migrants preference over others and also applies to Indian women. Thus, generally, Indian women migrants are a well-educated group, in spite of the fact that they often arrive as dependents of their male counterparts (Costa-Pinto 2019: 280). The stress, insecurity, loneliness, and ‘alien-ness’ they face in the new country is often countered by them crafting specific strategies to confront the situation. Resorting to religious practices, especially those that involve social gatherings, are a preferred strategy. For example, women’s only rituals such as the Marathi Haldi-kumkum²⁰ and Maṅgalāgaur²¹ have found roots in the diaspora. The emphasis on social religious activities, which is an important factor in the daily practices of Hinduism, has played an important role overall for Indian women in Australia. Similar strategies are also used by international Hindu students in the major Australian campuses.

Hindu Organizations, Belonging and Transmissions

The Hindu Swayamsevak Sangh (HSS), a global Hindu volunteers’ organization (founded in Kenya in the 1940s), is active in some of the major cities. In addition to regular weekly meetings called shakhas where young children are taught the basics of Hindu religion and culture, they also learn to fend for themselves, to keep fit, and to be justly proud of their heritage. Hinduism is definitely changing into a ‘global religion’. The Ramakrishna-Vivekananda Mission and the Sai Baba (Shirdi and Sathya) organizations also provide volunteer service, including food distribution to the needy and community care. This was especially noted during the COVID-pandemic. Hindus in Australia were impacted by the large numbers of deaths of their close ones and relatives in India through COVID-related complications. They suffered deep anxiety and frustration at not being able to travel to India due to harsh lockdown restrictions in Australia, to attend to the ailing condition of their relations, or to attend their funeral rites (even where the deaths were not due to COVID-infection but other complications).

Consistent with the Indian national motto, ‘unity in diversity’, Hindus from all walks of life embrace one another, Indians belonging to other faiths, and also members from the wider Australian society, all happily mix with mutual toleration. There is a distinct spirit of peaceful co-existence and harmony. This is reflected in the fact that over the past 20–30 years, there has been a steady increase in the number of mixed marriages between Hindus and people belonging to other faiths or of no-faith in Australia. Interfaith dialogue is also happening on an increasing scale (Bilimoria, Bapat and Hughes 2019: 175). The Australian Survey of Social Attitudes (2018) found that 36 per cent of Australians had positive attitudes, up from 25 per cent in 2009; while just 11 per cent had negative attitudes. Many indicated that they were neither positive nor negative, probably reflecting in part the fact that some Australians outside of Melbourne and Sydney may not have come to know closely any Hindus (2018: 313–15). Nonetheless, such a scenario would have been unimaginable half-a-century back.

A number of Indian regional languages, including Hindi, Tamil, and Bengali are being taught in various high schools across the country; Sanskrit and Tamil are also taught in the Australian National University in Canberra. Indians are among the most highly educated and well-placed groups in the diverse ethnic communities. They make immense economic and social contributions to the cultural melting pot of modern-day Australia. There seems little doubt that the future of their children in this land of promise and opportunity will indeed remain bright.

Conclusions

Over the decades, Hindu migrants have endured many hardships and encountered racial prejudices and disempowerment in Australia because of their ethnicity or religious background. However, since 1970s, multiculturalism has been increasingly accepted and a great variety of people from around the world and from many religious backgrounds have been welcomed into Australia.

Hindus have only been settling in Australia in large numbers since the latter half of the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. The 2016 Census revealed that they were largely gathered in Melbourne and Sydney. They have come to Australia with high levels of education and contribute significant skills to the Australian workforce. Some may still find it difficult to procure occupations commensurate with their skills; however, in general, they tend to blend well into the Australian landscape.

Increasingly, the Australian Hindu communities have been expressing and celebrating their ethnic identity and their rich cultural and religious heritage. They have sought to transmit that heritage to the second and third generations growing up in the Australian milieu. Where Australians have come to know Hindus, they have generally received them positively. Hindus are contributing significantly to Australian multiculturalism and to the ensuing plurality of religious faiths within Australia (Bouma and Hughes 2014).

Hindus in New Zealand

Introduction: Aotearoa New Zealand

Aotearoa New Zealand,²² an archipelago slightly larger than the UK, was discovered by Māori who sailed in canoes (waka) from the Western Pacific (Eastern Polynesia). The arrival date is debated but was approximately 800 years ago. The Māori settlers (tangata whenua—people of the land) established a tribal society and have created a distinctive indigenous culture. From the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, European exploration in the Antipodes led to colonization by Britain in the nineteenth century (Salmond 1992). In 1840, representatives of Britain and Māori chiefs signed the Treaty of Waitangi, which declared British sovereignty over the islands. In 1841 Aotearoa became a colony within the British Empire and gained full statutory independence from Britain in 1947. The British monarch remains the head of state as the country in a member of the Commonwealth.

Although Indians have been arriving in New Zealand for the last 150 years (mostly Sikhs from the Panjab and, later, Hindus from Gujarati) numbers remained relatively low until the mid-1980s. Most early migrants from sub-continental India arrived as indentured labourers and workers. By 1914, as the First World War began, many Indians were involved in the fruit and vegetable retail business and had started small shops in central Auckland and Wellington (Bandyopadhyay and Buckingham 2018: 8).

The Gujarati and Punjabi residents have more recently been joined by Indo-Fijians, South Indians, and immigrants from other global locations of the Indian diaspora. After independence in 1947, with close links with Pacific island nations, job opportunities led many people from Fiji to migrate to New Zealand. Since 1960, New Zealand has experienced the social, economic, and political process of decolonization in a bicultural society (European and Māori), population growth, and a shift from a dominant European society to a multicultural nation. More recently with changes in the skilled migration category (since 2003), migration reflects a global pattern that includes many professionals who have left India to work elsewhere, often after having completed their education or training in another country besides New Zealand or India (Friesen and Kearns 2008). Sometimes several generations of families have become established in this way. The largest group of Indian residents are Hindi speakers who practise Hinduism, reflecting historical migration trends.

The Indian Population: Religious and Cultural Diversity

The 2018 New Zealand Census data and government data suggest that there has been an additional growth in the Indian community to 4.7 per cent of the total New Zealand population of 4.7 million people or approximately 230,000 compared to the 178,000 people of Indian cultural origins reported in 2016. India is identified as the largest place of origin for many of the skilled migrants, repatriated family members, and international students arriving in New Zealand (Booth 2018).

The Indian community is concentrated in urban centres, with 71 per cent of the total Indian population settled in the city of Auckland, and in the next largest cities of Christchurch and Wellington (Friesen 2014: 143). In 2020, a third of New Zealand’s population of 5 million people lived in Auckland, the country’s largest city, with a population of approximately 1,606,564 (World Population Review 2020). Auckland has always been ethnically diverse and the city’s Indian community represents 10 per cent of Auckland’s total population (Auckland Council 2021).

The majority of New Zealand’s Indian population were born overseas, and the majority of those who are born in New Zealand (65.7 per cent) are their children and identified as under the age of 15 (Stats NZ 2018). Notably, of the 230,000 Indian-origin population, over 50 per cent were born in India (117,348 people)—this is an increase of 67,176 identified in the 2013 Census (Singh 2019). The unique cultural make-up includes a smaller proportion of those born in Fiji, identified in the ‘Pacific Island’ category in Table 7.6. Increasingly, other parts of the Indian diaspora, such as South Africa and Malaysia, stand out as significant birthplaces, adding to the cultural and religious diversity of the Indian community. There is a growing transnational link between Hindus in New Zealand and their counterparts in Australia, North America, the United Kingdom, Africa, and Europe. These networks also provide conduits for transnational migration of professional Hindus between these countries (especially in the software-development, nanotechnology, and information-technology sectors) and for identifying suitable matrimonial partners (Bilimoria 2013: 199).

Table 7.6 New Zealand’s population defined as ethnically Indian, by place of birth 2006–2018

English is spoken by 90.8 per cent of the Indian population and 35.7 per cent speak two or more languages (Stats NZ 2019). Table 7.7 identifies speakers from the 10 major Indian language groups (over 1,000 speakers) spoken by the Indian population. Linguistic affiliations from across the Indian continent are represented, with the majority of languages from the Indo-Aryan linguistic groups representing those of North Indian heritages and the smaller Dravidian linguistic group representing the South Indian heritage (Migration Stats 2018).

Table 7.7 Ten major language groups spoken by New Zealand’s Indian community in 2018

Language | Number of Speakers
Hindi | 69,471
Panjabi | 34,227
Fiji-Hindi | 26,805
Gujarati | 22,200
Tamil | 10,107
Malayalam |   9,024
Telegu |   5,754
Marathi |   4,770
Bengali |   3,486
Kannada |   1,692

Source: https://www.stats.govt.nz/tools/2018-census-place-summaries/new-zealand#ethnicity-culture-and-identity/.

Over 48 per cent of the entire New Zealand population declared that they followed no religion, 37 per cent followed Christianity, and 2.6 per cent practised Hinduism as indicated in Table 7.8. Hinduism is practised by the majority of New Zealand’s Indian population (134,610) and represents 4.7 per cent of New Zealand’s total population (NZ Census 2018). In New Zealand, Hinduism is the largest religion other than Christianity, with almost 90,000 followers in 2013 increasing in 2018 to 121,644. Those practising Hinduism nearly tripled in the decade after 1996, mainly due to changes in immigration policy and political turmoil in Fiji, which led Fijian Indians to settle in New Zealand (Swarbrick 2005, 2015). As indicated in Table 7.8, the percentage of practising Hindus between 2006 and 2018 decreased, but Hindus remain a significant majority at 46 per cent of the Indian population.

Table 7.8 Religious affiliation for the Indian ethnic group, 2006–18

The religious affiliations noted in the Table 7.8 category ‘Other religion, beliefs and philosophy’ is significant as it includes followers of Sikhism, the fastest-growing religious minority in New Zealand. The Panjabi population has doubled since the 2013 Census count of 19,191 to 40,908 in the 2018 Census (Stats NZ 2018). Over 60 per cent of New Zealand’s population are raised as Christians and 29 per cent are raised without a stated religion. Hinduism is also practised by a small proportion of the European and Māori ethnic groups representing 1 per cent of the population. Hindus are positively accepted by 91.6 per cent of New Zealand’s population, and Hindus experience little conflict with members of other religious beliefs (Gendall and von Randow 2016). Depending on the community affiliations, rituals and festivities are presented in the variety of languages and as indicated in Table 7.7, and/or English.

Unlike the religions of the West, Hinduism is generally regarded as having no fixed doctrines, tight-knit structures, hierarchical governance, and rigid organizational bases with ecclesiastical control. Hinduism manifests in a variety of ways that are based on a variety of religious beliefs and political ideas (Bilimoria 2019: 46–7). Given the complexity of Hinduism, a vast assemblage of customs, taboos, and expectations prevail among Hindus, and devotees can be divided broadly by regional affiliations (North and South), language, and sects. The Hindu year abounds with observances, recommended rites and festivals. Places of worship are organized by local community organizers, global organizations, and Hindu missions.²³

First Wave: One India

The Wellington Indian Association [founded 1925] and Auckland Indian Association (founded 1938), represent the oldest Hindu communities of Hindi and Gujarati speakers in New Zealand. These associations have their own mandirs, community halls, and cultural programmes. Wellingtons’ Gita Mandir [founded 1992] and Auckland’s Sri Radha Krishna Mandir [founded 2001] offer education programmes that teach language, culture, and religion. The large community halls hold national festivities such as Indian Independence Day, religious gatherings (Dīvālī, Holī, Navarātri), and weddings. Bharatiya Mandir, founded in 1994, is the largest mandir and was built by Auckland’s Hindu community who felt the need for a place for worship that offered a wide range of ritual pūjās (worship) and an inclusive site for the growing South Asian identity. The International Society of Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON) has centres in Auckland [founded 1972], Hamilton, Wellington, Christchurch, and Dunedin, catering for a community of Indians and converts to the Hare Krishna Movement (Morris 2011, 2018). ISKCON manages vegetarian restaurants, yoga centres, runs spiritual retreats, and holds an annual Holī festival that attracts a large non-Indian participation. Devotees can be found chanting Hare Krishna and giving away religious scriptures in city centres where they have religious centres.

Religious as well as regional cultural organizations serve a very important role for migrant communities and especially for women settling into new communities (De Souza 2011). Hindu cultural associations offer support for the elderly, children’s activities, and women’s groups. The establishment of separate women’s organizations within the long-standing Indian associations reflected the growth of the New Zealand Indian community (Leckie 2007). Mahila Samaj, a friendship network for Indian women, started in 1970 as an auxiliary women’s wing of New Zealand’s regional Indian associations. Mahila Samaj provides opportunities to socialize, work, and pray together, alongside community activities that provide support for new migrants, charity fundraisers, and cultural festivities.

Culturally exclusive activities are offered for differing linguistic, religious, and Hindu cultural traditions. For example, the Manukau Indian Association, founded in 1981, and the Indian Cultural Society-Waikato, founded in 1990, provide festivities and support for the Gujarati and Panjabi Hindu communities. The smaller Bengali community holds an annual Durgāpūjā, in council community venues. This includes music as well as worship and food, and is organized by the Probasee Bengalee Association of New Zealand which was founded in 1998. The Waitakere Indian Association, founded in 2000, celebrates Dīvālī and Holī festivals as well as events of specific interest to the Indo-Fijian community, such as Girmit, a day for remembering and commemorating the sacrifices of Fiji’s indentured labourers of Indian heritage.

Second Wave: Growth and Variations

New Zealand’s first national Hindu organization The Hindu Council of New Zealand (HCNZ), was formed in the mid 1990s to unite Hindu organizations and institutions offering religious and cultural education, and family care support. HCNZ is affiliated with the global Hindu organization, Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP—transl. Universal Hindu Council), and is a conservative global Hindu association based on Hindu nationalism. The HCNZ plays an active role in hosting annual conferences for globally affiliated spiritual, religious, and service organizations that have branches in New Zealand. In 2010 HCNZ launched Hindu Organizations, Temples and Associations (HOTA), a representative body for some of the Hindu groups in New Zealand that identify with VHP. HCNZ supports several contemporary global organizations that are collectively termed Hindu reform movements or Hindu revivalism, that strive to introduce regeneration and reform to Hinduism, both in a religious or spiritual and in a societal sense. The movements started appearing during the Bengali Renaissance of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. New Zealand’s missions vary in history, size, and philosophical approaches, and include devotees across New Zealand and include Ramakrishna Mission [founded 1988], Chinmaya Mission [founded 1995], Sathya Sai Organization [founded 1989], and the more recently Sri Sri Ravi Shankar’s notorious Art of Living Foundation [founded 2010].

New Zealand’s historical development of organized Hindu sites of worship reflects the nations unique cultural diversity and growth of the Indian communities. For example, Sai Baba of Shirdi also known as Shirdi Sai Baba, (1838–1918), is regarded by his devotees to be a manifestation of Śrī Dattaguru and identified as a saint and a fakīr. Devotees, many from the Indo-Fijian community, are Hindu, Muslim, and Sufi who worship together at Auckland’s Shri Shirdi Saibaba Sansthan [founded 2002], and Yogini Shakti Peetham, a Vedic temple complex based on Awhitu Peninsula, south-west of Auckland. An annual fee and additional charges are made for various forms of pūjās (blessings). In contrast, the Indo-Fijian community’s Maa Durga Mandir, founded 2012 and dedicated to the goddess Śakti, is supported only by donations, and offers free services including; pūjās, food, devotional music classes for children, and the community hall.

Hinduism is also referred to as ‘Sanātana Dharma’, translated as ‘eternal duty’. ‘Sanātana’ is a term used to describe Hindu movements that incorporate various teachings from the Vedas, Upaniṣads, and other ancient Hindu texts such as the Rāmāyaṇa and Bhagavadgītā. The Bhagavadgītā is the best known of all the Indian scriptures and is often described by Hindus in New Zealand as a concise guide to Hindu philosophy and a practical, self-contained guide to life. New Zealand hosts several Sanātana Dharma mandirs across the country dedicated to a variety of Hindu deities and philosophical approaches. The Hindi language mandirs are devoted to Hindu pantheon deities and include Shiv Mandir in Manurewa [founded 2004], Shree Sanatan Dharam Hanuman Mandir [founded 2014] in Beach Haven, and Sanatan Dharam Mandir [founded 2015], Tauranga’s first Hindu temple.

Aotearoa New Zealand Federation of Tamil Sangam [founded 2020] is a parent body for the Hindu Tamil associations that are located in Auckland [founded 1999], Wellington [founded 2009], Hamilton [founded1989], and Christchurch [founded 1995]. The Tamil associations celebrate Poṅgal, a four-day harvest festival celebrated across Tamil Nadu mid-January as well as Dīvālī that is celebrated within the community but also at the government supported pan-Indian festivities. The number and types of temples reflects the newly arriving population from other parts of the world than the traditional migrants from Tamil Nadu and to a lesser extent, Andhra Pradesh and Kerala.

Wellington’s Kurinchi Kumaran Temple [founded 2000], New Zealand’s first South India style temple, is dedicated to Śiva. The temple, run by volunteers, teaches bhajans (devotional singing), and Sanskrit. Auckland’s Thiru Subramaniam Temple [founded 1996], is dedicated to the South Indian god Murukaṉ,²⁴ and is affiliated with Sri Ayyappan Seva Samajam (WASS), a global Hindu service organization based in Wellington. Auckland’s New Zealand Thirumurugan Temple [founded 2002], also dedicated the Murugan Temple, attracts devotees who have migrated from many countries including Sri Lanka, India, Malaysia, Singapore, and South Africa.

Auckland’s Sri Ganesha Temple [founded 2002], was started by migrants from Malaysia filling the need for bhakti devotional Śaivites devoted to Vināyakar. Sri Balaji (Sri Venkateswara Swamy) Temple in Hamilton [founded 2015] is dedicated to Viṣṇu and attracts devotees from across South India, Sri Lanka, Malaysia, and South Africa. The twelve priests are from Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh, and Karnataka, and speak Sanskrit, Tamil, Telugu, Hindi, and English. Christchurch’s Sri Ganesha Temple [founded 2018] meets monthly in a community hall and is seeking building funds.

Third Wave: Global Hinduism Organizations

The prime objective of International Swaminarayan Satsang Organization (ISSO) is to advance the Sanātana Dharma, in accordance with the principles and teachings of Svāminārāyaṇa (1781–1830), also known as Sahajānand Svāmi. Svāminārāyaṇa is a central figure in a modern tradition of Hinduism known as the Svāminārāyaṇa Hinduism, a Vaiṣṇava tradition, founded in Gujarat and split into two sects: NarNarayan Dev Gadi (Ahmedabad) and LaxmiNarayan Dev Gadi (Vadtal). New Zealand has two mandirs built by followers of the NarNarayan Dev Gadi tradition; Shree Swaminarayan Temple, Papatoetoe, Auckland in 2008, and Shree Swaminarayan Hindu Temple, Hamilton in 2015.

Bochasanwasi Akshar Purushottam Swaminarayan (BAPS), is a global socio-spiritual organization within the Svāminārāyaṇa tradition with headquarters in Ahmedabad. Established in 1907 by the Sanskrit scholar and sādhu Shastri Yagnapurushdas (aka Shastriji Maharaj), the central philosophy is the reinterpretation of Svāminārāyaṇa’s teachings, Akshar Purushottam Upasana, that emphasizes that spirituality grows best when well rooted in human relationships. Followers observe a life of purity (no meat, alcohol, adultery), daily pūjā and meditation, and donating regular hours to serving others within the community. Mahant Swami Maharaj presides as the guru and spiritual guide of devotees and manages the worldwide socio-spiritual activities that include over 1,100 mandirs and 3,850 centres, numerous publications, and online spiritual practices. In New Zealand, there are four recently built Svāminārāyaṇa mandirs: Auckland [founded 2008], Wellington [founded 2012], Christchurch [founded 2012], and Rotorua. [founded 2015].

Concluding Remarks

In 2021, mandirs and Hindu-practising religious groups could be found in Auckland, Hamilton, Tauranga, Rotorua, Palmerston North, Wellington, Nelson, Christchurch, Dunedin, and study groups in smaller communities. Large international Hindu organizations now support a variety of Hindu religious practices. Facebook has become an important promotional tool and is used to advertise upcoming events and record videos of pūjās such as at the Shree Hanuman Temple in Auckland.

Additionally, the arrival of the Covid virus with subsequent border closures and lockdowns, limiting the ability to congregate, has created new sites for worship across the virtual world. On April 2020, with the temples in New Zealand closed for worship, the temple’s Hindu Priest from Auckland’s Radha Krishna Temple led a ‘Live Global Puja’, a prayer session to spiritually combat Covid-19. The prayer was conducted from 11 a.m. on Sunday, April 26 till 12:30 p.m. and was joined by the devotees live on Radha Krishna Temple Facebook page (Radha Krishna Mandir 2020). As noted by Mohammed (2020), this initiative was applauded by the Hindu community and arranged in consultation with the Auckland Indian Association and coordination with different temples located within New Zealand. As a part of the Vishwa Shanti Yagna (World Peace Day Offerings), similar prayer sessions were conducted at different time zones from around the globe, breaking new technological practices for global Hinduism.

References

Fiji

Andrews and Pearson. 1916. Report on Indentured Labour in Fiji. Star Printing Works, Calcutta.

Arya Pratinidhi Sabha of Fiji, 2018. ‘Vision & Mission of Arya Samaj.’ URL: http://www.aryasamaj.org.fj/SCHOOLS.aspx/.

Bilimoria, Purushottama. 1985. ‘The Ārya Samāj in Fiji.’ Religion 15 (2): 103–29.

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Cava, L. 2021. ‘Fiji Has Suffered Folly of Division.’ Fiji Times, 2 March. URL: https://www.fijitimes.com/fiji-has-suffered-folly-of-division/.

Derrick, R.A. 1950. A History of Fiji. Government Press; Suva.

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Hare Krishna Movement. 1970–1973. ‘Back to Godhead’ 45. URL: https://back2godhead.com/newpdf-17–36/074_1970-1973_01-45.pdf/.

Kelly, J.D. 1988. ‘From Holi to Diwali in Fiji: An Essay on Ritual and History.’ Man 23 (1): 40–55. URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/2803032/.

Kelly, J.D. 2001. ‘Fiji: Journeys and Struggles.’ Journal of Pacific History 36 (2): 257–62. URL: https://doi.org/10.1080/00223340120075618/.

Lal, B. 2000. Chalo Jahaji. Canberra: Australian National University.

Lal, B. 2017. ‘Girmit.’ Journal of South Asian Studies 40 (2): 313–15. URL: https://doi.org/10.1080/00856401.2017.1294233/.

Litia, T. 2016. ‘VHP FIJI Donates Close to $200K Worth of Assistance.’ Fiji Sun, 18 March. URL: https://fijisun.com.fj/2016/03/18/vhp-fiji-donates-close-to-200k-worth-of-assistance/.

Sanadhya, Totaram. 1991. My Twenty-One Years in Fiji Islands & the Story of the Haunted Line (being the English translation of both the Hindi texts in one by John D. Kelly and Uttra K. Singh). Suva: Fiji Museum.

Sharma, S. 1987. ‘The Politics of Race in Fiji.’ Economic and Political Weekly 22 (49): 2096–99.

Siegel, J. 1985. Language Contact in a Plantation Environment: A Sociolinguistic History of Fiji. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Somerville, I.K. 1986. The Ramayan Mandli Movement: Popular Hindu Theism in Fiji 1879–1979. Sydney: University of Sydney.

World Hindu News. 2014. ‘First National Hindu Community Conference Organized by VHP in Fiji.’ URL: https://www.worldhindunews.com/first-national-hindu-community-conference-organised-by-vhp-in-fiji/.

Australia

Australian Bureau of Statistic (ABS), Census of Population and Housing, Data for Indians (in various categories). 1900–2016.

Bouma, Gary and Philip Hughes. 2014. ‘Using Census Data in the Management of Religious Diversity: An Australian Case Study.’ Religion 44(3): 1–19.

Bilimoria, Purushottama. 1989. Hinduism in Australia: Mandala for the Gods. Melbourne: Spectrum Publications.

Bilimoria, Purushottama, Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat, and Philip Hughes. 2019. The Indian Diaspora: Hindus and Sikhs in Australia. (2nd edn). Melbourne: Manticore Press (1st edn 2015, New Delhi: D K Printworld).

Butlin, N.G. 1986. ‘Contours of the Australian Economy 1788–1860.’ Australian Economic History Review 26 (2): 96–125.

Carey, Hilary. 1996. Believing in Australia: A Cultural History of Religions. Sydney: Allen and Unwin.

Costa-Pinto, Selena. 2019. ‘Religiosity in New Land: Women’s Strategies for Daily Living.’ In The Indian Diaspora: Hindus and Sikhs in Australia, edited by Purushottama Bilimoria, Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat, and Philip Hughes, 279–98. Melbourne: Manticore Press.

Dikshitar, Ramachandra. 1971. Origin and Spread of Tamils. Madras: The South India Saiva Siddhanta Works Publishing Society.

Forster, Richard. 2019. ‘“Afghan Cameleers” and “Indian Hawkers” and the Settlement of Australia—Race, Gender and the South Asian Colonial Diaspora.’ In The Indian Diaspora: Hindus and Sikhs in Australia, edited by Purushottama Bilimoria, Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat, and Philip Hughes, 345–72. Melbourne: Manticore Press.

Foster, Heather. 2019. ‘Religious Maintenance and Adaptation: An Example from the South Australian Hindu Diaspora.’ In The Indian Diaspora: Hindus and Sikhs in Australia, edited by Purushottama Bilimoria, Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat, and Philip Hughes, 149–63. Melbourne: Manticore Press.

Gregory, Jenny and Jan Gothard. 2009. Historical Encyclopedia of Western Australia. Perth: University of Western Australia Press.

Hughes, Philip. 2019. ‘A Statistical Profile of the Hindu Community in Australia.’ In The Indian Diaspora: Hindus and Sikhs in Australia, edited by Purushottama Bilimoria, Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat, and Philip Hughes, 165–85. Melbourne: Manticore Press.

Kenna, Len and Crystal Jordan. 2008–2014. Are Indians an Ethnic Minority, vol 1–5. Melbourne: Jika Publishing.

Menon, Abusha. 2011. ‘The Indian Link to Convict Australia.’ Indian Link 11 (5) April: 33.

Pale, Anne. 1981. ‘Tonga : A Community of Small Traders.’ In Pacific Indians Profiles in 20 Pacific Countries, (n.e.), 73–83. Institute of Pacific Studies, University of South Pacific.

Sanadhya, Totaram. 1919, 1973. Fiji Dwip Men Mere Ikkis Varsha [My Twenty-One Years in Fiji] (In Hindi 1919; English Translation 1973). Varanasi: Banarsidas Chaturvedi. (For Suva, Fiji 1991 edition see under References at Hindus in Fiji above).

Westrip, Joyce and Peggy Holroyde. 2010. Colonial Cousins: A Surprising History of Connections between India and Australia. Kent Town: Wakefield Press.

Willard, Myra. 1967. History of the White Australia Policy to 1920. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press.

New Zealand

Auckland Council. 2021. ‘The Auckland 2050 Plan: Auckland’s Asian Population.’ URL: https://www.aucklandcouncil.govt.nz/plans-projects-policies-reports-bylaws/our-plans-strategies/auckland-plan/about-the-auckland-plan/Pages/aucklands-asian-population.aspx/.

Bandyopadhyay, Sekhar and Jane Buckingham. 2018. ‘Introduction.’ In Indians and the Antipodes: Networks, Boundaries, and Circulation, edited by Sekhar Bandyopadhyay and Jane Buckingham, 1–25. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

Bilimoria, Purushottama. 2013. ‘Australia and New Zealand.’ In Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism, Vol. V, Hinduism and Migration: Contemporary Communities outside South Asia, edited by Knut A. Jacobsen, 193–205. Leiden: Brill.

Bilimoria, Purushottama. 2019. ‘Transglobalism of Hindus and Sikhs in Australia.’ In The Indian Diaspora: Hindus and Sikhs in Australia, edited by Purushottama Bilimoria, Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat and Philip Hughes, 33–60. Melbourne: Manticore Press.

Booth, Alison. 2016. ‘Negotiating Diasporic Culture: Festival Collaborations and Production Networks.’ International Journal of Event and Festival Management 7 (2): 100–16. doi:10.1108/IJEFM-02–2016.

Booth, Alison. 2018. ‘Negotiating Indianness: Auckland’s Shifting Cultural Festivities,’ In Indians in the Antipodes: Networks of Empire, Boundaries of Race, edited by Sekhar Bandyopadhyay and Jane Buckingham, 278–303. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

De Souza, Ruth. 2011. ‘All of Me Meets Here, an Alchemy of Parts—Negotiating My Identities in New Zealand.’ In Localizing Asia in Aotearoa, edited by Paola Voci and Jacqueline Leckie, 231–45. Wellington NZ: Dunmore Publishing.

Friesen, Wardlow. 2014. ‘Diaspora, Brain Circulation and Indian Development.’ In Global Diasporas and Development, edited by Adananda Sahoo and B.K. Pattanaik, 139–55. New Delhi: Springer.

Friesen, Wardlow and Robin A. Kearns. 2008. ‘Indian Diaspora in New Zealand: History, Identity and Cultural Landscapes.’ In Tracing an Indian Diaspora: Contexts, Memories, Representations, edited by P. Raghuram, A. K. Sahoo, B. Maharaj, and D. Sangha, 210–227. Los Angeles: Sage.

Gendall, Phil and Martin von Randow. 2016. International Social Survey Programme: Religion. The University of Auckland. Collection. URL: https://doi.org/10.17608/k6.auckland.c.2174592.v9/.

Leckie, Jacqueline. 2007. Indian Settlers: The Story of a New Zealand South Asian Community. Dunedin NZ: Otago University Press.

Migration Stats. 2018. Quick Stats about migration for New Zealand (2018 Census). URL: https://www.stats.govt.nz/tools/2018-census-place-summaries/new-zealand#ethnicity-culture-and-identity.

Mohammad, Rizwan. 2020. ‘Auckland’s Radha Krishna Temple Lead a “Live Global Puja”, a Prayer Session to Spiritually Combat Covid-19.’ Indian Weekender (29 April 2020). URL: https://www.indianweekender.co.nz/Pages/ArticleDetails/7/12167/New-Zealand/Aucklands-Radha-Krishna-Temple-lead-a-Live-Global-Puja-a-prayer-session-to-spir#/.

Morris, Paul. 2011. ‘Diverse Religions—Hindus.’ In Te Ara—the Encyclopedia of New Zealand. Updated 12 July 2018. edited by E. Cox and D. Green, 1–18. Wellington: Manatū Taonga Ministry for Culture and Heritage. URL: http://www.TeAra.govt.nz/en/diverse-religions/page-2/.

Radha Krishna Mandir. 2020. Live Global Puja 29 April 2020. URL: https://www.facebook.com/RKMAklNZ/.

Salmond, Anne. 1992. Two Worlds: First Meetings between Maori and Europeans, 1642–1772. Honolulu HI: University of Hawaii Press.

Singh, Sandeep. 2019. ‘Census 2018: Kiwi-Indian Population Crosses 200,000 Mark.’ Indian Weekender. 23 September. URL: https://www.indianweekender.co.nz/Pages/ArticleDetails/7/11175/New-Zealand/Census-2018-Kiwi-Indian-population-crosses-200000-mark#/.

Stats NZ. 2018. ‘Census Place Summaries.’ Wellington: Statistics New Zealand. URL: https://www.stats.govt.nz/tools/2018-census-place-summaries/new-zealand#ethnicity-culture-and-identity/.

Stats NZ. 2019. ‘Ethnic Group Summaries Indian Population.’ Wellington: Statistics New Zealand. URL: https://www.stats.govt.nz/tools/2018-census-ethnic-group-summaries/indian/.

Nancy Swarbrick. 2005. ‘Indians.’ Te Ara—the Encyclopedia of New Zealand. Updated 25 Mar 2015. edited by E. Cox and D. Green, 1–11. Wellington: Manatū Taonga Ministry for Culture and Heritage. URL: http://www.TeAra.govt.nz/en/indians/print/.

World Population Review. 2020. ‘New Zealand Population.’ URL: https://worldpopulationreview.com/countries/new-zealand-population/.

Purushottama Bilimoria, Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat, Alison Booth, Philip Hughes, and Rajendra Prasad, Hindu Diaspora in Oceania (Australia, New Zealand, and the Pacific) In: Hindu Diasporas. Edited by: Knut A. Jacobsen, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198867692.003.0008

¹ The Introduction is written by Purushottama Bilimoria; the part on Fiji by Rajendra Prasad; Australia by Purushottama Bilimoria, Jayant Bhalchandra Bapat, and Philip Hughes; and New Zealand by Alison Booth.

² Pale 1981: 76–7. One of the two had somehow left his wife in Fiji, and never returned to take her to Tonga; instead, he divorced her and had two sons with his Tongan wife.

³ The term used to refer to the indigenous population of Fiji.

⁴ Fiji Hindi term derived from the word agreement referring to the Indenture contract signed by migrants.

⁵ In Hindu belief, voyage across the sea makes a person impure and unclean and hence he/she cannot participate in religious activities.

⁶ A Hindu priest.

⁷ A group who would meet on a designated day in a week to sing the Rāmāyaṇa.

⁸ Housing provided to the indentured labourers, in the form of a long apartment with small rooms for each family.

⁹ Devotion by a Hindu to a particular Hindu deity who he feels attached to.

¹⁰ The oldest spiritual scriptures on Hinduism in Sanskrit.

¹¹ Raṅgoli is women’s ritual art drawn mainly on thresholds and floors in houses and temples.

¹² A folk form of singing associated with the festival of colours, Holī in Fiji. It is always performed in groups.

¹³ Butlin (1986: 107); estimates suggest a possible range between 880,000 and 1,320,000.

¹⁴ For a detailed account of the history of settlement of Indians in Australia, see, Bilimoria, Bapat and Hughes. 2019.

¹⁵ Westrip and Holroyde 2010: Chapter 6.

¹⁶ The history of the hawkers has been documented by Len Kenna and Crystal Jordan in five volumes entitled Are Indians an Ethnic Minority? (2008–2014). Their continuing research under the aegis of the Australian-Indian Historical Society Inc., is regularly featured in local newspapers, for example Sionne Kelly, ‘Australian Indian History on Show’, Shepparton News, 6 May 2016, and ‘About Len Kenna’, Indian Down Under, Friday, May 28, 2021.

¹⁷ All statistics and aligned sources from the early history of the Hindu and larger Indian migration to Australia up to the census of 2016 are drawn from the study cited in note 2.

¹⁸ In the vernacular, bania denotes businessfolk or merchant.

¹⁹ An āśrama is a spiritual hermitage where disciples take teachings from a resident guru.

²⁰ Haldi-kumkum is a folk-ritual observed by married women in Maharashtra. During certain months and on particularly auspicious days of the year, a married woman invites other married women to her home and anoints their foreheads with turmeric and vermillion powders. Invited females are each given a gift and coconut symbolizing fertility.

²¹ The Maṅgalāgaur is yet another religious observance undertaken by newly married women, particularly in western India. On the first Tuesday of the month of Śrāvaṇ (August-September), the bride prays to Gaurī—the consort of Śiva and mother of Gaṇeśa, included in the ritual—for a happy and enduring married life, followed by a vigil of song and dance by the female guests. This observance is continued for the next five to seven years.

²² Aotearoa (Land of the Long White Cloud) is the Māori name for New Zealand (NZ). The names Aotearoa New Zealand, New Zealand, and Aotearoa appear in mass media and government documents and are used in daily life. This being the case, this chapter uses all these terms but for consistency uses New Zealand whenever possible.

²³ Places of worship are referred to in many ways depending on various cultural traditions and language. Common terms include mandirs, temples, and devasthāna (God’s place), and may be used interchangeably.

²⁴ Murukaṉ, also known as Kārtikeya, Skanda, Kumāra, and Subrahmanya, is the Hindu god of war. He is a son of Pārvatī and Śiva, brother of Gaṇeśa. Murukaṉ is a popular deity worshipped in South India temples.

8

Prestige Temples, Performing Arts, and Power

Hindu Immigrants in the United States

Vasudha Narayanan

There are approximately 2.5 million Hindus in America.¹ Almost half of them have completed a graduate degree and, as a population, they have one of the highest levels of household income. About 87 per cent are first generation immigrants and 9 per cent are second generation, making this a largely diaspora population.² These factors are connected to the building of prestige temples; temples which are not just places of piety, but sites of power to show the country, especially the political representatives, that this is a diaspora to be taken seriously. Although some websites say there are about 1,450 Hindu temples in the United States, there are probably hundreds more. It is probable that after the feverish temple-building activity in the end of the first millennium ce in South East Asia, especially in the Khmer territories, that one must wait another thousand years for a similar enthusiasm for building temples. This is seen in the United States, starting in the last quarter of the twentieth century.

On 3 October 1965, President Lyndon Johnson signed into law the Hart-Cellar Act, better known as the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965, which removed the quotas based on national origins. The act also gave preference for professionals and skilled workers, including those who had graduate degrees from American universities. The new law opened up immigration from India and thousands of engineers and physicians came to the United States. Ten years later, as the Hindu residents settled down and realized they were raising families here, they started to build temples and laid the foundations for the Sri Venkatesvara Temple, Pittsburgh and the long-conceptualized Ganesha Temple (Sri Maha Vallabha Ganapati Devasthanam) in Flushing, New York.

Although one can trace the clear adaptation of ideas from Hindu sacred texts in the works of Emerson, Thoreau, and Whitman, after the 1965 Immigration Act, there was a proliferation of gurus teaching ideas connected with Hinduism, such as reincarnation, meditation, and worship of deities. In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, ideas and practices originating in Hinduism came when Hindus were not allowed into the country. The period up to 1965 can be characterized as one where the history of Hindu ideas dominates. While this certainly does not stop after 1965 (as noted, the boom in yoga, meditation, and gurus starts then), the post-1965 period is also one where we can tell the story of large numbers of Hindus entering America, building temples, and transmitting traditions through domestic rituals and expressive arts. In this chapter, we will see how the Hindus settling in North America, because of their high education and income, have created a large network of ‘prestige’ temples which seek to be ‘authentic’ places of worship and have, from early on, relied heavily on performance (particularly music and dance) to sustain and transmit the Hindu culture.

In the nineteenth century, starting approximately with the time of the New England Transcendentalists and all the way into the first half of the twentieth century, we see American engagement with ideas, philosophies, and practices connected with the many Hindu traditions in the Indian sub-continent. While philosophies, texts, and practices like Vedānta, Bhagavadgītā, forms of meditation, and yoga are embedded in the diverse cultural and ritual practices in India, during this period in America they are pried loose from the Hindu traditions, presented and interpreted as part of a timeless and universal vision of human spiritual evolution. This acceptance of what is to become known as spiritual praxis forms the foundation for the overwhelming popularity of yoga and other traditions in the late twentieth century.

In the years following 1965, the building of temples and the popularity of performing arts have characterized the religious lives of Hindus in this country. Certainly, the socio-cultural, political, and financial conditions in the United States, the economic class and educational qualifications of the first wave of Hindu immigrants, as well as the reasons for which they migrated, have all come together in creating this unique temple culture in the United States. It is not the case that temple culture dominates only the lives of the immigrant population: we see its pre-eminence in both the religion of the Hindu immigrants as well as several new religious movements in America, most notably the International Society of Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON) or the Hare Krishnas.

Hindus—as practitioners of all religions—are continually in the process of selectively choosing from received traditions—discarding some, retaining some, transforming some, and incorporating new ideas and practices in the process of transmitting their faith. While retaining certain aspects of temple culture like sacralizing the ground on which the structures are built (Narayanan 2006), as well as traditional architecture, auspicious times to conduct rituals, and ritual feast days, the temples are also different in several ways. Notably, Hindus in America choose auspicious moments for rituals during long weekends like Memorial Day or Labor Day, making certain celebrations to coincide with the American civic calendar when they have the flexibility. Hindu temples also become community centres with educational and cultural programmes; the hierarchical relationships between the ritual-specialists (the priests) and the community are changed; and finally, unlike temples in India, they are notably interactive with the community, using numerous tech-savvy ways to reach out and stay in touch with the devotees (Narayanan 2006).

I write this chapter as a first-generation immigrant in the United States and one who works on the Hindu traditions in their historical manifestations in India, South East Asia, and in the United States. Much of the material, apart from scholarly works, comes from my being part of this diaspora with participation in domestic rituals and temple spaces. It is not just an academic exercise when I write about immigration preferences and getting a ‘green card’; I have gone through that procedure. I was a graduate student at Harvard when we received information on the first fundraising efforts (a classical music and dance performance by leading artists from Tamil Nadu) for the Pittsburgh temple. I have been going to temples, religious gatherings at homes, been consulted on conducting weddings and rituals, and am part of the communities and spaces about which I write and theorize. It is, one may argue, an essay in the emerging genre of autoethnography (Ellis, Adams, and Bochner 2011). I am also on the mailing and email lists of numerous temples in the United States and a few from Canada and Australia, and this helps me to understand the local cultural contexts and differences.

Some sections, especially on the life of the early Hindus who lived in New York and Chicago are based on oral histories, stories I heard in conversations or received through letters over decades. My in-laws and a whole cohort had come here as members of the UN secretariat and the diplomatic corps in the 1940s and their children became first-generation immigrants even though the parents went back to India. Thus, stories of first-generation women in this country in the 50s and 60s are stories of family and friends and heard over the decades in family rooms, kitchens, and at the dining tables. When I became interested in the history of Hindu traditions in the United States, family friends introduced their friends, and many wrote letters. Since some of the women I write about also wrote articles in the New York Times or chapters in books or have been the subject of media articles I have cited those, when possible, with oral history supplementing the publicly available materials. The section on the early settlers and sojourners is based on such personal narratives but stories which would be recognized by others of that period. Personal anecdotes from family and friends have been woven into this chapter and cited as such, with reference to personal communications (letters and, later on, emails) when possible.

In recounting the stories of the women in the early years of migration, I will explore the strategies they used to keep their culture alive, what was considered to be negotiable in settling down in the new country and what was not. Performing arts becomes the connecting thread, the umbilical cord with the mother country, and the thread of transmission of memories, emotions, stories, and hopes to the new generation, born in the United States.

This chapter is divided roughly into three sections: experiences of a few women and families until 1965; the post-1965 temple-building era; and finally, the significance of the performing arts for the Hindu diaspora as well as areas of social and education concern in the twenty-first century for some Hindu families. Given the diversity of the Hindu traditions, the descriptions and analyses in this chapter can be seen only as selective perspectives in complex diasporic experiences.

Early Immigration and Settlers

While teachers like Vivekananda shaped the intellectual encounters, only a few like Yogananda and Trigunatita stayed on as ‘missionaries’, a category which seemed to bypass the immigration quotas. Immigration in the late nineteenth to the early twentieth centuries included a few thousand Indian Sikh and Hindu men who came primarily from the Punjab area to work on the west coast of the United States and Canada. Many of these immigrants were Sikhs. Since there was no sizeable migration of Hindu women at that time, many men married Mexican-American women (Leonard 1992, 1997). Between 1903 when the first 20 entered the United States and the time when the Immigration Act of 1917 (the ‘Barred Zone Act’) was enacted, about 6,000 Indians, largely Sikh, had come in. India was one of the countries from which immigration was banned.

There are a few exceptions to the complete exclusion. A few people had come prior to the Asian Exclusion Act. And then, there were a few students and visitors, many of whom did their graduate work either in New York or in the Boston area. One was Yellapragada SubbaRow³ (1895–1948), whose medical and pharmaceutical inventions, it is said, brought possible major treatments, including the medication for filaria and what led to chemotherapy. Seshi and Lichtman (2014) write that ‘SubbaRow did not receive a Nobel Prize, but his discoveries entitle him to be called the father of targeted cancer chemotherapy’, and Mukherjee in his magisterial biography of cancer writes:

Any one of these achievements should have been enough to guarantee him a professorship at Harvard. But Subbarao was a foreigner, a reclusive, nocturnal, heavily accented vegetarian who lived in a one-room apartment downtown, befriended only by other nocturnal recluses. (Mukherjee 2011: 39)

SubbaRow had come to Harvard in 1922 or 23, worked in odd jobs to pay his way and made pathbreaking discoveries. Although the discoveries were momentous and he had finished a doctorate in biochemistry at Harvard, he did not get a job there. This may have been racism but it was probably combined with having a supervisor who was less than friendly; according to some accounts his work was destroyed by a colleague. Subbarow’s colleague, Dr George Hitchings said, ‘[S]ome of the nucleotides isolated by Subbarow had to be rediscovered years later by other workers because Fiske, apparently out of jealousy, did not let Subbarow’s contributions see the light of the day’ (quoted in Dixit 2018). He eventually took up a leadership position at Lederle, a pharma company where his breakthrough discoveries became legendary (Seshi and Lichtman 2014; Gupta and Milford: 1987). Towards the end of his life, he attended two churches regularly and although they claimed he was a member, he wrote that his interest in Christianity was like that of Gandhi’s; ‘nor did his acceptance of Christ as a spiritual leader bar him from not “forsaking the great spiritual qualities he had known in his Indian faith”’ (Narasimhan 2003: 125).

Another well-known Indian student in these early days was the famed Krishnalal Shridharani, freedom fighter and author, who had initially been associated with Gandhi and Tagore and who lived in America from 1934 to 1946. He did his doctorate at Columbia University and travelled widely in the United States, and his books speak about how he was seen as a piece of exotica. His books were very influential among the African-American intellectuals, and as Malathi Iyengar says, ‘[H]e learned as much from his encounters with African American activists as they did from him. They were colleagues, comrades, and friends’ (Iyengar 2022). A few, like the Chandrasekhars, as we will see shortly, came under special provisions. Many others, in the late 1940s and early 50s came as employees of the United Nations Secretariat or as part of India’s diplomatic mission to the UN. I present three case studies here, in chronological order. They are not meant to be representative. They are all from well-educated backgrounds but not from wealthy families.

Focus on Early Settlers: 1915

The history of the Watumulls, who eventually became known for their business success and exemplary philanthropy, goes back to the early twentieth century. Jhamandas Watumull, a well-educated Indian businessman, sailed to Hawaii in 1915 and with a colleague, started the East India Store in the old Blaisdell Hotel building on Fort Street in downtown Honolulu. After the death of his partner, he asked his brother, Gobindram, to join him in 1917 (Gomes 2020). Gobindram married Ellen Jensen, originally from Oregon, in 1922. He, along with other Indians of that era, applied for US citizenship and some of them became naturalized citizens. But in a landmark case in 1924, the citizenship of Bhagat Singh Thind was taken away and in Gobindram Watumull’s case, his wife’s citizenship was also revoked because she was married to an Indian (Kumar 2021). This was rescinded several years later. Jhamandas’s son Gulab (1924–2020), who came to Hawaii in 1948 for graduate education, eventually joined the family business and became the architect of its success; one of their well-known contributions of their textile and retail store to local tourist culture and a feature that became well known all over the United States was the creation of family-coordinated aloha outfits (see Watumull Obituary). The Watumull family and their creation of the vast network of exemplary philanthropic funds for arts, education, and research, as well as collaborative and cooperative enterprises between Indians and Americans, represent the earliest example of Hindu immigrant success stories.

The Watumull family and others like them who moved to America in the first half of the twentieth century, had to rely on portable resources (language, cuisine, etc.) and domestic structures to retain their sense of Hindu identities. Gulab’s wife, Indru Watumull, had lived in Sindh before the partition and then in Bombay, before she came to Hawaii in 1953 when the immigration quota was raised to 100 people from India in one year; Sundri, her sister-in-law, had come earlier. In a phone conversation (30 November 2001), Indru Watumull said that they did not have rituals but that her father-in-law, Jhanamdas Watumull, read the Bhagavadgītā regularly. She spoke in Sindhi with him and generally maintained an Indian cuisine, at least early on. Names for children in the family were also chosen after consulting astrologers in Bombay (Mumbai) and in alignment with the time and place where the children were born.⁴

Focus on Early Settlers: 1936 Onwards

Scholars who went on to become celebrated settlers were Dr S. and Lalitha Chandrasekhar. Dr Subrahmanyan Chandrasekhar (1910–1995) came to the United States in 1935, originally to be at Harvard, but was recruited by the University of Chicago and joined it in December 1936 after a trip to India. He went on to win a Nobel Prize in 1983. His wife, Lalitha Chandrasekhar (1910–2013), with whom I had the privilege to spend time and have several phone conversations between 2002 and 2007, told me many stories of their early life in India and in the United States. Many stories from India were about her loving grandmother who, along with a formal music teacher, taught her South Indian classical music (known as Carnatic music), some about her husband and their early life in the United States, and most of them were about Carnatic music songs and her love of some specific ones. Some of her reminiscences had been published long before we met and many of her conversations repeated the stories found in the writings, but in the process of telling them or singing some songs, she would add more details. I will cite the publications and add a few details from the conversations (names of songs, etc.) and distinguish between the two. Dr Chandrasekhar was known to be an atheist and out of respect for his views, his wife did not take out the small icons of the deities she brought along. They did share a love of classical South Indian music and much of this, of course, is devotional. If one can speak of religiosity at all, it would be the participation in the ethos of this world of devotional Carnatic music.

Lalitha Chandrasekhar was married to S. Chandrasekhar in India in September 1936, and they sailed to Boston after a stop in Cambridge, England. Arriving in December of that year, they moved soon to Williams Bay, Wisconsin, where he had a research position with the University of Chicago’s Yerkes Observatory. The immigration story is instructive in two ways; first, on how he got a visa and second, his father’s reaction which depicted the dim view people in India had about the United States, and even lower view of people getting American citizenship.

Chandrasekhar had been actively recruited by Struve, the director of the observatory as well as by Hutchins, then president of the University of Chicago. Despite this flattering invitation to join the prestigious school, getting a visa to come to the United States was close to impossible because of the Asian Exclusion Act. Racism was strong; the visa officer apparently did not even look at Chandrasekhar (Wali 1991: 180) when he dismissively said he could not accept the university offer because he would not be granted a visa. Chandrasekhar reported this to Professor Struve who, checking with the University Counsel, decided to get around it in an ingenious way. This was by labelling Chandrasekhar a ‘missionary’; a most ironic solution, given that Chandrasekhar was a self-proclaimed atheist. But

[i]t turned out that there was a section of the Immigration Act, 4D, under which permanent resident visas could be granted to missionaries from countries which had no quota. For the purposes of the law, the legal counsel said, a person could be considered a missionary if he had taught in a school, college, or university. When Chandra went back to the American consul with this information and a letter from Sir Arthur Eddington attesting to the fact that Chandra had taught in Cambridge, the consul had agreed to grant him the visa. (Wali 1991, 180–1)

With other interventions, Lalitha Chandrasekhar also got a visa; since Indians did not get birth certificates or register weddings with government agencies, immigration forms in the United States from the 1930s to the 1980s (when Indians were better prepared with the paperwork) remained a nightmare.

The second issue was the perception of America in Indian minds shaped by British rule and education. Whether the Indian immigrant was a second-class citizen in the United States or not (and most were at the time), certainly in the Indian mind, moving to the Americas was several cuts lower than moving to England. What is described in the following paragraph about Chandrasekhar’s father would have been true of most people until the late 1960s—or perhaps even for a decade more:

As expected, Chandra’s father had serious reservations about Chandra’s accepting either of the two offers from America. Distance from India, higher cost of living, and racial discrimination aside, America was perceived as shallow and inferior when it came to academic standards as compared to Britain. ‘I know, as a matter of fact,’ wrote Chandra’s father on 20 March 1936, ‘that American text books are much shallower than the British books on the same subject.’ He warned Chandra to beware of American salesmanship. (Wali 1991: 164)

Despite these misgivings, Lalitha and Chandrasekhar made the United States their home, first as permanent residents and then as citizens. The Immigration and Nationality Act of 1952 (The McCarran-Walter Act) allowed for an annual quota of 100 emigres from the hitherto barred countries and removed some restrictions against naturalization. Lalitha had become involved in local (liberal) causes and wanted to participate more as an active citizen; and there were several security clearances for working on classified materials which would become easier if Chandrasekhar could become a citizen. And so, they became naturalized; a decision that was not received well by family in India. Early migrants who took up citizenship voluntarily and for non-hardship reasons were seen to be betraying the land which had nourished them. Chandra’s father wrote an admonishing letter saying that he had been ‘[b]orn of the traditions of the Cauveri delta of Tanjore and Trichy districts with high intellectual aspirations for four generations’. Further, he continued, Chandra had been raised in ‘the atmosphere of Madras with its sandy beach where you said, ‘…Oh! Let me become a Newton!’ and had eaten ‘the salt of the Indian tax-payer…You will realise therefore that your life has borne the fruit of the best of the Hindu tradition combined with the British tradition’ (Wali 1991: 233–4). Chandra’s father concluded with Walter Scott’s lines ‘Breathes there the man, with soul so dead/ who never to himself hath said/ This is my own, my native land!…’ and then declares to his son, a new citizen of the United States, ‘Your choice of America as your future home does at least kill my spirit of home loved in childhood and adolescence’ (Wali 1991: 234).

Although such misgivings about Indians taking on American citizenship have waned considerably over the decades, even now one still hears Indians who prefer not to become citizens, piously quoting a line attributed to the epic Rāmāyaṇa (though not found in the critical edition) that one’s mother and motherland are higher in stature than even paradise (svarga).

There were no temples, there were no Indian or Hindu communities when the Chandrasekhars became some of the earliest members of what we call the Hindu diaspora now. In fact, there were hardly any Indians, and an incident that Mrs Chandrasekhar narrated is striking. She said that in the late 1930s, someone had addressed a letter to her husband with just his name and ‘United States’ below it. The letter was delivered to their home near Yerkes Observatory, in Williams Bay, Wisconsin.

But in what way can one call them ‘Hindu’ despite Chandra’s father saying that he was a beneficiary of the Hindu and the British traditions? One can only answer this question in oblique ways since obviously Hinduism does not have creeds or confessions of faith which serve as litmus tests. Chandrasekhar said several times that he was an atheist. But he grew up in a liberal, albeit somewhat orthoprax (as was normal for the first part of the twentieth century) Tamil, Brahman family and had undergone rituals commonplace in the community. Lalitha Chandrasekhar did say several times in her conversation that her grandmother taught her many beautiful devotional songs, and even in her 90s she remembered the songs very well and sang them to me. She even brought some small icons of deities, she said, when she first came in 1936 and kept them on the mantelpiece, but removed them when she realized they were not to her husband’s liking.

One can come to the question in a different way; one can see several markers which one would not necessarily consider ‘Hindu’, but which become part of the larger cultural identity of a person. Mrs Chandrasekhar spoke frequently about her clothes, their diet, their refusal to imbibe alcohol, and about their music. Some of this is also documented in the biographies; Chandrasekhar muses that part of his reluctance to move to Chicago from Yerkes Observatory, Williams Bay, is the perception of life in the university there: ‘In Williams Bay, people were accustomed from the beginning to our way of entertaining friends and guests with only vegetarian food and non-alcoholic drinks. In Chicago, especially after the war, people had taken to giving cocktail parties…We thought we would of course have to reciprocate such hospitality, but we couldn’t imagine ourselves being able to reciprocate in the same manner, in the proper style’ (Wali 1991: 238–9). Lalitha Chandrasekhar repeated the importance of diet several times; she also spoke about her loving her sarees and said she wore the saree all the time when she moved to the United States. It took her ten years before she bought slacks for household work. She also wore the bindī on her forehead but at one point gave up wearing it; she thought her husband might appreciate it but, apparently, he did not remark about it at all. None of these are ‘Hindu’ in and of themselves but come together into a constellation of identity-making.

What is palpable in the case of the Chandrasekhars, however, is their deep and abiding interest in classical music, and if we have to look to see where and how Hindus carry their culture with them, it would be here. The Chandrasekhars became interested in and knowledgeable about Western classical music after they came to the United States and Chandrasekhar also wrote about it, weaving his knowledge of Western music into his sense of aesthetics, and his quest for beauty and truth (Chandrasekhar 1987). In almost all conversations over the years I had with her, Mrs Chandrasekhar would talk about and sometimes sing a few lines from a Carnatic song. As noted, her grandmother had instilled the love of music in her and she had learned it for many years with a teacher. While training in Carnatic music was seen in many middle-class Tamil Brahman families, Chandrasekhar’s own case was particularly noteworthy: he came from a family where his sisters were accomplished musicians and had themselves trained many singers and vīnā players. Mrs Chandrasekhar was both a vocalist and a vīnā player; she had brought the large, delicate, stringed instrument with her to America. Over the years, however, it went out of tune (the climate would not have helped the wood either) and since no one could repair it, she said, she stopped playing. But her singing continued and she sang regularly; Chandrasekhar particularly enjoyed it and asked her to sing for him all the time. In her conversation with me she recounted that one time, when they were coming from Yerkes Observatory, Williams Bay, Wisconsin, to the University of Chicago, she sang O Ranga Sayi (‘Oh you who recline in Srirangam’; a song directed at Viṣṇu’s manifestation in that temple town) in the raga Kambodhi. She loved the song and lost in its beauty, missed what was left behind, and wept. Their favourite song was thiruvadi saranam enru naan nambi vanden (‘I came, believing your sacred feet are my refuge’) and Lalitha Chandrasekhar sang it for him regularly (Lalitha Chandrasekhar 1998: 237). In this song, the poet speaks about the dread he feels when lord Śiva pushes him into a ‘pit’—the pit of womb, the cycle of life and death. In her essay, ‘Our Song’, Lalitha Chandrasekhar uses this song as a frame for Chandrasekhar’s life, for his cycles of creativity and the ‘fallow’ period when he was trying to focus on a topic which he would focus on for the next decade. It was at these times that he asked her to sing this song over and over again (Lalitha Chandrasekhar 1998).

Although there are devotional songs of other religions in Carnatic music, the fare that Lalitha and her husband were familiar with were those addressed to Hindu deities. The most poignant and powerful statement on their involvement in Carnatic music—and one which has several allusions to the underlying Hindu tradition is this account of Lalitha Chandrasekhar which focuses on the days just before her husband died:

There is no question that one of the strongest of our memories of India was its music. Chandra loved to hear me sing. In those days when Chandra used to drive every week from Williams Bay to Chicago to give lectures and also to attend to the Journal work, it used to be my habit to sing to him during our long drive back to Williams Bay. This very good habit of mine slackened somewhat after we moved permanently to Chicago. But the interest returned fortunately, and I would say I sang to him very often during the many months before he died. A week before he died, I sang a song to him about Krishna lifting the Gowardhana mountain to cut off the sunlight during the great war of the Mahabharata. ‘Won’t you sing it again?’ he asked. ‘No, Chandra. I have another song I want to sing to you now; but I will sing it again later.‘·But that ‘later’’ did not happen! The day before he died I had planned to sing still another song to him that I had heard years ago at a concert and had never learned to sing it before! Somehow it came back to me and it was beautiful. It was about Ganapati, son of Shiva. Everyone loved Ganapati, but he was also a scholar, and transcribed the Mahabharata when Vyasa dictated the epic. ‘Shall I sing it to you, Chandra?’ ‘No, Lalitha, I am not feeling well. Some other time,’ he replied. That ‘some other time’ did not come around since Chandra died the next day. He left soon after breakfast to see Dr. Kirsner at the hospital. He had a massive heart attack on reaching the hospital and died just four hours after he left home. (Lalitha Chandrasekhar 1997: 9–10)

From the many references to the deities (Gaṇeśa, Śiva, Kṛṣṇa) as well as to the Mahābhārata in that passage, there seems to be considerable knowledge of the very Hindu context of these songs. Certainly, that came out when Mrs Chandrasekhar spoke about and sang songs of Arunachala Kavirayar (1711–1799) who composed Rama Katha Natakam, a musical drama on Rāma, and spoke extensively about the allusions. She had learned these as a child; her grandmother had taught her what she called ‘Ramayana songs’ of Arunachala Kavirayar. She said she did not remember the prayers she had been taught but said she knew her ‘music and songs’and mused: ‘They are like prayers, aren’t they? You sing about Rama, you sing Tyagaraja’s words and you show your devotion.’ She added, ‘When I wake up in the middle of the night or before I go to bed, I sing to myself.’⁵

It is this music that was their solace and their joy; and since there is no definition of a Hindu, perhaps one can suggest that in her rasānubhava of this music and its contents, she was part of and relished the larger Hindu culture. Like many Hindus, there is no self-conscious reflection of how one is a Hindu (or, here, if she is one). We discussed this topic in one of our conversations:

She mused, ‘It is really a way of life in India. I mean, we are not religious or anything. If your grandmother takes you to a temple, you go with her. Your mother celebrates something…It’s the way you are. What do you think of it?’

I told her, yes, we got what little religion we did in India through ‘osmosis’. I told her we end up being ‘cultural Hindus’.

She liked the word ‘osmosis’. She wrote the word down. ‘We just get it by being there,’ she affirmed.⁶

Since Mrs Chandrasekhar did not self-identify with any specific religious group except to mention the names of many of her family members which reveal the Brahmanical-Iyer community, I refrain from doing so here. I would, however, like to suggest that many people I know, not having specific beliefs or a sampradāya to identify with, would nevertheless be comfortable in the Hindu milieu, participate on some registers, perhaps be familiar with religious music, bhajans, or small rituals, have a diet congruent with the family’s traditions, have names and attire which come from their religio-cultural background, or do a regular pūjā, and know in an embodied way how to behave in temples. Just one or even two of these signifiers may not mean anything; but several of them taken with a world view could suggest that they could be ‘cultural Hindus’, and leave open the question of whether we can call those who do not observe rituals as ‘Hindu’. Chandrasekhar’s early life was filled with Hindu rituals; upon death, his ashes were spread across what he would have thought of as ‘sacred grounds’, that is, the University of Chicago. She adds: ‘And finally Mr. Kleinbard [one of the Vice-Presidents at the university] drove me to the Promontory point jutting into Lake Michigan, where I discarded the last of Chandra’s ashes to be churned in time to the Atlantic Ocean and from there to all the oceans of the world’ (Lalitha Chandrasekhar 1998: 278). The extra details she gives in another publication throw a bit more light on this:

I not only sprinkled them on the university grounds, but in the American Indian tradition threw them up in the air and in our Indian tradition discarded the last of the ashes in Lake Michigan to be churned by the waves into the Atlantic Ocean and from hence to all the oceans of the world. So Chandra is everywhere and because of that he is here with us now. (Lalitha Chandrasekhar 1997:10)

Lalitha Chandrasekhar refers to the ritual of immersing the ashes in water as an ‘Indian’ custom; it is, of course, a Hindu custom, because the Christians and Muslims in India bury their dead. From birth to death, therefore, Chandra had Hindu rituals; after death, Mrs Chandrasekhar is mindful of the hallowed nature of it as an ‘Indian custom’ even if it was not done as Hindu saṃskāra. In Chicago now, as elsewhere in the United States, funeral homes offer Hindu rites; Gaṅgā water and all items needed for the saṃskāras are available in local shops and online.

In these choices made by the Chandrasekhars—and several others of this period—to adjust to and be part of the American landscape, we see many negotiations and adjustments, but some aspects are non-negotiable. These include diet (Western vegetarian fare was negotiated); language (English outside and in many cases, Indian languages at home); sarees (for rituals which include the rites of entertainment in many registers, negotiated to Western wear for casual occasions), and in some cases, no bindī or the dot on the forehead. Negotiated lines are pushed further and further in each generation. What is non-negotiable is vegetarianism, giving up Indian apparel for women for formal occasions, and names. It is in the non-negotiability of names that the Hindu diaspora stands out as different from other diasporas which adopt Western first names, though by the 1980s names which are acceptable in dual-cultures are preferred. Thus, names like Jay, Ajay (‘AJ’ for Americans), Vijay (‘VJ’), Neel (‘Neil’) become common for boys and there is a whole generation of girls called Sheela (the preferred Indian spelling), Nina, Nita, or Anita.

Early Settlers: Late 1940s and Early 50s

Jhamandas Watumull came in 1915; the Chandrasekhars came in 1936. There was a small influx of Indians—many who were Hindus—who came in the late 1940s and early 50s as members of the United Nations Secretariat and as part of Independent India’s diplomatic corps, both to the UN as well as to the United States. Located largely between the New York and Washington DC area, they saw themselves as long-term visitors; many stayed for a few decades and while they returned to India, their children who were born in the United States became some of the early settlers. Parvathi Thampi, daughter of a diplomat and married to a person at the United Nations, was part of this cohort and one of the most educated and articulate persons one could meet.

Daughter of K.P.S. Menon, a well-known diplomat and India’s long-term ambassador to the USSR, Parvathi Thampi was educated in India and China and in 1946, married K.P. Thampi who was with the United Nations. Her long article, ‘In Strangest America’, published in the New York Times in 1956 is an essay on the gaps between a young Indian woman’s expectations of America and the reality, as well as the exoticism Americans project on the Indians walking in a saree in the New York Streets.

In one of her letters to me (dated 20 February 2002) she wrote about the lives of Indians in the United States. Much of her letter is pertinent and I quote large sections, both because it is clear and describes the experience of women who lived here then, and because we can hear the voice of an early Hindu resident in the United States:

I like to think that we were among the early ‘settlers’, the pioneers from India to America, but, being with the United Nations, we never meant to settle there, as our children and grandchildren did, and do. Being, therefore, transients in a sense, and being initially very homesick, we Indian-U.N. wives went out of our way to preserve our Indian traditions, values and habits. From food and faith to clothing and culture most of us clung, almost fanatically, to our roots. Looking back now I think we must have looked quite ridiculous in winter with snow-shoes and overcoats over our sarees flying in the wind. But it never struck me to wear anything else. (Indeed, the first pair of pants I bought was on the suggestion of my hostess on a trip to Trinidad for the Mardi Gras some twenty years later). I never ventured out without a bindi on my forehead. Talking of which, we were quite horrified when a young Sri Lankan woman on one of those morning talk-shows (Dave Garroway), on being asked by them what the bindi meant replied, ‘It means that we are available.’ Promptly, and indignantly, some of us South Indian women got together and drafted a letter of protest to the talk-shows-host. To which we got a stereotyped one-line response. ‘So and so thanks you for your interest in the show.’!

Food-wise too our main meal at night was almost always rice/chappathies and curry. In those early days we had to bring most of our spices, condiments and pulses [lentils] from India, a far cry from today when nearly every little town in the tri-state area has a Little India somewhere where one can get anything one can get in Bombay or Madras—and more.

By the mid-1950s, however, Indian food ingredients which are so important for the survival of South Asian families and for their identity began to be common. Thampi writes in the New York Times:

Indeed, food is no great problem. She [i.e., the Indian woman in New York] can get nearly all the ingredients necessary for a curry from spices and pickles in an Armenian store on Third Avenue [Thampi is probably referring to iconic Kalustyans that is on Lexington now], as well as Chinese parsley [cilantro] and green ginger in Chinatown. Discovering the proper condiments is like a treasure hunt—and what a thrill she gets on finding the first ripe mango and the first green plantain. If she is a vegetarian, and is invited out often, then life gets monotonous, for how long can one live on macaroni and cheese and on salads? Vegetarianism in India is not merely a fad or a diet, but a principle and a strict vegetarian will not even feed her child cod-liver oil or be content to drink soup from which the pieces of meat have been considerately removed. (Thampi 1956: 36)

Indian food at home was important for most Hindu families in the diaspora. And when they had children, they were exposed to music and dance, and the girls frequently enrolled in dance classes in India or learned from those who had some training here:

As for music and dance we took them [the children] to anything ‘Indian’ like the Bharatanatyam or Kathakali recital and to ‘India Day’ at Darien, Conn. Having learnt a little Carnatic vocal, I would practice my singing twice or thrice a week, which is probably what drove them to Elvis Presley and the Beatles! But, to my great satisfaction, two of them are today keen listeners of Indian Classical music and have a grand collection of ‘Indian’ cassettes and C.D.’s. Inspired by her young cousin in India (which we visited every two years) my daughter learned some Indian folk and Bharatanatyam dancing. We found a dance-teacher for her and four of her friends in New York and they learnt Bharatanatyam assiduously for three or four years, even giving a couple of amateur recitals.

(Thampi, letter February 2002)

In later communications, Mrs Thampi named the dance teachers, including one who was a white-American. Learning dance on ‘home-leaves’ was common for young girls and they continued to learn music and dance in New York with the little resources they had then. The father of Lalitha Badrinath⁷ née Natarajan, was the Minister Counsellor in the Indian Embassy and later Acting Ambassador to the United Nations and she came to the United States in 1957. She had her undergraduate and graduate education in New York between 1957 and 1963. Lalitha learned to the play the veena from her mother and also Kannamma Sharma, an accomplished musician; Lalitha’s sister, Vimala, learned bharatanāṭyam dance during one of the ‘home-leaves’ in Kalakshetra in Chennai. Both Lalitha and her siblings performed at various venues in New York, during the India Day at the International House or in the United Nations School Fete (Lalitha Badrinath, personal communication).

About a decade after this, in the late 1960s when there was an exodus of Indians into the United States, it was dance classes in Pittsburgh which led to the establishment of the first Hindu temple there. As narrated in Pilgrimage to Pittsburgh, a short documentary produced by the University of Pittsburgh on the tenth anniversary of the temple, ‘The impetus for the temple came from a group of parents who organized dance classes in a store basement. Before long, one area of the rental space had been converted into a make-shift prayer room.’⁸ We can see the rising importance of the performing arts from the very beginning in the Indian-Hindu diaspora in the United States and it increases as we go on. We now turn our attention now to the post-1965 era when the Hindu population began to increase exponentially in the United States.

Post-1965: A Time of Temple and Community Building

After minor changes in the law, which allowed a quota of 100 émigrés from India, and eventually, major reforms in 1965, there has been a steady increase in the Hindu immigrant population in the United States. Unlike the unskilled workers and religious men of the early twentieth century, the new immigrants were largely professionals. Many of the women who came in the mid-sixties were those whose husbands had migrated to Canada and the United States. Since the mid-1970s, there has also been a steady flow of students and professional women from South Asia. It was the arrival of these professional families that led to the building of the large Indian-Hindu temples, institutions which are now the hub for cultural dissemination among Hindus from the sub-continent.

From 1975 to about 2015 or so, large ‘prestige’ temples dominated building efforts and there were one or two in the big metropolitan areas: the Hindu temple of Atlanta, the Sri Meenakshi Temple of Pearland (near Houston), Texas, the Shiva-Vishnu Temple at Livermore (Bay Area, near San Francisco), and the Sri Siva Vishnu Temple in Lanham (near Washington DC) are examples of these large temples. After 2015 or so, numerous smaller temples have sprung up in neighbourhoods, some in shopping plazas, others in warehouses, as the devotees find it harder to go through the traffic of large, sprawling cities and prefer the smaller neighbourhood ones. Ex-priests from the large temples sometimes come together, find patrons, and begin these smaller temples. Dallas, Houston, and Atlanta are examples of this trend, with dozens of temples cropping up in the neighbourhoods.

Statistics and Taxonomy of Institutions

Since the numbers which describe religious or ethnic groups can be translated into political and financial clout, several communities have erred on projecting the highest possible number for themselves in the population. What we can say with assurance is that until 1965 the number of Hindus in America was very low. The count in the early twenty-first century ranges from 1.6 to 3 million adherents in America. According to a count by the Pew Foundation, about 0.4 per cent of the American population say they are Hindu—about as many as those who identify themselves as adherents of New Age movements.⁹ This number, of course, reflects only those who self-identify as Hindus and does not include the thousands who incorporate practices associated with the Hindu traditions but who do not use the word ‘Hindu’ to describe themselves. It is not clear if the people who identify as Hindus includes members of new religious movements like ISKCON, but it does seem to include immigrants from countries all over the world, and those who are in the ‘second diaspora’, such as Hindus from the Caribbean, African countries, and so on. Although all are minorities, Hindu people of different regions and national origins tend to cluster together and even build their own temples.

One of the reasons why it is difficult to get exact numbers is because Hindu traditions are centred both in temples and homes, and Hinduism is not a congregational religion. Thus, there are no official temple lists of regular or affiliate members. Email list-serves and records through donations are about the closest ways one can come to counting, but there is considerable discrepancy in the numbers. Many Hindus go to temples only occasionally; they may, instead, come together as a group to have devotional singing once a week in a neighbourhood home. Many smaller towns do not have temples; some Hindus may practise forms of meditation or express their devotion through performing arts. Many performance groups which focus on expressive arts, like the garbā dance troupes, straddle the fuzzy boundaries between religion and culture.

In the 1990s, with the information technology revolution, Indian software specialists migrated to many parts of the world, and over 60 per cent of them are said to have come to the United States. When President Bush signed into law the ‘Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1990’ (generally considered to be the date when the H-1B visa came into existence), 65,000 new employment-based visa permits were added to the quota. This led to a surge of temporary Indian information technology specialists coming in as temporary workers into the United States in the 1990s. Many of them were Hindu and added to the strength of the temples.

In trying to see categories of Hindu communities in the United States, a general rule of thumb is that the smaller the geographic area under consideration, the more inclusive the community. A large city may have temples which are patronized by either one language group or community from particular parts of India; smaller towns, like Allentown, Pennsylvania, on the other hand, started off with one large, shared worship facility for Hindus, Sikhs, and Jains.

The Hindu communities in India are broadly divided on issues of caste, community, sectarian lines, or veneration of a particular religious leader. In some areas of India, ‘community’ is conflated with ‘caste’; thus, there are pan-American groups which have members of just one community like the Bhants, the Patels/Patedhars, and so on. These communities and groups are from particular parts of India originally and speak a common language. Some groups are organized on sectarian lines. The Kannada-speaking Vīraśaiva community from the state of Karnataka, whose members are exclusive followers of lord Śiva, has pan-continental gatherings in the United States every other year. Another example is one of the best organized Hindu communities in India and in the diaspora, the Svāminārāyaṇa tradition, which was started by Svāminārāyaṇa (1781–1830) in 1801 in Gujarat, and this sampradāya is building large temples for their own purposes in many towns across the United States. Their temples are some of the largest in the United States; while Svāminārāyaṇa devotees used these buildings for worship and community activities, other Hindus tend to visit it more as a form of local attraction than for regular rituals.

Although religion forms a useful way of identifying groups, there are other social factors perceptible in the organization of immigrant communities. Broad divisions are seen among Hindus who come from different geographic areas; thus, Hindus from North India, South India, Sri Lanka, Trinidad and Tobago, South Africa, and so on, tend to form separate communities if there is a large enough population in the place of residence. A further subdivision for the Indian communities is by way of language group; such groups include the Tamil Sangam (Society of Tamil People), the Kannada Koota (Kannada [People’s] Group), and the Gujarati Samaj (Gujarati Society). Two of the larger language-based organizations are the Telugu Association of North America (TANA), and the American Telugu Association (ATA). These groups used to cut across religious boundaries and castes; but in the twenty-first century, even the language groups are being split and new ones formed with religious boundaries.

Hindu groups in the United States may also be divided in other ways including informal groups, groups with global presence (like the Sathya Sai devotees), temple communities, cyber groups, and cultural groups.

Temple Spaces

Temple spaces have become the main area for religious activities in America. In India, religious activities are spread in many spaces: home, temple, and public spaces such as roads where processions take place. In America, there is no extended family or immediate neighbours to give support, and rituals which are ordinarily celebrated at home are now celebrated in the temples.

The first two temples which claimed to be ‘authentic’ were built in Flushing, New York, and in Penn Hills, Pennsylvania. Both were consecrated in 1976. These early temples grew out of the many classes in performing arts that were being conducted for the new immigrants and the young second-generation Indo-Americans. In one early case—that of the Flushing Maha Vallabha Ganapathi Devasthanam, there are accounts of how one of the founders, Sri Alagappan, known as the ‘father of the temple building movement in America’ had a dream and then followed it up with the backing of an emerging community (Alagappan Obituary, The New York Times; Hawley 115). Anu Durai of Tampa recalls that she was a teenager when her mother, Gomathi Sundaram, an accomplished vocalist and violin player in the Carnatic music tradition, taught other women to sing. Starting in 1973, the group called vanavil (‘rainbow’ in Tamil) would pile into cars in the weekends and drive to small Indian communities in Connecticut, New York, and Pennsylvania, and hold house concerts to raise consciousness of a possible temple venture and also raise funds. The Hindu community met in the small orthodox church they bought to conduct pujas and recite prayers; Ann’s father and another person took turns doing the rituals after work (Anu Durai email communication). It was the combined effort of several families and support from the community that eventually gave rise to the Ganesha Temple in Flushing, NY.

The first ambitious South Indian temple which sought to reproduce the traditional architecture and recapture the flavour of a Hindu-Vaiṣṇava sacred place was the Sri Venkateswara Temple built in Penn Hills, Pennsylvania, in 1976. Along with the Ganesha Temple in Flushing, New York, the Penn Hills vies to be the first ‘real’ post-1965 Hindu temple in America. The local community took pride in this being an ‘authentic’ temple and stated it frequently in its bulletins and pamphlets. For more than 20 years after its inception, it was seen as the trendsetting South Indian temple in its celebration of expensive, time consuming, and intricate rituals; many other younger temples want to be like the one in Penn Hills when they grow up. Its success story is overwhelming; in an annual report, the chairman of the board of trustees at the Penn Hills temple reported that ‘as all established religious organisations…the temple has extended modest interest-free loans to temple’s (sic) that are in embryonic stages…’¹⁰

The Penn Hills temple enshrines a manifestation of Viṣṇu in which he is called Veṅkaṭeśvara or lord (īśvara) of the hill known as ‘Venkata’ in South India. The American temple was built with the help and blessing of one of the most popular, richest, and oldest temples in India, the Veṅkaṭeśvara Temple at Tiru Venkatam (Tirumala/Tirupati); and an early Penn Hills temple bulletin specifically says that the parent temple [i.e.,‘Tirumala Tirupathi Devasthanam…of India] will be the main consulting institution on religious matters.’¹¹ The deities here—and in all later temples—are carved in India. The temple at Penn Hills, like the one in India, can be called Hindu in that it is particular and sectarian; the mode of worship is according to the sectarian Śrī Vaiṣṇava tradition which crystallized after the eleventh century ce in India.

Many temples in large cities in America are ‘prestige’ institutions through which an emerging Hindu community displays its piety, pomp, and power. The case of the Hindu temple of Atlanta is a striking illustration. In Spring 2000, the Hindu temple of Atlanta in Riverdale, Georgia, was able to erect the dhvaja sthamba, the sacred flag which establishes the dominion of the deity over the land. Muthiah Sthapathi, the traditional architect who has ‘Indianized’ several dozen temples in America, had drawn the plans for this sacred flag about a year earlier. It is only after this sacred flag is erected that a temple can celebrate the largest and most important annual festival—the Brahmotsava. But 18 months later, after 9/11, it was the United States flag hoisted outside the temple that was most visible. The temple was Hindu, but it was important to affirm its American identity. The Hindu temple of Atlanta is dedicated to Viṣṇu in the form of Veṅkaṭeśvara; but there is also a Śiva liṅga (a symbol of the deity depicting his creative energy) and Durgā (one of the best-known Hindu goddesses) in this temple, and later on, a Śiva temple was built next to it. The temple is Hindu in that it is Śaivaite, Vaiṣṇavaite, and it is American.

Hindu temples have several functions and identities. They have a cosmological identity and devotees may understand the tower to represent Mount Meru or a cosmic mountain. But temples also have multiple national identities; for example some think of themselves as Indo-Guyanese-American institutions. Some temples are explicit about their ethnic identities and cater to Telugu, Tamil, or Gujarati people and yet others have pronounced sectarian identities in that they are Vaiṣṇava or Śaiva. These identities change over time.

The prestige temples of America are similar to earlier state temples in South East Asia in that they are both relatively small elite groups who are there to make socio-political statements with their sponsorship of independent but collectively massive construction programmes. ‘Prestige’ temples outside of India display their identities simply through their consecration of space and through their architecture. They rally to bring various internal communities together, seeking at times the lowest common denominator, and at others, the highest common factors, and mask and reveal ruptures and hierarchies. And both look to the subcontinent for their vision and depiction of authenticity while trying to adapt and present the new land itself as somehow holy.

The temples built in the 1980s and 90s were the large ones. Most significant is their claims of authenticity by connecting with timeless tradition through space, architecture, and ritual. But also important are the ability to be a cultural centre like Hindu temples in pre-colonial India; their dynamism in having new rituals which are, of course, connected with traditional Hindu values; and their being plugged into civic and political power houses, from the local mayor’s office to the United States Congress.

The authenticity issue is paramount: the temple gets its clout because it is ‘authentic’ and ‘traditional’, and because of this, it does more than bring the community together. The temple here frequently carries out new rituals and represents the immigrant community to the host country. Because it represents itself as participating in rituals that are timeless, it is able to do new rituals relevant for the new place and times, like graduation pūjās, Mother’s Day celebrations, etc. The claim to authenticity in these temples comes from the continued attempt to place themselves in line with the traditions perceived to be practised in temples in India. These traditions include the location of the temple in sacralized land, temple architecture, priests well versed in worship discipline, the conducting of rituals as they were and as they ever will be, and so on.

As in India, American temples serve the local population—with few exceptions like the Svāminārāyaṇa community—and are decentralized without being part of an overarching organization or denomination. Prior to the building of temples, most groups begin to meet informally in someone’s house, a gym in a local school, or in a community hall, and, after an initial period of fund-raising, moved to their own separate space. These spaces may be old churches, health clubs, or school buildings; or, if the funding prospects look reasonable, it may be a new building. The newer, smaller, neighbourhood temples now function in strip malls or small churches which are remodelled.

While many temples in South India are sectarian in nature—that is, they are devoted to Viṣṇu, Śiva, Gaṇeśa, or one of the many deities—in America most temples include shrines to multiple pan-Hindu deities like Gaṇeśa and Durgā, as well as regional manifestations of the various deities and the nine planets which are personified and worshipped.

With the decision to build a temple, a community decides on the sectarian affiliation or a predominant mode of worship based on geographic location in India, and then imports a priest to take care of the consecration and worship rituals. For major events such as consecration of a temple or the annual rituals to celebrate the temple’s dedication, larger institutions in metropolitan areas such as Atlanta may import several priests from other temples. These priests are ritual specialists and not trained in theology or pastoral care; they have learned, in training schools in India (veda paṭhaśālās) or through apprenticeship, to recite the Vedas or to recite prayers in Sanskrit (and sometimes in vernacular languages such as Tamil) specific to a sectarian tradition, and the art of decorating the images of the deities, ritual scripts, and so on. While these rituals are conducted regularly in India without interpretation, in America the priests are called upon to give exact programmes, briefly to explain the meaning to a pūjā (worship) committee of the temple so they can write it up in the souvenir or temple brochure, and then to conduct the rituals.

The priests in temples are, like those in India, male, and for the most part drawn from the Brahman caste. There are priests from other castes in India, and a few temples even have women priests, but temples in America tend to be more conservative, and most have male Brahman ritual specialists. The hierarchical status of the priests is ambivalent. In India, it is not necessarily a vocation that people aspire to have, and women are not particularly interested in taking on this role, though there are some movements in Maharashtra to encourage and train them. In larger temples in India like Puri or Tirumala-Tirupati, these ritual specialists wield power in certain domains since they control access to the icons of the deities, how long a devotee can stand in the inner shrines, or the proximity to the special ceremonies and rites. However, in the diaspora, the priests are interviewed, brought in, and are employees of the temple and its board. The hierarchical balances are frequently re-negotiated, depending on the ritual and social contexts, social stature (which depends on the service one renders to the temple), economic class, or piety, and, in general, they do not have much connection with caste or gender issues in the United States. There are a few temples, like those connected with the Svāminārāyaṇa tradition, which maintain traditional gender segregation and a very respectful stature for priests in ritual spaces.

A few temples try to emulate the architecture found in India, and usually they follow one or two architectural patterns. Most temples built on a South Indian model have towers that imitate those seen all over South India, while those built by North Indians have super structures, which are popularly known as ‘Birla temple’ towers. The Birla temple is a famous house of worship in New Delhi, India, and is named after a wealthy patron who built it. The Birla temple towers are smooth, without being tiered like the South Indian ones, and are frequently cream or light pink in colour. These kinds of towers are in Cape Town, South Africa, and Augusta, Georgia; very elegant versions are in Monroeville, Pennsylvania, and in Barsana Dham, near Austin, Texas. South Indian temples have different towers and, more substantially, different kinds of rituals.

In the same year that the New York and Pittsburgh temples were consecrated, and the temples become closely associated with visiting musicians and dances, there were people at another institution who were doing a lot to raise consciousness of South Indian music and dance among Americans. These were T. Viswanathan and T. Ranganathan, brothers of the iconic bharatanāṭyam dancer, Balasaraswati. ‘Viswa’ and Ranganathan along with Jon Higgins (see, in the reference section, ‘The Legacy’ and ‘The History of the Navaratri Festival’) worked at Wesleyan University in Ethnomusicology, and in 1976, established the tradition—one that still continues—of celebrating the Fall festival of Navaratri with music and dance. Unlike other secular institutions, they also celebrated the last two days of this nine-day festival with the religious ceremonies associated with worship of the goddesses Sarasvatī and Lakṣmī. This tradition still continues. Gomathi Sundaram, who was involved with the music group Vanavil that raised funds for the Ganesha Temple in Flushing, was also involved in performing at Wesleyan University.

Performing Arts

In many towns, the temple becomes the nexus for educating children in not just the many aspects of Hindu culture and India, but also coaching them for spelling bees and standardized tests like SAT. What is significant in looking at the temple and community activities is the extraordinary focus on the performing arts and, with a few exceptions, the marginal importance of yoga and meditation. Cultural and devotional activities are encouraged and inculcated in the younger generation. The temples also attract many devotees who may not have time for ‘ritual prayers’ every week by drawing them with other irresistible programmes focusing on youth activities. These programmes include an educational agenda for the younger generation. There is an implicit promise in these activities that the parents are contributing to the transmission of Indian/Hindu culture to their children and/or helping in their quest for better scores in standardized tests in high schools. Many of the temples also have programmes to enmesh themselves deeply in the local landscape by reaching out to the larger population, of which they are now an integral part. They do this by volunteering their time and energy to help the homeless, participating in food drives for the town, blood drives for the Red Cross, and help in soup kitchens with other religious organizations.

A very typical example of these activities is seen in the early years of establishing the Hindu temple of Florida in Tampa. In the 1990s, this temple offered regular classes for students; in fact, the schools preceded the actual building of the institution. It was a ‘one stop’ junction for classes in classical music and dance and the Hindu religious tradition, as well as English and Maths classes. The temple became the centre for all these activities. The temple magazine, Satya Dhara, speaks of its classes thus:

New Classrooms for Vidyalaya [literally ‘shrine for knowledge’; refers generally to a school in India] opened on 2/21/2001. The Center for Spiritual, Cultural and Intellectual Development of our Children—Let them excel academically by attending PSAT and SAT reviews, English and Mathematics Classes, Spelling Bee and Geography Bee sessions. Let us Expose them to our religion and culture through Vidyalaya Day camps, Prayer Meetings, Balavihar [i.e., children’s school], Music and Dance Classes. (Satya Dhara March 2001: 23)

The most popular activities in temples are the ‘cultural programmes’. These include dance lessons taught in the temple community halls, the dances performed by local children and artistes, as well as performers from India. While these classes were extremely useful in drawing young Hindu parents to the temple, in time the focus on the SAT, the Spelling Bee, etc., were toned down and Indian language classes have become more popular. For many reasons, including the proliferation of dance teachers, distances to travel, etc., bharatanāṭyam came to be taught in local neighbourhoods in studios and at homes rather than at temples; after the pandemic, many of the classes have remained virtual or hybrid. In Tampa, for instance, the temple Vidyalaya classes are limited to vocal classical music, and Indian language classes (Hindu Temple of Florida, Vidyalaya website, August 2022); the spelling bee and SAT classes are only at spaces in the University of South Florida campus.

Bharatanāṭyam and Bhajans: Transmitting Culture through Music and Dance

One of the primary ways in which the transmission of Hindu/Indian culture takes place in temples and in private studios and homes all over the United States is through the performing arts. The human body carries aspects of Hindu cosmologies and is used as a vehicle for learning about and depicting the Hindu traditions. Music, dance, and singing are all encouraged to fully participate in a Hindu universe. To learn classical Indian dances like bharatanāṭyam is to learn stories about Hindu gods and goddesses; it is to learn ways of body languages seen in the sub-continent; it is to learn the emotions that are intricately tied into the depiction of the human–divine relationships.

Bharatanāṭyam dance teachers and many first-generation Hindu immigrants see this dance form as a way of preserving aspects of Indian culture, transmitting it to a new generation, as a craft which can be used to raise consciousness about many social issues, and finally as an art form which can be learned and used by artistes around the world for kinaesthetic and aesthetic pleasure. Classical dances, especially bharatanāṭyam, have emerged as a popular way of ‘Indianizing’ young girls and as intricately connected with the Hindu religion. Film songs and dances are also very popular in the Indian community, but while these forms are enjoyed as examples of popular Indian culture, even conflated with Indian heritage and tradition, and seen to promote ‘Indianess’ (Mukhi 2000), they are not considered to contribute to the understanding of religion. It is the mārga (literally, ‘the way’; here referring to the classical way) approach to dance which is seen as the way in which embodied knowledge pertaining to religion and culture is passed on from one generation to the next. This is paradoxical to some extent for in India, bharatanāṭyam became ‘respectable’ only after it was taken out of the temple contexts and dancers began to perform on the secular stage. Today, large metropolitan areas in the United States have several instructors who teach this art form. In Chicago, for instance, there was one well-known teacher, Hema Rajagopalan, in 1975. Now, there are dozens of teachers training hundreds of young girls and a few boys at any given time. If one peruses the last few pages of Indian magazines or newspapers on the west coast, one will encounter advertisements for several dance classes. Most of them are bharatanāṭyam; in general, advertisements for these classes outnumber Kathak and Kūchipūḍi considerably.

Why has bharatanāṭyam emerged as the prime carrier of trans-generational and trans-national culture in the diaspora? Most parents would not have learnt this art form in India; many of them would have felt bored going to a full-length dance performance back home and would have preferred to have gone to a Hindi film. And yet, the parents of young girls (and occasionally, young boys) flock to the friendly neighbourhood bharatanāṭyam teacher to instruct their daughters. Many first-generation immigrants associate this dance form as both Hindu and Indian in very corporeal and spiritual ways.

Many first-generation Hindu mothers bring their children to dance classes to learn about a Hindu culture which is ‘other’ than what they believe to be the licentious television entertainment and the ‘loose’ ambience of schools in America. Hindu parents develop a nostalgia for a ‘pure’ culture of India which seems most easily and tangibly available in the United States through the classical dance, especially bharatanāṭyam. Just at the time when dancers in India are enthusiastically reclaiming the sensual beauty of the padam, the immigrants in the US are trying to avoid the eroticism in their effort to keep their culture as the pure ‘other’: a foil to American culture. Anuradha Ganpati, a scholar of Indian performing arts in California, observed as early as in 2001:

The stigma attached to the erotic padam of the devadasi has traveled to Los Angeles, bringing with it the social, sexual, and political intrigues that besieged the dance half a century ago. Only now, the padam is burdened by the added implications of immigrant syndrome. The Indian immigrant’s need for respectability, acceptance, and ‘good’ living is valued above all else…That India of some fifty years ago somehow seems to have found its way onto the freeways of Los Angeles; only here, it protects Indians against American culture.

(Ganpati 2001; italics added)

In highlighting a ‘pure’ spirituality that is embodied by bharatanāṭyam, many Indian parents ignore the history and the texture of bharatanāṭyam and those parts of Indian culture where such romantic or even erotic sentiments were lauded.

Immigrant parents are anxious to see their children participate in traditional productions involving Hindu stories and the teachers’ energies have been focused in this direction. Ramaa Bharadvaj, a well-known dancer–choreographer in the Los Angeles area, says:

Over enthusiastic immigrant parents, pick dance as an easy vehicle for giving their children a glimpse of the heritage. The job description of an Indian dance teacher in the U.S. reads like the job description of Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother who turned the pumpkin into a chariot and tatters into a ball‐gown. We are often expected to teach dance, religion, mythology, epics, folklore, history, culture, customs, traditions, language…and music…This effort, let us call it nostalgic nationalism or unconscious classicism, is a curious instance of cultural translation, whereby families regard Bharata Natyam as a significant way to introduce their daughters (and in rare cases, sons) to their heritage. (Bharadvaj 2000)

She concludes that ‘dance is the primary means by which young Indian‐American girls gain access to “spiritual knowledge” and are domesticated into patriarchal Indian society’ (Bharadvaj 2000).

One of the ways in which this ‘Indianess’ is proclaimed by the immigrant family to the Indian community, to show that Indian music and dance is now in the bloodstream of the young girl is through a specific event—the dance debut and the performance of a formal dance. This formal debut is called araṅgetram or raṅgapraveśa (ascending or entering the stage) in South Indian languages. The dancer who has been preparing for this event for years, gives a complete performance of several pieces in a particular sequence. Traditionally meant to be an important event in the learning curve, portraying a student’s dedication to the art, in America, it is seen as a culmination and usually as an end to a few years of learning.

In America, the araṅgetram is a major rite, sometimes showcasing not just the student’s accomplishment in dance, but the family’s fortune in general, and the family’s fortune in having her as a trophy of cultural pride. Ramaa Bharadvaj, a well-known artist who used to live and teach in Southern California, remarks: ‘[F]or an evening, the spectacle of the arangetram defines a public moment of bourgeois émigré identity…. I see the arangetram, as part of the Bharata Natyam training package, now fulfilling a tall, late capitalist agenda of translating, commodifying and perpetuating a classical image of Indianness within the new class structure of Indian American social life’ (Bharadvaj: 2000).¹²

While there is no exact count of classical Indian dance teachers in the United States, one can say with confidence that the number is only growing and thriving.

Emerging Issues and Challenges

Many of the immigrants who came with professional degrees soon after 1965 are now in their eighties and nineties. Most of them were busy settling down, creating communities without manuals, and not too many were involved in political situations. When there were racist situations, when there were stereotypes of Indians, they either ignored them or tried to deal with them without too much noise.

As the community has grown and with it, its finances and political clout, new generations are taking on issues and also perceive some situations as challenges.

There are multiple issues that have become controversies in the Hindu community. In time a few Hindu organizations have emerged, many of them speaking for Hindus with different views. Given the diversity of the Hindu traditions, the activities of these organizations are manifold. An early one was the Hindu American Foundation (https://www.hinduamerican.org/); another is CoHNA (Coalition of Hindus of North America; https://cohna.org/about-us/). Hindus for Human Rights (https://www.hindusforhumanrights.org/) fights for multiple causes, including the rights of Dalits. All of them are advocacy groups and seek to empower Hindus in America.

An early controversy was over the California textbook case; some Hindu groups wanted to have issues of caste, untouchability, etc., to be kept in it and other groups fought against it saying that the textbooks speak about other religions without bringing in any of their negative features.¹³ Another controversy was over yoga: whether yoga is ‘Hindu’ or something common to all human beings and a common spiritual path. The account from the viewpoint of the Hindu American Foundation who initiated the ‘Take Back Yoga’ idea in 2008 is detailed in their website (‘History of “Take back Yoga Project”’) (https://www.hinduamerican.org/projects/hindu-roots-of-yoga). There are also tensions within the Hindu community on caste issues: whether it is the basis for discrimination in the diaspora. This is an ongoing discussion and at stake is whether large corporations were guilty of this practice on the west coast. When some universities and institutions wanted to add ‘caste’ in their list of identifiers for discrimination, some Hindu groups fought back saying this was a strawman.¹⁴ A few Hindu groups also hold that there is considerable Hinduphobia in the United States,¹⁵ and that many academics are either explicitly or otherwise connected with it.

Conclusion

Now into the third decade of the twenty-first century, there are several generations of Hindu Americans in the United States. Hindu immigrant presence, which began to grow only after 1965, has entered mainstream America in entertainment and politics. Hindu Americans who were born here and who have only known America as home now have children; third-generation Hindus whose grandparents were born in India. Temple-building is still largely the work of continuing waves of first-generation immigrants who seek to replicate Indian milieu in this country and who want the temple to represent Hindu piety, culture, and power. Second-generation Hindus are making their presence known in political life and in spheres where public policy is being framed.

The trope of America being the home of scientific progress and a producer of material goods while India is the seat of a ‘timeless’ spiritual wisdom was the rhetoric since the early nineteenth century and a stereotype accepted by and repeated by many gurus in later decades. And while temple building is one signifier of a strong diaspora, the presence of prominent citizens with Hindu backgrounds and upbringing raises the profile of this demographic group. Since the 1990s, Indian entrepreneurs and scientists have been an integral part of the information technology revolution. Many Indians are in very visible positions in the United States; and they also happen to be Hindu. Until the 1990s, Deepak Chopra was one of the few Indians one could see on television. Fast forwarding to 2021, during the pandemic, CNN news sometimes showed Sanjay Gupta (Chief Medical Correspondent, CNN) interviewing both Vivek Murthy (Surgeon-General of the United States) and Ashish Jha (Dean of the Brown University School of Public Health and now White House Corona Virus Response Coordinator)—all of Indian heritage, and all with Hindu backgrounds.

Indians—most of whom are Hindus—now head major companies in the world. Sundar Pichai heads Google; Shantanu Narayen heads Adobe, Satya Nadella, Microsoft, and Parag Agarwal is the CEO of Twitter. Arvind Krishna heads IBM. Indira Nooyi stepped down only a few years ago after being the CEO of Pepsi. And there are more. As India advances in technology and its purchasing power and consumer-goods potential increases, the trope of India being the spiritual land has faded and is seen only in some yoga classes.

However, there has been a considerable increase in generic ‘spirituality’ in the United States. While building Hindu prestige temples flourishes, simultaneously there has also been a continuation of new manifestations of Hinduism-related philosophies and practices, the ‘universal’ or ‘spiritual’ truths without any reference to temple or ethnic Hindu culture. Those who preach these ‘universal’ truths keep their distance from the name ‘Hinduism’. The kinds of spiritual movements and practices introduced by Vivekananda and Yogananda continue now in movements such as The Art of Living, Siddha Yoga, Transcendental Meditation, and in the teachings of new gurus. ‘Invisible’ Hinduism also flourishes through the large-scale co-opting and transformation of Hinduism-related practices by the American public and their eventual commodification and secularization.

This chapter started with how some women who came in between the 1930s and early 1970s—the latter years being the eve of the building of temples and halls to host the large-scale celebrations this crystallizing community began to hold. The halls, attached to the temples, sometimes pre-dating the actual shrine, showcased children learning music and dance and visiting artists. The new diaspora was writing its culture into its religious identity. This thread of music and dance is seen within the lives of the many women who shared their stories. They kept their cultural identity alive with their involvement in what they perceived as their heritage. And because these songs and dances were to a large extent embedded in devotion, the performing arts have become one of the principal ways in which Hindu identity is held together. Together, they provide changing pictures of a kaleidoscopic range of experiences in the early history of the Hindu diaspora in the United States.

The temple-building activities and engagement with classical music and dance for the younger generation has not stopped but now has been augmented with a stronger public and media presence and with greater engagement in the political and educational spheres, as the diaspora grows.

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Hindu Temple of Florida, Vidyalaya website. August 2022. URL: https://htfl.org/vidyalaya/.

‘History of “Take back Yoga Project”’ URL: https://www.hinduamerican.org/projects/hindu-roots-of-yoga/.

Iyengar, Malathi. 2022. ‘Activist, Scholar, Dandy: Krishnalal Shridharani in the United States, 1934–1946.’ Tides Magazine, South Asian American Digital Archive. URL: https://www.saada.org/tides/article/activist-scholar-dandy/ (accessed 18 August 2022).

Kumar, Anu. 2021. ‘The Story of the Indian Family That Built an Empire in Hawaii and Helped Popularise Aloha Wear.’ URL: https://scroll.in/global/984760/the-story-of-the-indian-family-that-built-an-empire-in-hawaii-and-helped-popularise-aloha-wear/ (accessed 20 January 2022).

Kumar, Anu. 12 May 2021. ‘Santha Rama Rau: The Prolific Wordsmith Who Wrote for the “New Yorker” and Was Wooed by a Mafia Don.’ URL: https://scroll.in/global/994527/santha-rama-rau-the-prolific-wordsmith-who-wrote-for-the-new-yorker-and-was-wooed-by-a-mafia-don/.

Leonard, Karen. 1992. Making Ethnic Choices: California’s Punjabi Mexican Americans. Philadelphia: Temple University Press.

Leonard, Karen. 1997. South Asian Americans. Westport Conn.: Greenwood Press, The New Americans series.

Mukherjee, Siddharth. 2011. The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer. New York: Scribner.

Mukhi, Sunita S. 2000. Doing the Desi Thing: Performing Indianness in New York City. New York: Garland Books.

Narasimhan, Raji. 2003. Yellapragada SubbaRow: A Life in Quest of Panacea. New Delhi: Vigyan Prasar.

Narayanan, Vasudha. 2006. ‘Sacred Land, Sacred Service: Hindu Adaptations to the American Landscape.’ In A Nation of Religions: The Politics of Pluralism in Multi-Religious America, edited by S. Prothero, 139–59. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press.

Narayanan, Vasudha. 1992. ‘Creating the South Indian “Hindu” Experience in the United States.’ In A Sacred Thread: Modern Transmissions of Hindu Traditions in India and Abroad, edited by R. B. Williams, 147–76. Chambersburg: Anima Publications.

National Endowment for the Arts. 1992. ‘T. Viswanathan, South Indian Flute Master.’ URL: https://www.arts.gov/honors/heritage/t-viswanathan/.

Seshi, Beerelli and Marshall Lichtman. 2014. ‘Yellapragada SubbaRow: A Profile in Greatness.’ URL: https://hekint.org/2017/01/29/yellapragada-subbarow-a-profile-in-greatness/.

Study International Staff. 6 January 2002. ‘Has Affirmative Action in India Spurred a Brain Drain Crisis?’ URL: https://www.studyinternational.com/news/affirmative-action-in-india/.

Thampi, Parvathi. 1956. ‘In Strangest America.’ The New York Times, 14 October. https://www.nytimes.com/1956/10/14/archives/in-strangest-america-the-wife-of-an-indian-un-official-reports-the.html/ (accessed 20 January 2022).

‘The History of the Navaratri Festival at Wesleyan University.’ URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rdzRXbKh8uc/ (accessed 27 August 2022).

‘The Legacy of T. Viswanathan: Celebrating Navaratri’s 40th Annual Festival at Wesleyan.’ URL: http://videos.wesleyan.edu/detail/video/5184722069001/celebrating-navaratri-s-40th-annual-festival-at-wesleyan/ (accessed 27 August 2022).

Wali, Kameshwar C. 1991. Chandra: A Biography of S. Chandrasekhar. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Wali, Kameshwar C. 1997. S. Chandrasekhar: The Man Behind the Legend. London: Imperial College Press.

Vasudha Narayanan, Prestige Temples, Performing Arts, and Power: Hindu Immigrants in the United States In: Hindu Diasporas. Edited by: Knut A. Jacobsen, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198867692.003.0009

¹ ‘Hindus in American Textbooks.’ https://rpl.hds.harvard.edu/religion-context/case-studies/minority-america/hindus-american-textbooks/ (accessed 27 May 2022).

² ‘Religious Landscape Study: Hindus.’ https://www.pewresearch.org/religion/religious-landscape-study/religious-tradition/hindu/.

On the graduate degree and education as well as high-income levels, see the Pew Forum report on ‘U.S. Religious Landscape Survey: Religious Beliefs and Practices,’ 1 June 2008, p. 9, downloaded from https://www.pewresearch.org/religion/2008/06/01/u-s-religious-landscape-survey-religious-beliefs-and-practices/ (accessed 22 June 2014).

³ Although publications spell SubbaRow’s name in multiple ways, the official one came to be SubbaRow because of a printer’s error in a paper.

⁴ I became interested in the Watumull family in the late 1990s and in 2001, Indru Watumull was kind enough to send me a lot of articles and newspaper reports. Many of these are now in the archives of SAADA. She was also kind enough to talk to me on the phone on 30 November 2001.

Relevant documents in the SAADA archive can be found at https://www.saada.org/item/20110720–247; https://www.saada.org/item/20110720–244; and https://www.saada.org/item/20110720–243/.

⁵ Conversation on 29 January 2002.

⁶ Notes from a conversation on 29 January 2002.

⁷ Mrs. Badrinath now lives in France; many of her siblings migrated to the United States in the post 1965 era. The information on her life is extracted from her letters in 2003.

⁸ Pilgrimage to Pittsburgh, 7:35.

⁹ http://religions.pewforum.org/reports/.

¹⁰ ‘Annual Progress Report,’ Saptagiri Vani (1990), 2.

¹¹ Sri Venkateswara Temple, Vol. 6, no. 3, [1981 Third quarter], 14.

¹² Ramaa Bharadvaj is a committed, professional artist with several decades of experience and now lives in India. She frames her article with this important note: ‘I submit it to provoke the thought of NOL readers with the caveat that this is my opinion and mine alone based simply on my observations and experiences. It is not meant to condemn or criticize the practice of this tradition, either in its pure or degenerate form, or the practitioners who believe in it. I hope it will make you both laugh and think.’ (Bharadvaj 2000)

¹³ For one summary, see the account in the Harvard University Pluralism site, ‘Hindus in American Textbooks’. URL: https://rpl.hds.harvard.edu/religion-context/case-studies/minority-america/hindus-american-textbooks/.

¹⁴ For various accounts of these issues, see ‘“Caste” & U.S. Universities’. https://cohna.org/decolonize/caste-us-universities/ and CoHNa ‘Hidden Bigotry: Why CSU’s Proposed “Caste” Resolution Discriminates against Hindus and Indian Americans’. https://cohna.org/hidden-bigotry/.

¹⁵ https://www.hinduamerican.org/hinduphobia/.

9

Hindu Diasporas in Europe

Religious Plurality as the Foundation of Growth

Knut A. Jacobsen

In Britain, where around half of the Hindu population in Europe live, Hindus had a minimal presence until the 1950s when the first phase of post-WWII migration of Indians to Britain started. In the rest of Europe, Hindus had a minimal presence until the 1970s. Hindu diasporas in Europe are thus mostly a recent phenomenon and appeared notably later than many of the large waves of colonial-era emigration from India under the indenture and kangani systems that created the Hindu diasporas in the Caribbean, Africa, the Pacific, South East Asia, and in the central hills in Sri Lanka, and the migrations of traders, accountants, managers, and professionals to Africa and South East Asia. Hindu diasporas in Europe are mainly contemporary with the Hindu diasporas in North America. The Hindu diasporas in Europe, although of recent origin, have nevertheless in a short time made Hindu religious traditions a significant minority religion in several European countries, primarily in Western Europe. Groups of Hindus with South Asian ancestry are also found in some Eastern European countries but with a significant presence only in Russia (and before 1991, the Soviet Union) and also in Poland.¹ The largest number of diaspora Hindus in Europe are found in Britain (1.0 million in the latest census 2021,² up from 834,000 in the 2011 census), the Netherlands (200,000), France (200,000), Italy (200,000), and Germany (130,000), but significant numbers are also found in Switzerland (50,000), Spain (35,000), Portugal (33,000), Russia (40,000), Belgium (10,000), Austria (5,000), and the Scandinavian countries (83,000) (see Table 9.1). Martin Baumann estimated that the number of Hindus living in Europe in the mid-1990s was 650,000 (Baumann 1998: 97). This figure has since more than tripled, and the number of Hindus with South Asian ancestry in Europe in 2022 is more than two million.³ In addition, there are people with European ancestry who have converted to Hinduism or have become followers of Hindu gurus and Hindu movements, but their numbers are quite small compared to the Hindu diaspora populations with which this chapter is concerned. When the United Kingdom left the European Union (EU) on 31 January 2020 (called Brexit), it is notable that the EU, due to this change of circumstances, lost approximately half of its Hindu population. Europe is however larger than the European Union.

Table 9.1 Number of Hindus with South Asian ancestry living in Europe in 2020 in some selected countries, estimations based on information in the chapters in Handbook of Hinduism in Europe (Jacobsen and Sardella 2020) and ‘Religion, England and Wales: Census 2021’

Austria | 5,000
Belgium | 10,000
Denmark | 18,000
Finland | 1,000
France | 200,000
Germany | 130,000
Greece | 2,500
Republic of Ireland | 20,000
Italy | 200,000
Luxembourg | 5,000
Netherlands | 200,000
Norway | 25,000
Poland | 20,000
Portugal | 33,000
Russia | 40,000
Spain | 35,000
Sweden | 40,000
Switzerland | 50,000
United Kingdom | 1,000,000
Total | 2,030,000

Hindu religious traditions in South Asia are characterized by great diversity but the Hindu diasporas in Europe reflect only some of this diversity. Britain has the largest Hindu diversity, but Hinduism in Europe is in all countries a pluralistic phenomenon. In Britain there are probably Hindu individuals from most countries in the world with a Hindu population and from most of the 28 states of India. Some Hindu religious traditions have a stronger presence in Europe than others. There is a numerical dominance of Gujarati, Tamil, and Punjabi Hindus. Gujarati Hindu traditions have a very strong presence in Britain. Around half of the more than one million Hindus there have a Gujarati background and Gujarati Hindu traditions are mainly Vaiṣṇava (the sampradāyas Svāminārāyaṇa and Puṣṭimarg are the largest). However, Gujarati traditions of Hinduism do not have a dominant presence in any other countries in Europe, except Portugal (Lourenço 2020). In the city of Antwerp in Belgium there is an important Bochasanwasi Akshar Purushottam Swaminarayan Sanstha (BAPS) temple (BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir), founded by Gujarati immigrants from Palanpur district (Montes and Godderis 2020: 853), and a few thousand Gujarati Hindus are also found in Sweden (Sardella 2020). Other numerical dominant religious traditions in Europe are the Śaiva traditions of the Īḻam Tamil Hindus (descendants of the ancient Tamil Hindu population in Sri Lanka) who are the largest Hindu group in many countries in Western Europe. Hindus in France are mostly Tamils from Sri Lanka, India, Mauritius, and Réunion, but the majority, more than 100,000, are Īḻam Tamils. A significant number of the non-Tamils in France are Hindu Bhojpuris from Mauritius (Trouillet and Voix 2020: 998). The majority of Hindus in Germany, Switzerland, Norway, and Denmark are Īḻam Tamils. The Īḻam Tamils have traditionally used the name Caiva (Śaiva) for their Hindu religious tradition, but in Europe their religious organizations now often utilize the word ‘Hindu’ in their names. Theologically, they identify with Śaiva Siddhānta, and many of the priests have Śaiva education. Most of their temples in Europe are dedicated to Murukaṉ and Vināyakar (Piḷḷaiyār, Gaṇeśa). Śākta traditions are found in many countries in Europe, mostly represented by goddess temples and female gurus or Śākta mediums. The Īḻam Tamils have also established several Thurkkai Ammaṉ (Durgā) temples. They are always in a minority among Hindus but there are also some significant Śākta institutions in Europe. The largest Hindu temple in Germany, and an important site of Hindu pilgrimage in Europe, the Sri Kamadchi Ampal Temple in Hamm, is a Śākta temple, and in Denmark an Īḻam Tamil woman, Lalitha Sripalan, is worshipped in a temple as a manifestation of, and, it seems, as the actual mūrti of Apirāma (Pārvatī). Hindu goddess temples are found in most countries in Western Europe. One characteristic of Śākta traditions in Europe is that Śākta institutions are often smaller, independent of larger organizations, and perhaps rely more on unique individuals. The goddess Mariyammaṉ is worshipped in many temples in Europe and there are also a few separate temples dedicated to her. Worship of Hindu goddesses is also found in Eastern Europe (see Stasulane 2020). Ayyappan, the son of Śiva and Mohinī (a feminine form of Viṣṇu) is becoming increasingly popular, also in Europe.

Literature on Hindu Diasporas in Europe

Recognition of Hindu diasporas in European countries outside of Britain in academic research took place mainly in the 1990s. Before that, Hindu diasporas were considered a predominantly British phenomenon. In a 1979 publication of a book on overseas Indians titled ‘The Other India’ (Singh 1979), which treats Indians living in most parts of the world in separate chapters, there is a chapter on only one country in Europe, Britain, and the ‘Introduction’, which tries to give an overview of ‘Overseas Indians’, does not mention any other European countries. The presence at that time of Indians in other European countries was small, dispersed, and mostly unrecognized. A few articles with titles such as ‘Hinduism and Hindus in Europe’ (Barot 1994) or ‘Hindu Diasporas in Europe’ (Baumann 1998) were published in the 1990s, but their focus was limited to only one or a few countries. Barot (1994) presented, despite having ‘Europe’ in the title, Hindus only in Britain. Baumann in his article has separate sections on Britain, the Netherlands, and Germany, and gives some numbers and information on a few other European nations (Baumann 1998: 115–17), and the article is a good review of some of the main Hindu diasporas in Europe around 1990. The many changes that have taken place in the Hindu diasporas in Europe since it was published are notable. These changes include the more than tripling of the Hindu diaspora population (from 650,000 to more than two million); the institutionalization and growth of the Śaiva traditions of the Īḻam Tamils in many countries in Europe, with more than one hundred Īḻam Tamil temples; the opening of a number of monumental ‘display’ temples; Hindu sacred sites in Europe becoming centres of Hindu pilgrimage; improved communications such as the World Wide Web, mobile phones, and cheap flights between Europe and South Asia providing different conditions for maintaining and developing traditions; the enormous increase in the number of Indian students and professionals working in Europe; the attempts of the Indian government to improve the relationship between India and the diasporas; and the establishment of Hindu nationalist rule in India and attempts to consolidate Hindu nationalist global networks.

With regards to individual countries, there is a great deal of research literature on Hindu diasporas in Britain (for a review of the literature, see Knott 2013, for a recent study, see Jones 2020a, and for a recent overview, see Jones 2020b), and significant literature on Hindu diasporas in Germany (see Baumann, Luchesi, and Wilke 2003, Hutter 2015a, Luchesi 2004, 2020a, 2020b, Wilke 2006, 2013), and there are also a number of studies on Hindu diasporas in the Netherlands (Nugteren 2009, 2013, Swamy 2020, van der Burgh 2004), France (Trouillet 2012, 2013, Trouillet and Voix 2020), Portugal (Lourenço 2011, 2015, 2020, Sant’ana 2013), Switzerland (Baumann 2020, Eulberg 2014, Neubert 2013), Denmark (Fibiger 2013, 2020), Norway (Jacobsen 2004, 2013a, 2020b), Sweden (Sardella 2013, 2020, Schalk 2004), and a few articles on Hindu diasporas in Spain (Ramchandani 2020), Russia (Kotin 2013, 2020), Ireland (Harikrishnan and Chakraborty 2020), Belgium (Montes and Goddeeris 2020), Italy (Chierichetti 2013; Nencini and Squarcini 2020), Austria (Hutter 2015b; Winter 2020), Greece (Papageorgiou and Ziaka 2020), and Finland (Broo 2020). (For other countries in Europe, see the chapters in Jacobsen and Sardella 2020: Vol. 2.)⁴

Studies of the religion of the Hindu diasporas in Europe have often tried to focus on settings in which religion is the main feature and where religion becomes manifest, socially, aesthetically, materially and so on, such as in temples (Eulberg 2014, Jacobsen 2004, Knott 1986, Luchesi 2004, 2020b, Nugteren 2009, Wilke 2020), and festivals and processions (Baumann 2006, David, 2012, Geaves 2007, Goreau 2014, Jacobsen 2006, 2008, 2020b, Luchesi 2008, Wilke 2013). At such sites and events, Hindu religious activities and identities are the primary focus, although people do participate for various reasons. Some of these religious festivals gather larger numbers of Hindus and become annual celebrations of identities and communities.

Encounters

The most complex historical relationship India and Hinduism have with any of the continents other than Asia is most probably with Europe. However, the encounter has a unique history in each European nation, and generalizations on Hindu diasporas in Europe based on Hinduism in Britain should be avoided. Europe’s encounter with India goes back many hundreds of years and was part of Orientalist admiration as well as Christian missionary abuse and colonialist exploitation and rule. Colonial rule and Christian mission had an impact on religious developments in India, especially reform movements, although scholars still debate the relationship between modern Hinduism and colonialism, and the different influences on the development of various forms of modern Hinduism (Weiss 2019). The coining of the English word ‘Hinduism’ was a product of the encounter between India and British colonialism and British Christian mission (Oddie: 2006). The term was first used by British Protestant missionaries in the 1770s (Oddie 2006) and by Rammohan Roy, who was the first Indian Hindu to use the term in a published text in the mid-1810s.

The encounter between India and Europe can perhaps be divided into four periods, early encounters, the arrival of Romani people to Europe, the colonial period, and the postcolonial period. The earliest known encounters between Europe and India were the military campaigns of Alexander the Great (356–323 bce) who invaded areas today included in the nation states of Pakistan and India in 326 bce. He supposedly turned back at the Beas River in Punjab because his troops refused to continue further east. Encounters between the Greeks and India continued in the centuries after Alexander the Great with the Indo-Greek kingdoms, the most famous king of whom was probably Meneander (Milinda), known from the Pāli text Milindapañha (Questions of King Milinda). The most visible influence of the Indo-Greeks was perhaps the Greco-Buddhist art. The Indo-Greeks possibly also influenced some developments in early Indian philosophy (Bronkhorst 1999). Influences from India on European culture have been more difficult to establish. This is not the place to discuss this further. The next notable event was the arrival of Romani people from northern India to Europe in around the fourteenth century, which probably led to religious encounters, but little is known about the religious dimension of these encounters.⁵ Their ancestors had most likely started to leave India in the sixth century onwards, but over the years there were different groups and different causes and histories (Kenryck 2007). Most Romanies in Europe are now Christians or Muslims. Their ancestors were probably Hindus, but they mostly adopted the religion dominant in the area where they settled. In Europe today Romani people have little or no interaction with the Indian or Hindu diasporas of the modern period, and India has not (yet) made efforts to include them in the Indian diaspora. Researchers have been particularly interested in their language, which belongs to the Indic (Indo-Aryan) language family and is related to modern Hindi.

In the third period, from around 1500, encounters between Europe and India were dominated by European economic, political, and military interests. Vasco de Gama famously arrived in India in 1498, which was followed by increased European presence in India motivated by the possibility of trade and power, and by military conquests and, finally, European colonial rule, ending in 1947 with Indian independence (Portuguese territories in India were liberated in 1961, and French territories in 1962) and the independence of Sri Lanka in 1948. Interest in comparative philology and Sanskrit texts as well as a need to know the religion of the colonized, led to translations of Hindu texts into European languages. English translations of the Bhagavadgītā (Charles Wilkins in 1785), Kalidāsa’s Abhijñānaśakuntalā (in 1789 by William Jones) and many other texts in English and other European languages created a large and continuous interest in Europe in the Hindu textual and literary traditions.⁶ There is an enormous amount of research literature on numerous aspects of this encounter and there is no space to go into any details in this chapter (for some overviews on the intellectual aspects of the encounter, see Halbfass 1988, Schwab 1984, Subrahmanyam 2017, van der Veer 2001). The many religious traditions included in the term Hinduism had been presented both as several competing traditions and as forming a unity in a single tradition, but in the nineteenth century the dominant view came to be that a single Hinduism was at the basis of the plurality of traditions (Subrahmanyam 2017: 40). From this unification of what was a large number of different religious traditions followed the idea of Hinduism as a uniquely tolerant religion. However, somewhat similar attempts to unify the different Hindu philosophical and theological traditions were found in Hindu intellectual traditions at least as early as the sixteenth century (Nicholson 2010). This intellectual encounter between India and Europe meant that when Hindus started migrating to Europe, they encountered ideas of a normative, textual-based Hinduism that was very different from their own Hindu traditions, which had a regional and local base and focused on rituals, food, and artistic and performative traditions. In my field research among Hindus in Europe, Hindus with an Īḻam Tamil background, even in countries where they constitute the majority of the Hindus such as in Norway, have told me on several occasions that they were not ‘real’ Hindus, assumingly meaning that their Hindu traditions were different from an Orientalist, textual-based Hinduism they thought I, as a European, considered as normative, or perhaps that their temples, names of divinities, iconography, and religious festivals differed from North Indian Hinduism which dominated the presentation of Hinduism in the media.

Anti-colonial mobilization and emerging nationalism in South Asia led in 1947 and 1948 to independent nations. It is in this period, from 1947, that increased mobility led to large-scale migrations from South Asia to Europe, first as sojourners and thereafter to diasporic settlements. In this period Hindu temples became the centre of Hindu religious life in Europe.

Migration Histories and Institutionalization of Hinduism in Europe

The institutionalization of Hindu religion in the diasporas in Europe can be analysed in three periods. First, early migrants before 1950; second, the period of institutionalization of Hinduism in Britain, up to 1975; and the third period, after 1975, the gradual institutionalization of Hinduism by migrants in the whole western part of Europe.

The circulation of people between Europe and India had been going on for several hundred years. There were shorter or longer visits and ‘by the mid-nineteenth century, tens of thousands of Indian men and women of all social and economic classes had made the passage to Britain’ (Fisher 2013: 123). Most of these migrants returned to India after a short time, but Fisher notes that some remained in Britain for years and some for the rest of their lives (ibid.). Indian sailors, called lascars, worked on European ships, and there were Indians in several European harbours as early as the eighteenth century (Visram 2015). A Hindu population was already attested to in France in the 1720s (Trouillet and Voix 2020: 994). London and other British ports had at that same time communities of lascars. Similar situations to the one in Britain and France, but on a smaller scale, were probably also found in other European countries with trading stations or colonial settlements in India, such as Portugal and probably also Denmark. There were also ayahs (Indian female nursemaids and nannies) who had been brought to Europe. Some were abandoned (Jones 2020b: 1567). Most ayahs were Christians, but among the lascars there were probably also Hindus. A famous early visitor to Britain was Rammohun Roy who travelled to Britain in 1829 and passed away in Bristol in 1833 where his grave is located. In 1998 a statue of him was presented by the Indian government to the city of Bristol. Among the Hindu students in Britain was Mahatma Gandhi who studied there from 1888 to 1891, but few settled permanently in Europe. Some of the oldest Hindu diasporas in Europe are the Sindhi Hindus in Spain, Malta, and the British colony of Gibraltar, who started settling in the second half of the nineteenth century. Sindhi Hindus are now found in the main cities of Spain and make up the majority of the around 35,000 Hindus in Spain, and many families have lived in the country for three or four generations (Ramchandini 2020: 1,460). The opening of the Suez Canal in 1869 substantially shortened the distance between India and Europe and these early communities of Hindus attempted to take advantage of new economic opportunities. They settled as traders aiming to sell products from their industrial trading network to tourists in harbours in Southern Europe such as the island state of Malta (Jacobsen 2020d), Gibraltar, the Canary Islands in Spain, and the North African enclaves of Ceuta and Melila (Ramchandini 2020: 1460).⁷ The first Hindu diaspora places of worship in Europe were probably established by these Sindhis in the Canary Islands in the second half of the nineteenth century (Dies de Vasco 2010: 248).

Many tens of thousands of Hindu soldiers fought on European soil for Britain and France in the First World War (Myrvold 2020; Trouillet and Voix 2020: 996). In the 1920s and 1930s Hindu missionary movements were active and established places of worship in Europe, but these did not last. A Hindu guru, Ananda Acharya (Surendranath Boral) from Bengal, came to Britain in 1912. In 1917 he settled in a mountainous area in Norway with two British female disciples who accompanied him from Britain to Norway and a Norwegian male devotee, where he lived until he passed away in 1945. He was the first Hindu guru to settle permanently in Europe (Jacobsen 2020b). In 1949 the Ramakrishna Mission opened the first permanent Hindu place of worship in Britain (Burghart 1987).

The second period of immigration and institutionalization of Hinduism in Europe, 1950 to 1975, is marked primarily by the strong growth of Hindu diaspora communities in Britain and it is only in this period that Hinduism gained a significant presence. In 1949 it was suggested that around 5,000 South Asians had been in Britain for a relatively lengthy period (Desai 1963: 3), but the majority of those were Muslims and Sikhs, not Hindus. Increased migration followed and in 1963 there were perhaps 40,000 Indians (Desai 1963). Describing the situation in 1960, Rashmi Desai divided the South Asians in Britain into three groups. First, seamen from Pakistan who had settled, mostly Muslims; second, Indian peddlers, mostly Sikhs (three to four thousand); and third, the largest group, the immigrants who worked in industry in London, Southall, Birmingham, Bradford, Coventry, Liverpool, and Gravesend (Desai 1963: 5). There were at that time more Pakistanis than Indians in Britain (less than 20,000 from each country). Family unification was already an important cause for migration. Those who arrived from India were mostly from Punjab and Gujarat.

The patterns of migration were influenced by the colonial past. The indentured labour system and the mobility that became available under British and other European powers’ colonial rule had created Hindu populations in many different countries around the world. That half of the Hindus in Europe live in Britain is because of the heritage of the British Empire. A significant number of these migrants came from East Africa. More than half of the Hindus in Britain have a Gujarati background and around half of them have a background from East Africa.⁸ These Hindus had settled in East Africa because of economic opportunities (hardly any of the Gujarati Hindus in East Africa had a background as indentured labours), but due to the process of Africanization most left, or had to leave, in the 1960s and 1970s. The Indian government refused to accept them as Indians. However, many Hindus living in East Africa had British passports and although Bristish Government tried to stop them from migrating to Britain, it had to accept them as British citizens in the end.⁹ Indians arriving in Britain between the 1950s and 1975 were mostly from Punjab and Gujarat, and Gujaratis from East Africa, but some Īḻam Tamils and some Indo-Caribbeans from Trinidad and Guyana also came to Britain. The first Hindu cultural organization in Britain, Hindu Dharma Sabha, was established in 1957 by Hindus from Guyana who had arrived in London (Vertovec 1992: 260). In the 1950s the typical Hindu was a single male, but increasingly families joined the migrant men and this led to the establishment of temple Hinduism. The few tens of thousands of Hindus who arrived in Britain from East Africa (Uganda, Kenya, Tanzania, Zambia) in the 1960s and early 1970s arrived as families and they had experience of establishing religious institutions in the diaspora. Families first came together in private homes to celebrate important events in the festival calendar and the first temples were continuations of these public celebrations, to get spaces to celebrate divinities institutionalized, first in rented and later in permanent buildings, some even in temples purpose-built from the ground up. The first Hindu temples in Britain established by Hindu migrants were founded by Hindus from East Africa. The first was perhaps in 1967 in Coventry (Tambs-Lyche 1975: 350), a temple devoted to Kṛṣṇa, which had evolved from a group of Gujaratis who in 1964 started meeting regularly for worship in each other’s homes (Nesbitt 2006: 200), and in 1969 in Leicester (see Burghart 1987: 9) and a Svāminārāyaṇa temple in London in 1970. In 1978 there were apparently already 82 temples in Britain (Baumann 1998: 104).

The third period marks the institutionalization of Hinduism in the whole of Europe. The colonial past also influenced the shape of Hindu diasporas in other European countries: the ancestors of a significant number of Hindus in France and Portugal were previously living in these countries’ colonial territories in India or worked in their other territories in Africa or Asia. In addition, some European colonial powers were involved with the British South Asian indentured labour system, and some of the descendants of those workers migrated to Europe in the postcolonial period, especially Hindus from Suriname to the Netherlands. The largest concentration of Hindus in continental Europe live in the Netherlands, and the Netherlands is the only country in Europe with a Hindu population of mainly Indo-Caribbean descent (Swamy 2020: 1203).¹⁰ The Netherlands gave independence to Suriname in 1975 and this led to mass migration to the Netherlands in search of security. Hindus of Indo-Caribbean descent also have a significant presence in Britain. Gujarati Hindus from Mozambique arriving in Portugal went on to constitute the majority of the Hindus in Portugal (Lourenco 2020: 1295). Indians, but especially Īḻam Tamils, came to Germany, Switzerland, Norway, and Denmark, and by the 1990s Īḻam Tamils were in the majority among Hindus in these countries. The Īḻam Tamils have subsequently been great temple builders in Europe.

Some Characteristics of Hinduism in Europe

Finally, some characteristics of the Hindu diasporas in Europe will be analysed. Interestingly, scholars have argued that in the Hindu diasporas in Europe there has been no independent regional development of Hinduism in the sense of creating a Hinduism that is different from that found in the South Asian countries of origin, differences that are present in other diasporic regions such as the diverse regional developments found in the US and the Caribbean region, and which had taken place in East Africa (see Baumann 1998, Knott 1986, Parekh 1994). However, to speak of Europe in such a context is probably a mistake. There are indeed regional developments of Hinduism in the different European nations, but to look for a European form is based on a mistaken assumption that Europe is a homogenous cultural unit. One conclusion, based on the Handbook of Hinduism in Europe, which has chapters about Hindu traditions in every country in Europe, except the micro-states, is that the history of Hinduism in each country is unique (Jacobsen 2020c, Jacobsen and Sardella 2020). The Hindu diaspora populations in most countries in Europe are characterized by religious, linguistic, and cultural diversity. Hindu religious institutions in Europe, such as Hindu temples and Hindu schools, reproduce or promote mostly regional traditions. Nonetheless, four characteristics of Hinduism in Europe can be distinguished: diversity, the centrality of temples, sacralization of sites, and a predominance in many European countries of the Hindu traditions of Īḻam Tamils.

Diversity

Hindus of the Hindu diasporas in Europe have mostly followed their inherited religious traditions and ethnic identities and transferred their religious traditions from South Asia to Europe. With improved communications such as the World Wide Web, mobile phones, and cheap flights between Europe and India, this multiplicity of identities and traditions will probably be preserved. Hinduism in Europe is not dominated by any single Hindu regional or theological tradition, but Hinduism in Europe is characterized by pluralism. A few Hindu sampradāyas build their own temples, the most important is Svāminārāyaṇa in Britain, and different language and ethnic groups mostly prefer to have their own temples. When resources are available so-called ‘ecumenical’ temples based on two or more language groups may split. Also, no singular text has played a role as the central text for the Hindus in Europe as, for instance, Rāmcaritmānas/Rāmāyaṇa has played in the diasporas in the Caribbean, South Africa, and Fiji (Parekh 1994: 613–14; see Chapters 4 and 5 by Persaud and Strange respectively in this volume). The diversity of Hindus in Europe is simply too great. In addition, temple sites, mūrtis, and rituals seem more important than texts for many Hindus in Europe. After first having discussed the pluralities of castes among the dominant Hindu populations of Punjabis and Gujaratis, the religious pluralism of identifiable doctrinal and devotional traditions in Britain in the middle of the 1990s is summed up by S. Vertovec:

three rival sects of Swaminarayanis, Arya samajis, Radhasoamis, Pushtimargis (Vallabhacharyas), and people with special devotion towards the Mother Goddess, Sathya Sai Baba, Shirdi Sai Baba, Santoshi Ma, Baba Barak Nath, or Jalaram Bapa.…There were also what might be called regional/minority communities (especially Bengalis, Tamils and Telegus, Indo-Caribbeans, Indo-Mauritians, Indo-Fijians) with their own styles of and focuses of worship.

(Vertovec 1996: 80)

Vertovec also mentions new Hindu movements with both South Asian and indigenous British membership, such as Ramakrishna Mission, Brahma Kumaris, Brahmo Samaj, yoga and meditation groups, and ISKCON. In addition, there are several South Asian religious communities that blur boundaries, such as Jain-Hindus and Sikh-Hindus (Vertovec 1996: 80–1).

Hinduism in Europe does not have a single geographical centre. Combinations of old and new national and ethnic identities result in many different identities. In addition to the heterogeny and pluralism of the Hindu traditions, Europe consists of 44 countries which mostly have different national languages. Hindus in Europe identify mostly with not only different South Asian regional religious traditions and different South Asian nations, but also with the specific European nations in which they live. There are thus Īḻam Tamil British Hindus, Īḻam Tamil Norwegian Hindus, Īḻam Tamil German Hindus, Bengali Swedish Hindus, Gujarati Portuguese Hindus, Punjabi Greek Hindus, and so on. Migration has caused regional Hindu traditions to gain worldwide presence and the development of transnational networks and organizations. Many, such as the Svāminārāyaṇa Hindus in Britain and Īḻam Tamil Hindus, are also a part of transnational networks beyond Europe.

There are some examples of Hindu ecumenism in Europe and organizations for Hindu unity, mainly initiatives by the Hindu nationalist organization Vishwa Hindu Parishad and by ISKCON, which have had limited influence (Zavos 2020). The Hindu Forum of Europe was founded in 2006 and has been active in religious dialogue. But it is the persistence of regional Hindu traditions that characterizes Hinduism in Europe, although new generations of Hindus born in Europe are typically influenced by and seek information from several sources of knowledge about Hinduism which shape their views, perceptions, and practices (Nesbitt 2020). Many temples in Europe are independent organizations ruled by a board of directors and they organize their own affairs (see Chapter 13 by Baumann and Wilke in this volume). The Īḻam Tamils constitute a significant group of Hindus also in Britain (Jones 2020b) and they of course do not subscribe to an Indian diaspora identity. The Tamils from India do often identify primarily with a Tamil diaspora (Jones 2020a) and mostly also do not identify with the Indian diaspora nationalism of the Vishwa Hindu Parishad. The so-called pan-Hinduism identified as a form of Hinduism in a few European diaspora contexts by some researchers refers predominantly only to the phenomenon of two regional traditions sharing temples or to specific temples supported by Vishwa Hindu Parishad (Knott 1986, Thomas 1994: 196). Pan-Hinduism or Hindu ecumenism is mostly not an empirical pattern found in Hinduism in Europe, but an ideology promoted by some organizations. In Britain it is promoted especially by Vishwa Hindu Parishad (UK).¹¹ This organization promotes an Indian diasporic Hindu identity and sees temples as a means to conserve this Indian Hindu identity. On 14 January 2021 it founded the Hindu Mandir Network in the UK,¹² a network to work alongside the National Council of Hindu Temples.¹³ It now promotes temples as the main organizations of Hinduism and has extended the tasks and responsibilities of temples when compared to India. The denial of Hindu diversity and caste-based temples as well as silence on the historical exclusion of Dalits from Hindu temples characterize their romantic and nationalistic descriptions of the temple in Indian history.¹⁴ One goal of the temple, according to this organization, is to use the temples to promote Hindu culture:

Whilst considering how Hindu mandirs can help promote Hindu culture, the main ideas were to allow experts to use Mandir premises to hold classes to teach Languages, Hinduism, Yoga, Classical Dance, Devotional, and classical Music.¹⁵

They further specified using the temples for educational activities such as meditation classes for mental health, celebration of International Yoga Day (21 June), and teaching Hinduism as a religious education subject at GCSE and A-Level.¹⁶ The main messages for this organization were about a unified Hindu identity and making the mandirs organizational hubs: ‘[W]hatever our traditions, whatever our cultural values and backgrounds may be, we are Hindus first and that should always be our first identity before anybody’ and that Hindus should ‘make every mandir not only just a place of worship but a vibrant centre for social and cultural activities that meet the needs of the local community.’ In addition, the organization was looking for methods for converting people to Hinduism and stated that ‘there are many non-Hindu people who want to embrace Hindu Dharma. Do we have a system? Do you have a method in which we can then embrace them into our vast Hindu parivar?’¹⁷ The report also worried about young people not engaging with the temple, and stated that at the heart of the temple is ‘Hindu identity and there seems to be a weakening of that identity in the younger generation.’¹⁸

The Centrality of Temples

Ritual worship of divinities visibly present in images is a central ritual in most forms of Hinduism, and the growth of Hindu temples and worship of gods and goddesses present in mūrtis is probably the main marker of the presence of Hindu diasporas in Europe. The transfer of this aspect of Hinduism became central for the establishment and growth of Hinduism in Europe. These institutions have been able to provide a meaningful religious life, a gathering place for religious festivals, and have been a source of pride and recognition for many Hindus in the diasporic setting. The establishment of temples in various European countries shows a similar pattern, but progress has been varied. Before the arrival of diaspora Hindus, Hinduism was known in Europe as a philosophy or a collection of ideas. The first Hindu temples in several countries were established by followers of ISKCON or other Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇava movements such as Gaudiya Math. But it was nevertheless the arrival of Hindu diasporas that gave Hinduism as a ritual tradition a significant presence in Europe and made this aspect of Hinduism widely known.

In Britain, Hindu public gatherings for festival celebrations started taking place in the late 1950s and 1960s and some of these groups developed into permanent temples a decade later. Desai noted in 1963 that there were several South Asian Muslim mosques and Sikh gurdwaras in Britain, but no public Hindu temples (Desai 1963: 93). Desai gave several reasons why there were no Hindu temples in Britain and the explanations given illustrate the seeming inability at that time to predict the future development of the Hindu diasporas in Europe. According to Desai, the absence of temples was because the Hindus, instead of establishing temples, ‘usually delegate their ritual duties to other members of their families who are still in India’ (Desai 1963: 93), since the ‘elaborate rituals which are required in a temple are forbidden by custom on foreign soil’ (Desai 1963: 93); because ‘worship at the temple was on the decline among the relatively Westernized Hindus in Gujarat and the Punjab’ (Desai 1963: 93); because the group was too small, since in India religion is a practice involving the whole community; and because Hinduism is philosophical and individual, so there is no reason to have a temple. In hindsight, this evaluation seems indeed odd and misguided. In contrast, Kim Knott concluded from a long-term study of the early years of a Hindu temple in Leeds that ‘[w]ithout temple practice it is unlikely that Hinduism, in any traditional sense, could continue to exist in Leeds’ (Knott 1986: 115). As it turned out, the Hindu gods and temples were very transportable. The temples are usually open some hours every day, but for most temples a great number of people attend, mainly during the festivals. To be a Hindu is to feel at home in festival gatherings and identify with the celebrations. Hindu temples with their rituals and festivals provide a setting in which Hindus can experience being one hundred per cent Īḻam Tamil Hindus or Gujarati Hindus or Trinidadian Hindus or Mauritian Hindus and so on, at a site in Europe, and this is one of the foundations for the continuation of traditions and for confidence in religious identities and pride, and recognition as a community. Temples give opportunities to form collectives and leadership roles and serve to rebuild communities and facilitate a transfer of the cosmologies they represent. The temples represent a specific social and divine hierarchical order and provide a sacred centre in which this hierarchical order is re-established in the new country. It is a whole cosmology that has been transferred, and the temple signifies this cosmology. Being inside the temple removes the person for a little while from the European environment and places the person in the cosmology of specific South Asian Hindu traditions. The temples function to make people connect to the world of the ancestral home in South Asia and its world of the divinities.

The number of public temples in Britain had already passed one hundred in 1982 (Baumann 1996: 104), and in 2022 the number of Hindu temples in Britain was perhaps between 400 and 500. The first Īḻam Tamil Hindu temples were established in the 1980s and in 2020 there were around 30 such temples in Greater London alone (Maunaguru 2021: 5). The influx of Īḻam Tamils shaped Hinduism in several countries in Europe. Those who established the first Hindu diaspora temples in other countries of Europe often went to Britain to learn how to organize diaspora temples. In Norway, the first Hindu temple was established by a person from North India who had diaspora experience in Canada, where he had learned that temples were a natural part of the diaspora, but in order to organize the temple in Norway he went to Britain to gather information.

The first purpose-built temple with sacred Indian architecture was the Svāminārāyaṇa temple in Neasden which opened in 1996. Grand Hindu ‘display’ temples in Europe are now found in Britain (Shree Swaminarayan Mandir in Neasden, Shri Venkateshwara [Balaji] Temple in the West Midlands, and Sri Murugan Temple in London), Germany (Sri Kamadchi Ampal Temple in Hamm), and Switzerland (Sri Manonmani Ampal Temple in Trimbach) and in June, 2023 the largest Hindu temple built from the ground up in South-Indian temple style in the Nordic countries, the new Siva Subramaniyar Alayam, was opened in Norway’s capital, Oslo. Such temples are architectural symbols of the presence of Hinduism (Luchesi 2020a: 1031–8; Winter 2020: 818). Brigitte Luchesi has noted that using an existing building as a temple can never be anything other than a temple substitute. A proper temple is not only a place of worship but is also in itself an object of worship (Luchesi 2020a: 1,036). In many cases the landscape around the temple is also part of the sacred object (see Chapter 14 on pilgrimage sites in the Hindu diasporas by Jacobsen in this volume). In addition to ‘display’ temples, annual public festivals and processions organized by temples have made Hinduism a visible religion in the public sphere.

Hindu temples are found in all countries with a significant Hindu diaspora population. Small minorities of Hindus such as Afghan Hindus have seven temples in Germany and one in the Netherlands, and Balinese Hindus have two temples in Germany. In Belgium several Hindu associations with members from countries such as Afghanistan, Bangladesh, India, Indonesia, Mauritius, Nepal, and Sri Lanka have established small temples (Montes and Godderies 2020: 852).

Sacralization of Sites

Some of the sacred sites established by Hindus in Europe have become objects of pilgrimage travel and they now make up a sacred geography. There are two kinds of Hindu pilgrimage sites in Europe: Hindu temples and sites associated with Hindu gurus or disciples. At the pilgrimage sites associated with Hindu gurus or disciples there are also temples, but in those cases it is not the temples alone that are the reason for them becoming pilgrimage sites. The temple pilgrimage sites are often the costly ‘display’ temples built from the ground up in accordance with South Asian temple architecture. Other reasons for temples becoming pilgrimage sites may be that they are older than the others or are based on Indian models. Examples are Balaji or Sri Venkateshwara Temple in Tividale in Britain, which is the largest temple of its kind in Europe (see Chapter 14 in this volume on pilgrimage), the Sri Kamadchi-Ambal Temple in Hamm in Germany, which is the largest Hindu temple on the European mainland, and the Highgatehill Murukaṉ Temple in London, which is the oldest of its kind in London. In the Sri Kamadchi Ambal Temple in Hamm and the Highgate Hill Murugan Temple in London there are hardly any non-Tamil Hindu visitors on regular worship days, only during the festivals (Geaves 2007, Wilke 2013), which illustrates the inclusiveness of the Hindu pilgrimage traditions also in Europe. Important examples of maṭhs that have become centres of pilgrimage are the Skanda Vale in South Wales, which receives around 90,000 pilgrims annually, the majority being Īḻam Tamils and persons with a Gujarati background living in Britain (Geaves 2007: 223), and the Krishna Valley ISKCON community in Hungary that was founded in 1994 (Farkas 2020). The Krishna Valley has recently had published a nine-volume Sthala-Māhātmya, the first of its kind in Europe.¹⁹ The formation of new Hindu sacred sites in Europe and pilgrimage travel to them signifies a process of geographical expansion of Hinduism in Europe. It is a reminder of the historical process of the geographical expansion of Hindu traditions in India and South Asia (Jacobsen 2013b), and that Hindus connect to space in a way that sacralizes sites wherever they live (see Jacobsen 2022).

The use of local rivers for Hindu burials is becoming common in Europe. In Britain several rivers function as river Gaṅgā, such as the Derwent River in northern England²⁰ and the river Taff in Cardiff in Wales.²¹ The Thames in southern England has the same role and is also promoted by commercial companies. The Thames is recommended as it is the most prominent river in Britain, just as the Gaṅgā is the most prominent river in India.²² In the case of Switzerland, the River Reuss has become the local Gaṅgā and a funerary priest is flown in from Britain to perform the rituals there (Baumann 2020: 1497). Open funeral pyres are illegal in Europe.

A Predominance of Īḻam Tamils in Many Countries

The two largest Hindu diasporas in Europe based on national background are the Indian Hindu diaspora and the Īḻam Tamil Hindu diaspora. They belong to different diasporas and have different histories, and they also organize themselves into separate religious institutions. The most important temple builders in mainland Europe are the Īḻam Tamils. In Germany alone the Īḻam Tamils have established around one hundred temples. There were many thousands of Hindus from North India in Germany before the Īḻam Tamils came, but they had not established a single temple. In many countries in Western Europe, few Hindus had arrived before 1970 and the largest group of Hindus soon became the Īḻam Tamils. In Britain only the Gujaratis outnumber Īḻam Tamils, who number around 200,000 (Amarasingham 2015), and Īḻam Tamil Hindus are the second largest Hindu population in Europe overall. Due to the predominance in many countries of Īḻam Tamils there is less focus on the relationship to India in the Hindu diasporas in Europe. This makes the Hindu diasporas in Europe different from the diasporas in the United States, the Caribbean, Mauritius, Fiji, South Africa, and so on, which strongly focus on the connection to India. Ron Geaves has argued that the picture of Hinduism in Britain had been distorted by the dominance of the Gujaratis from East Africa, which led to an exaggerated interest in research on Gujarati Vaiṣṇavism and the sampradāyas of those who had relocated to the West from East Africa (Geaves 2007). The truth of this distortion I experienced when I presented Hindu diasporas in Europe with a focus on the Īḻam Tamils at an international conference and the respondent to my paper used his whole response to argue that the Hindu diaspora in the West was in reality just a Gujarati diaspora. According to Geaves, there has in Britain been ‘little study of the diaspora communities that have arrived direct from India and even less of non-Indian Hinduism, as, for example, in Tamil communities from Sri Lanka, Mauritius, or South East Asia. Consequently, the distorted Western reproduction of Hinduism with its Orientalist undertones has never been seriously challenged by studies of the British Hindu community’ (Geaves 2007: 82). However, these distortions have been less dominant in the studies of Hindu migrant communities in Europe, outside of Britain, which constitute a significant part of the scholarship on Hinduism in Europe, and which have focused primarily on the Īḻam Tamil Hindus. With new scholarship concentrating especially on the Hindu traditions of Īḻam Tamils in Britain (David 2012, Jones 2020b), the situation in Britain has also changed. One unique case in Europe is the Surinamese Hindus, who are the dominant group in the Netherlands (van der Burgh 2004, Swamy 2020), and often tend to be forgotten.

Conclusion

Hindus from East Africa in Britain, Hindus from Suriname in the Netherlands, Īḻam Tamil Hindus in many countries in Northern and Western Europe, and Afghan Hindus in Germany and surrounding countries have one thing in common. They arrived in Europe from areas outside of India and their purpose was to seek security. There are also many other groups of Hindus in Europe not coming directly from India: Hindus from Nepal, the Caribbean, Fiji, Bali, Malaysia, Singapore, and so on. Hindus coming directly from India constitute in many countries a minority of the Hindus in Europe. Great diversity of Hindus, with different groups seeking separate temples and organizations, characterize Hinduism in Europe.

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Trouillet, Pierre-Yves. 2013. ‘France.’ In Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism, edited by Knut A. Jacobsen, Helene Basu, Angelika Malinar, and Vasudha Narayanan, Vol. V, 234–9. Leiden: Brill.

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Vertovec, Steven. 1992. ‘Community and Congregation in London Hindu Temples: Divergent Trends.’ New Community 18 (2): 251–64.

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Zavos, John. 2020. ‘Hinduism and Public Space in Europe.’ In Handbook of Hinduism in Europe, edited by Knut A. Jacobsen and Ferdinando Sardella, Vol. 1, 665–86. Leiden: Brill.

Knut A. Jacobsen, Hindu Diasporas in Europe: Religious Plurality as the Foundation of Growth In: Hindu Diasporas. Edited by: Knut A. Jacobsen, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198867692.003.0010

¹ Absence of Hindu diasporas in most Eastern European nations does not mean a complete absence of Hinduism, as in many of these countries there was an interest in Hindu texts, academic research in Hindu traditions, and a popular interest in some other features related to Hinduism, such as Hindu guru traditions, Ayurveda, yoga, and so on. A few persons adopted the Hindu guru institution and established themselves as religious teachers. Notably, the chapters on the countries of Eastern Europe in Handbook of Hinduism in Europe (Jacobsen and Sardella 2020) deal primarily with cultural encounters, significant persons who have adopted Hindu views and new Hindu movements, and less with the presence of any Hindu diasporas due to their small number.

² ‘Religion, England and Wales: Census 2021’. Available at https://www.ons.gov.uk/peoplepopulationandcommunity/culturalidentity/religion/bulletins/religionenglandandwales/census2021/.

³ In most countries in Europe religious identity is not part of the state census and only rough estimations are possible.

⁴ Each of the country-by-country chapters in Jacobsen and Sardella 2020 contains useful bibliographies.

⁵ Around six million Romani people live in Europe (Kenryck 2007).

⁶ For early translations of Indian texts into European languages, see Karttunen 2020.

⁷ In the census of the city of Ceuta, one person was registered as Hindu in 1893 (Ramchandani 2020: 1457).

⁸ Dwyer considered in 1994 that of the, at that time, half million Gujaratis living in Britain, half had East African connections (Dwyer 1994: 182). By 1973, approximately 103,588 Asians had entered Britain from East Africa (Mattausch 1998: 135), and the majority were Hindus. By 1979, there were 90,000 British Gujarati Hindus, in 1991 there were 252,000, and in 1998 half a million of whom just over three-fifths were Hindus. East African Gujaratis in 1998 made up approximately 44 per cent of Britain’s total Hindu population, and in addition 3 per cent East African Panjabi Hindus (see Mattausch 1998: 135).

⁹ After independence, the Government of India refused to consider the idea that Indians living outside of India could return to their ancestral country. They should instead assimilate in the nations to which they now belonged (see Abraham 2014: 96–7).

¹⁰ The majority of whom (around 80 per cent) are postcolonial migrants from Suriname, arriving in waves of migration between 1960 and 1990.

¹¹ See https://vhp.org.uk/.

¹² http://vhp.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/HMN-Launch-PR-VHPW.pdf.

¹³ https://www.thenchtuk.org/.

¹⁴ ‘Mandir used to be a centre place of entire villages or towns. All the community is connected to that mandir, and the mandir was like a Hridayasthaana, Aatma-sthana, the centre place, the place of the Heart of all the people in the village or city. Can we just reflect upon ourselves—is our Mandir the Hridayasthaana—the heart of entire society and if it is not can we make it? If our Mandir is the Hridaya-sthaana then can we enhance it and nourish it?’ (http://vhp.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/12/HMEC-UK-2020-Conference-Proceedings.pdf).

¹⁵ http://vhp.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/12/HMEC-UK-2020-Conference-Proceedings.pdf/.

¹⁶ http://vhp.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/12/HMEC-UK-2020-Conference-Proceedings.pdf/.

¹⁷ http://vhp.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/12/HMEC-UK-2020-Conference-Proceedings.pdf/, p. 21.

¹⁸ http://vhp.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/12/HMEC-UK-2020-Conference-Proceedings.pdf/, p. 12.

¹⁹ Thanks to Rembert Lutjeharms for providing information about the Māhātmya, Nava-vraja-mahimā. It has 6,500 pages divided into nine volumes, see https://srsbooks.com/products/nava-vraja-mahima/.

²⁰ ‘UK Indians Get River to Perform Cremation.’ Hindustan Times, 21 July 2007. Available at https://www.hindustantimes.com/india/uk-indians-get-river-to-perform-cremation/story-cnUng9gOg0Bis7JlroknZM.html/ (accessed 14 March 2022).

²¹ ‘Sikh and Hindu Ashes Scattering Site Opens in Cardiff.’ BBC News, 31 July 2021. Available at https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-wales-57988853/ (accessed 14 March 2022).

²² ‘Hindu Funeral Ashes: Why the Thames?’ Available at https://scattering-ashes.co.uk/different-cultures/hindu-funeral-ashes-why-the-thames/ (accessed 14 March 2022).

Part II

Global Themes

10

A Global Hindu Tamil Diaspora?

Worldwide Migration, Diversity, and Transnational Religion

Pierre-Yves Trouillet

It is well established today that the Tamil people and their religious practices and institutions are present on all continents. Their emigration started from the Tamils’ historic cultural region in South India, which was called Tamiḻakam (‘Tamil homeland’) in the ancient Sangam (Caṅkam) literature, and which became the Tamil-speaking State of the Republic of India in 1956, renamed Tamil Nadu (‘Tamil country’) in 1969. Tamils have been crossing the Indian Ocean since ancient times, but it is especially since the colonial period that their emigration has become massive and global in scope, involving humble workers as well as representatives from higher socio-professional backgrounds.

This worldwide dispersion has also involved Tamils originating from the neighbouring northern and eastern regions of Sri Lanka, where the first Tamils probably settled in the first century bce (Clothey 2006: 3). In 1325, Tamils even established the city of Jaffna as a separate kingdom, which flourished as such until the sixteenth century (ibid.). Since then, they have formed the ‘Jaffna Tamils’ ethnic group, which is distinct from the other main group of Sri Lankan Tamils—the ‘Hill country’ or ‘Up-country’ Tamils (Malaiyaga Tamilar), who were generally low-caste labourers sent from South India by the British in the nineteenth century to work in the plantations in the island’s central hills (Bass 2013). The Jaffna Tamils have also been those most exposed to the violence of the Sri Lankan civil war (1983–2009) between the Sinhalese majority and the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), leading many to seek refuge in India and numerous Western countries.

Consequently, speaking of ‘Tamils’ means dealing with populations that are quite diverse, not only in terms of regional origins, castes, and classes, but also in terms of their migratory history. Moreover, while this chapter focuses on Hindu Tamils, it must be kept in mind that not all Tamils are Hindu, which accentuates their socio-cultural diversity. Indeed, according to the 2011 Indian census, 87.5 per cent of the Tamil Nadu population are Hindus, 6 per cent Christians and 6 per cent Muslims. In Sri Lanka, Hindus are also predominant among Tamils, as they accounted for 58 per cent of Tamil speakers in 2001, while Muslims (Moors) accounted for 32 per cent and Christians 10 per cent (Meyer 2011: 15).

Regarding the ‘Hindu Tamil diaspora’, transnational linkages within overseas Sri Lankan Tamils have already been well studied, particularly in the field of politics (Amarasingham 2015, Chalk 2008, Dequirez 2011, Étiemble 2017, Fuglerud 1999, Guyot 2021, McDowell 1996, Maunaguru and Spencer 2018, Nadarajah 2009, Orjuela 2008, Thiranagama 2014, Wayland 2004, etc.), and more recently with regard to their matrimonial practices (Maunaguru 2019). Numerous academic publications dealing with the ‘Indian diaspora’ have also been published from the 1990s, and several scholars have even used religion as a basis for categorizing it (Vertovec 1997), in particular by using the term ‘Hindu diaspora’ (Jaffrelot 2017, Jaffrelot and Therwath 2007, Kalpana 2018, Rukmani 2001, Vertovec 2000). Yet, despite the trend of considering India’s regional identities, such as the Tamils, and attempts by India’s regional states to connect with their own ‘diasporas’ (Carsignol 2011), relatively little work has so far focused on the Hindu Tamil diaspora on a global scale. Admittedly, there is a vast literature dealing with the religious practices of overseas Hindu Tamil communities settled in specific host countries, be they Indian or Sri Lankan (Baumann 2009, Bradley 2018, Bruland 2012, Clothey 2006, Goreau-Ponceaud 2011, Jacobsen 2009, Lang 2021, Maunaguru 2021, Sooryamoorthy 1977, Maunaguru and Spencer 2018, Trouillet 2014, Whitaker 2015, etc.), but very little work has yet dealt with the overseas Tamil Hindus and Hinduism as a whole, especially considering Indian and Sri Lankan Tamils jointly (Trouillet 2012, Vethanayagamony 2020), which is precisely the purpose of this chapter. To be more precise, at a time when the ideas of ‘global Indian diasporas’ (Oonk 2007) and of a ‘global Hinduism’ (Kalpana 2018) are developing, the aim of this chapter is to establish whether it is relevant to speak of a ‘global Hindu Tamil diaspora’, given the cultural specificity of Tamils, the scope of their migration, and also the diversity of overseas Tamil communities. To answer this question, it is first necessary to examine the history and extent of Tamil migration around the world, and then to question the relevance of using the term ‘diaspora’ to refer to the Tamil émigrés and their descendants. Finally, the third part of the chapter deals with the transnationalization of Tamil Hinduism.

The Global Scope of Tamil Migration

The first remark about overseas Tamil populations concerns the scale of their emigration, which has become effectively global. Nevertheless, there were hardly any significant examples of emigration of Tamil populations outside their historical region before the colonial period, except in neighbouring regions (Clothey 2006: 2–5, Guilmoto 1991, Vethanayagamony 2020). The main exception is the Tamil settlement in northern and eastern Ceylon, as already mentioned. And although the dynastic kingdoms of the Pallavas and the Cholas participated in the Indianization of South East Asia (the Cholas even established an embassy in China) and Tamil guilds traded from Arabia to Indochina, Tamil migration outside South India remained of modest proportions during the pre-colonial period. The movement of Tamil populations outside the Indian subcontinent was more about small groups, which mainly involved military personnel, traders, and missionaries.

The Colonial Period

The situation changed as Europeans gained ground in India, for the Indian populations progressively constituted an important reservoir of labour for their colonial empires. Europeans first deported thousands of Indian slaves to their colonies in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, notably to Ceylon, South East Asia, the Mascarene Islands, and South Africa (Stanziani 2020). Historians report that slave exports from Coromandel increased from about 2,000 in 1622 to 8,000–10,000 in 1659–61 (Wink 2003 cited by Stanziani 2020). And between 1670 and the late eighteenth century, a total of 24,000 Indian slaves were exported to Mauritius and Réunion (Allen 2005 cited by Stanziani 2020). The first batch of free Tamils to expatriate beyond Asia in the colonial context were probably those who left for the Mascarenes in the early eighteenth century. In 1729, 1730, and 1735, a few hundred Tamil skilled artisans, labourers, and servants were brought by the French to Mauritius (then called ‘Ile de France’) (Sooryamoorthy 1977) and probably to La Réunion (‘Ile Bourbon’) (Singaravélou 1987).

Then, from the beginning of the nineteenth century onwards, Indian and Tamil migration progressed on an unprecedented scale. This was both in numerical terms, as they became truly massive, and in geographical terms, as they rapidly crossed the three main oceans. Initially, these mass migrations mainly involved indentured workers. This proletarian migration of ‘coolies’¹ developed after the abolition of slavery in the European colonies (1833 in Britain, 1848 in France), in response to the high demand for unskilled labour to replace the emancipated slaves in the countries of the colonial empires. Many Indians, including Tamils, left for the Mascarene Islands, then for the Guianas, the Caribbean, and East and Southern Africa, and finally for Fiji. This type of proletarian migration also developed in areas closer to the sub-continent, such as Ceylon, Burma, and Malaysia.

The Tamil country played a major role in this economic and migratory system due to its strategic geographical location and the importance of its colonial ports. The first Tamil migrant workers arrived in Ceylon in the late 1820s and 10 years later in Malaysia. They were considered as ‘indentured labourers’, but they endured a status of bonded workers. Moreover, unlike indentured labour, which was based on contracts for the recruitment of individual² workers, predominantly originating from the north of the subcontinent (and sent mainly to English Guiana, Fiji, Trinidad, Jamaica, Guadeloupe, Martinique, and Suriname), the kangani³ system, which prevailed in South India for workers sent to Ceylon, Burma, and Malaysia (maystri system), was based on a collective recruitment method extending to the family or village network.⁴

The migration of indentured labourers to Mauritius dates from the same period and quickly attracted several thousand Tamils from the Madras Presidency. Over the next two decades, this migration spread to La Réunion, involving the French trading posts in Pondicherry and Karaikal too. The proportion of Tamil indentured labourers going to the West Indies and Fiji was smaller than those remaining in the Indian Ocean, although the French sent significant numbers of Tamils to Martinique and Guadeloupe (Singaravélou 1987). By the end of the nineteenth century, the majority of these migratory flows were more marginal for the Tamil country, apart from those to Ceylon and the Malay Peninsula. Migration to Burma, far from being limited to Tamils, is more recent but, in the end, Ceylon, the Malay Peninsula, and Burma received ‘the vast majority of Tamil emigration’ during this period (Guilmoto 1991: 126). The last destination for Tamil migration in this framework was probably Fiji at the turn of the nineteenth century, and up to around 1915 (ibid., Naidu et al. 2020).

Originally, such migration was temporary, as it was linked to economic circumstances and controlled by restrictive legislation. The Tamil indentured labourers were mainly Hindus from the rural lower castes belonging to the poorest social strata (Clothey 2006, Guilmoto 1991, Rajasingham-Senanayake 2020, Vignato 2020). They were often subservient to the landowners in their home villages, both because of their economic dependence and their disadvantaged position in the rigid caste system. Overseas employment opportunities were thus an alternative to their situation, especially as high population growth increased the severity of famines and fed the potential labour pool. Nevertheless, although our knowledge of the caste of migrants in this period depends on their registration on certificates and ship lists, it seems that the middle and upper castes also migrated in this context (Stanziani 2020), as several studies on the Caribbean (Singaravélou 1987), Natal (Bhana 1991), and Mauritius (Carter 1995) demonstrate.

Furthermore, despite being in the majority, indentured labourers were not the only Tamils to migrate during the colonial period. Free migration also developed between the final decades of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century. This involved a merchant population of bankers, traders, or clerks, often from the upper castes, engaging as imperial auxiliaries in administrative, military, or economic management functions in South Africa, Mauritius, Burma, Malaysia, Fiji, East and Southern African countries, and to a lower extent in Vietnam. The Tamil trading caste of the Nattukkottai Chettiars, in particular, deployed their members throughout much of South East Asia and the Indian Ocean, while developing an international banking network, the centre of which remained in their home region in the Tamil country, the Cheṭṭināṭu (the ‘land of the Chettiars’). They invested their wealth in their temples and maintained caste, economic, and religious ties with their home territory (Ramanathan 2001, Rudner 1994). In Ceylon, Tamils who possessed the means migrated to other British colonies, like Malaysia. In 1911, Kuala Lumpur was home to an estimated 7,000 Jaffna people, many of whom were employed on the peninsula’s railways (Madavan 2011, Meyer 2006).

Early in the twentieth century, an anti-indentured emigration movement grew up in India, demographic crises slowed down in the South, and pan-Indian distress migration faded away. As a result, the emigration of indentured labourers gradually died out on the eve of the First World War and was abolished by the British empire in 1917 (the kangani system in 1938), and disappeared completely in the middle of the twentieth century. In 1931, after a century of emigration, more than one and a half million Tamils were counted in (mostly British) colonies outside India (Guilmoto 1991: 149). Having long been temporarily overseas for employment purposes, the Tamils, started finally to take root outside their native regions. The expatriate communities then became less fragile, as they were less dependent on the migratory movements that had ensured their renewal for nearly a century (ibid.).

The Post-Colonial Period

After India’s independence in 1947, the migration patterns and countries of destination changed, and targeted mainly the West and the Middle East. Many Indian Tamils migrated first to the former colonial metropolises, largely as a result of Jawaharlal Nehru’s policy of integrating Indian emigrant communities into the entities that emerged from the dismemberment of the British Empire rather than into the Indian Union, and advocating that the descendants of indentured labourers stay behind and be loyal to their host country. In the case of France, these were mainly the families of Tamils born in the French Indian trading posts who chose French nationality when the French possessions were attached to independent India (1954–1962). In Britain, much larger and more diversified waves of South Asian immigration took place between 1950 and 1970, in response to the demand for labour linked to the economic growth of the time.

Then a new category of South Asian immigrants arrived in the United Kingdom between the late 1960s and 1970s: the ‘twice migrants’ (Bhachu 1985). In addition to the trauma of the displacements linked to Partition, certain post-colonial predicaments led many South Asians, including Tamils, to leave their first country of settlement for the United Kingdom because of the economic and political contexts (economic crisis in Mauritius, inter-ethnic conflicts in Fiji, Africanization in East Africa, apartheid in Natal, anti-Indian nationalism in Sri Lanka and Burma). In this context, Christophe Guilmoto explains that ‘the lack of geographical diversification (ghettos and pockets of concentration) and professional diversification (specialization or lack of qualification), together with the maintenance of their distinct ethnic identity, has given overseas Tamils a specific social profile which, during periods of tension, meant they were ideal targets for abuse or persecution’ (Guilmoto 1991: 138, my translation). Some generations from earlier migration were then forced to flee repression or risk expulsion. This involved all classes of overseas Tamils. Between 1968 and 1984, half of the Sri Lanka Up-country Tamils (459,000 people) were expatriated to India (Meyer 2011:17). Sri Lanka’s English-speaking Tamil elite, who saw employment restricted due to the adoption of Sinhala as the only official language, left for Britain and the Commonwealth countries (Canada, Australia, and New Zealand) (ibid., Kandasamy et al. 2020). Indian Nattukkottai Chettiars, whose influence throughout South East Asia was considerable in the 1930s, were driven out of Burma and then Sri Lanka.

During the civil war in Sri Lanka, about one hundred thousand Tamils fled the war zones to Tamil Nadu (Goreau-Ponceaud 2014). The first wave of long-distance migration, which mainly involved Sri Lankan Tamils from upper castes, initially went to countries where the previous generation of expatriates had already settled, in particular Britain and Canada (Meyer 2011: 19). But as these two countries became more difficult to access, due to the closure of borders to unspecified Commonwealth citizens, many had to seek refuge elsewhere in Europe. This was notably the case in Germany (Baumann 2006), France (Dequirez 2011, Étiemble 2017, Goreau-Ponceaud 2011), Italy, the Scandinavian countries (Bruland 2012, Fuglerud 1999, Jacobsen 2009), and, to a lesser extent, Switzerland (Baumann 2010) and the Netherlands.

Since the end of the 1960s, North America and Australia have also offered migratory alternatives to all Hindu Tamils, as have Singapore and Malaysia, although sometimes on a more temporary basis. These migrations mainly concern an intellectual diaspora largely comprising urban people from high socio-professional backgrounds who cannot find sufficient jobs to match their qualifications in India (the famous South Asian ‘brain-drain’).⁵ Sri Lankan Tamils especially found asylum in Canada (Amarasingam 2015, Bradley 2018), and particularly in Toronto, which probably hosts the most important Tamil community outside Asia.

Today, the other major destination for Tamil Hindu emigrants, be they Indian or Sri Lankan, is the Persian Gulf countries, where the economic growth since the 1970s has led to a strong demand for labour. This mainly involves a kind of ‘modern coolie trade’ of low-skilled or unskilled workers, who spend a few years in these countries. Although the majority of these Tamil migrants are Muslims, many Hindus are attracted from South India and from Sri Lanka by such an economic opportunity, particularly for work in construction, catering, and services. This labour migration remains temporary, especially since family reunification is often prohibited, but many migrants return after a stay in India or Sri Lanka (Meyer 2011: 20–1).

In demographic terms, there are no reliable and consistent figures on the distribution of all populations of Tamil origin by country. Estimates of the size of the Tamil diaspora vary and should only be regarded as approximations.⁶ With regard to Sri Lankan Tamils, Éric Paul Meyer (2011) refers to a 1995 official Sri Lankan government estimate that about 500,000 migrants had left their country since 1980. Considering the birth of children abroad, Meyer estimates that Sri Lankan Tamils numbered around one million in the early 2010s, which represents a quarter of the total Sri Lankan Tamil population (ICG 2010 quoted by Guyot 2021). In terms of host countries, the International Crisis Group (ibid.) estimates that the state of Tamil Nadu is home to some 200,000 Sri Lankan Tamil refugees, and that there are large communities in Canada (200,000–300,000), Britain (180,000), Germany (60,000), Australia (40,000), Switzerland (47,000), France (40,000–50,000), the Netherlands (20,000), the United States (25,000), Italy (15,000), Malaysia (20,000), Norway (10,000), Denmark (7,000), New Zealand (3,000) and Sweden (2,000). Smaller communities are also settled in South Africa, the Gulf States, and several South East Asian countries.

Regarding Tamils of Indian origin, in 2015, the Indian Ministry of Foreign Affairs estimated at 28 million what it has called the ‘Indian diaspora’ since 2000 (with the establishment of the ‘High Level Committee on Indian Diaspora’). This Indian diaspora was then composed of 11 million ‘Non-Resident Indians’ (NRI), who are Indian citizens holding an Indian passport and residing abroad for an indefinite period of time (which in practice corresponds to most recent emigrants to the Middle East, North America, Europe, or Australia); and 17 million ‘Persons of Indian Origin’ (PIO), who are citizens of any country other than Bangladesh or Pakistan who once held an Indian passport or whose ancestors (up to the fourth generation) were born or permanently resided in the territory of independent India (most PIOs thus correspond to emigrants from the colonial period and their descendants). As Tamils represent 6 per cent of the Indian national population and have always been very much involved in the various emigration movements, it can be legitimately estimated that the Indian Tamils living outside India represent about 6 per cent of the Indian diaspora today, that is, 1.6 million.

A Tamil Diaspora?

From Malaysia to Fiji, passing through South Africa, Canada, the Caribbean, the Mascarenes, and Europe, Tamil migration has clearly reached a global dimension. However, Tamils are not the majority in any nation-state (Rasaratnam 2016). On the contrary, the geography of Tamil settlement, as a whole, is characterized by a dispersion that goes far beyond national borders, which constitutes a first criterion for defining a diaspora (Brubaker 2005, Safran 1991). Yet this is not enough to make all Tamils living outside India and Sri Lanka a diaspora. Indeed, while all diasporas result from migration, all migrations of ethnic groups are not necessarily diasporas. This is why, in addition to dispersion, Rogers Brubaker, in his review of the literature on the use of the concept of ‘diaspora’, identifies the maintenance of social boundaries and the orientation towards the country of origin as the other two specific criteria of these transnational communities (Brubaker 2005: 5). The debate on the definition and the heuristic capacity of the notion of diaspora remains open but examining the extent to which these criteria identified by Brubaker are effective in the case of Tamils enables us to assess whether or not it is relevant to speak of a Tamil diaspora. In other words, now that we have seen how global the scale of Tamil migration is, let us examine the extent to which the term diaspora is relevant to it.

Diversity, Heterogeneity, Hybridity

One can legitimately question the internal cohesion of overseas Tamils in view of their great diversity in terms of caste, class, region of origin, and migration history. Can such heterogeneity really constitute a diaspora? For example, while the extremely strong attachment to the millennia-old Tamil language and culture is found among Tamils both of Indian and of Sri Lankan origin (Das 2016, Ramaswami 1997), it should nevertheless be noted that the Tamil spoken in Tamil Nadu and the Tamil spoken in Jaffna are slightly different. As Sonia Das (2016) pointed out in her study of the Tamil language in Montreal, ‘Tamil migrants draw on their multilingual repertoires to navigate longstanding linguistic rivalries by arguing that Indians speak “spoken Tamil” and Sri Lankans speak “written Tamil” as their respective heritage languages’. According to her, ‘Indian Tamils showcase their use of the “cosmopolitan” sounds and scripts of colloquial varieties of Tamil to enhance their geographic and social mobilities, whereas Sri Lankan Tamils, dispossessed of their homes by civil war and restricted in travel, instead emphasize the “primordialist” sounds and scripts of a pure “literary” Tamil to rebuild a homeland’.

Such distinctions have been noticeable in other countries of immigration, as in Malaysia, for instance, where, until World War II, Ceylonese Tamils, who were temporary skilled immigrants belonging to high castes, avoided mixing with Indian Tamils, who were mainly lower-caste coolies (Madavan 2011). Marriages between Ceylonese and Indian Tamils were exceptional, and participation in Hindu Tamil places of worship was often based on regional affiliations (ibid., Ramanathan 2001). This endogamy has softened over the generations and the Malaysian Tamil community is becoming more homogeneous. But there are still many other countries where the two sub-groups prefer not to intermarry. This is particularly the case in France and Canada, where Indian Tamils are in rather higher socio-economic positions than Sri Lankan Tamils.

It must be said that regional differentiations remain relevant also in the countries of origin. In Sri Lanka, a denial of ‘Indian-ness’ has logically emerged from the centuries of insularity experienced by the Jaffna Tamils (Meyer 2006), which explains not only their linguistic particularity but also their ethnic distinction from the Up-country Tamils. Reciprocally, since their arrival in South India in the 1980s, Sri Lankan Tamil refugees have often suffered from marginalization and exclusion, despite the efforts undertaken to minimize this by the state of Tamil Nadu (Goreau-Ponceaud 2014). Indeed, before the assassination of Rajiv Gandhi in 1991 by an LTTE commando which cooled relations between New Delhi and the Jaffna Tamils, the Tamil Nadu government supported the political demands of the Jaffna Tamils, whom it welcomed on its soil because of their ‘kinship’, which naturally nurtured strong solidarities without erasing mutual distinctions (Racine 2006: 302). At the turn of the twentieth century, the Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu, Jayalalithaa, even initiated an anti-Tigers policy, supported by an opinion sometimes irritated by the influx of Sri Lankan Tamil refugees and shocked by the murders committed in India by the Tigers (ibid.). But today, India is committed to a strong support for the aspirations of the Tamils of Sri Lanka for ‘equality, justice, peace and dignity’ (position taken by India at the 46th session of the UN Human Rights Council in March 2021).

Internal differentiations do not concern only regional origins, but also caste and class differences and hierarchies, as well as various migration stories and possible phenomena of hybridization or creolization. For example, among overseas Sri Lankan Tamils, notable differences exist between the expatriates of the 1970s and 1980s, who mostly belonged to Jaffna’s upper castes (Vellalars) and who were able to migrate with their families, and those who had to migrate from the 1990s onwards, who were mainly single male asylum seekers from the lower castes (Karaiyars) (Goreau-Ponceaud 2014, Meyer 2011). Among Indian Tamils too, there are very significant differences in terms of socio-cultural proximity between upper-middle classes settled in Western countries, those who work in the Middle East on a temporary basis, and the descendants of low-caste indentured labourers of the Mascarenes and the West Indies who hardly speak Tamil, for instance.

We must thus agree with Fred Clothey (2006: 12) who has identified three broad social categories among the Tamils settled overseas. One can first distinguish the working-class communities. These are mostly descendants of Tamils who migrated as indentured labourers or under the kangani system, and who rarely spoke English. Clothey notes that ‘even today, most of them work in relatively low-paid jobs in estates or cities’ (ibid.), such as in Malaysia (Rajasingham-Senanayake 2020) or on plantations in central Sri Lanka (Bass 2013, Samuel 2020), where the majority of the Tamil population continues to live in economically marginal conditions. These overseas Tamils generally are descended from low-caste or Dalit groups, such as Paraiyars, Ambutiyars, or Pallars. Today, it is this same social category of low-caste workers who seek work in the Persian Gulf, but who hardly dare to aspire to emigrate to the United States, Great Britain, or Australia. In contrast, another category of overseas Tamils is made up of those who are professionally and economically well positioned for several generations. This category, which is generally well educated in English, includes the ‘Ceylon Tamils’ (including Vellalars) as well as some South Indian Chettiars, Vellalars, and Brahmans, who emigrated to the Malay Peninsula during the colonial period, and to the recent immigrant countries, such as North America, where they are part of the South Asian elite (Fuller and Narasimha 2014, Punzo-Waghorn 2004). The third category is in an intermediate position. It comprises middle and upper-middle class people, many of whom have achieved social mobility from lower positions. These are descendants of Tamil emigrants who emigrated more or less voluntarily to take up relatively unskilled jobs, and who have become entrepreneurs or employees in the service sector. This is particularly the case for many Mauritians of Tamil origin who now work in towns or who have managed to become landowners (Claveyrolas 2017: 119–51), or for the children of some Sri Lankan political refugees in Canada.

To sum up, overseas Tamils are extremely diverse and, as Fred Clothey (2006: 2) also pointed out, ‘[B]y no means are they unanimous as to what it means to be Tamils or how to juggle their various identities’. This heterogeneity should therefore not allow Tamils who have migrated out of South India and Sri Lanka to be called ‘a diaspora’ because they do not meet the second main criterion of diasporas identified by Brubaker: the ‘boundary-maintenance, involving the preservation of a distinct identity’ (Brubaker 2005: 5). We should thus rather speak of Tamil diasporas in the plural and with more descriptive precision, as the overseas Tamil communities are so diverse. One could speak, for instance, of an ‘Indian Tamil diaspora’, a ‘refugee Tamil diaspora’, a ‘proletarian Tamil diaspora’, a ‘Tamil identured labour diaspora’, a ‘Creole Tamil diaspora’, and so on.

However, the ‘boundary maintenance’ and ‘distinct identity’ underlined by Brubaker raise a major problem that may hinder a proper understanding of the social and cultural dynamics taking place among Tamils living outside India and Sri Lanka: the essentialization of social ‘boundaries’ and of what a ‘distinct identity’ might be. Indeed, such a fixist consideration of community boundaries and collective identities is no longer tenable considering the advances of the constructivist approach to ‘identity’ and ‘ethnic boundaries’ (Barth 1969), and of the anthropological evidence of permanent social and cultural change, especially with regard to Hinduism (Claveyrolas and Trouillet 2021, Lorenzen 2006, Sontheimer and Kulke 1989). Identity boundaries are evolving because identity is always changing, especially in a post-migration context (Claveyrolas and Trouillet 2021, Mohammad-Arif and Moliner 2007). While situations of exile or distance from the country of origin often give rise to a need for a reassuring sense of belonging to a distinct community—as in the case of Tamils of Sri Lankan origin in Toronto, for instance—individuals sometimes interact more intensely with people of other origins (thereby assuming multiple ‘identities’). Acculturation and cultural hybridity occur continuously, but without negating the attachment to the country and community of origin (Devadoss 2020). For instance, many descendants of Tamil indentured labourers who migrated to Mauritius are loosely connected to the cosmopolitan Tamil elite and much closer to their compatriots without Tamil origins and to the local Creole culture inherited from the plantation society (Claveyrolas 2021a). Nevertheless, this does not prevent them from saying and feeling Tamil on certain occasions, such as during religious festivals and elections, and from praying to Hindu gods in distinct ‘Tamil temples’ (kōvil). Admittedly, some Mauritians of Tamil origin are well connected to the transnational Tamil community and to South India or Northern Sri Lanka—especially those involved in international entrepreneurial activity or in the religious activities of the local ‘Tamil community’—yet this elite alone cannot represent the experience of all Tamils living in such lands of Tamil immigration.

Roger Brubaker himself admits that another major strand of the literature on transnationalism, influenced by the work of Stuart Hall (1990), recognizes diversity, heterogeneity, and changing identities as constitutive of contemporary diasporas. Quoting Stuart Hall, he adds that the ‘diaspora experience is defined, not by essence or purity, but by the recognition of a necessary heterogeneity and diversity; by a conception of “identity” which lives with and through, not despite, difference; by hybridity’ (Hall 1990: 235, quoted by Brubaker 2005: 6). Tamil migratory multiple experiences fit better in such a definition. And they are all the more in line with diasporic situations as they are also characterized by the third criterion of diasporas identified by Brubaker: ‘the orientation to a real or imagined “homeland” as an authoritative source of value, identity and loyalty’ (Hall 1990: 235, quoted by Brubaker 2005: 6).

Homeland-Orientation and Transnational Conscientization

The third part of this chapter will show how true is this kind of orientation towards a common homeland in the religious arena. But before dealing with religion, it is worth noting that such homeland orientation is usually linked to a political (or at least collective) discourse. Indeed, as Brubaker noticed, ‘[W]e should think of diaspora not in substantialist terms as a bounded entity, but rather as an idiom, a stance, a claim’ (Hall 1990: 235, quoted by Brubaker 2005: 12). In the case of overseas Tamils, attachment to their homeland—which includes Tamil Nadu and Tamil Eelam, and which never had the status of a nation-state (Rasaratnam 2016) as expressed on Tamil nationalist websites⁷—owes a great deal to the civil war in Sri Lanka and, to a lesser extent, to some actions of the Tamil Nadu government.

Indeed, the exile of Sri Lankan Tamils and the abuses they suffered during the civil war have contributed massively to the transnationalization of Tamil solidarity and identity consciousness, beyond Sri Lankans alone (Rajasingham-Senanayake 2020). Admittedly, the latter have been the most concerned and engaged in ‘long-distance nationalism’ (Fuglerud 1999, Thiranagama 2014), especially when the LTTE was securing funds, sometimes under duress, from Sri Lankans abroad by drawing on a strong transnational network (Amarasingam 2015, Chalk 2008, Guyot 2021, Maunaguru 2021, Maunaguru and Spencer 2018, Thiranagama 2014). It is also Sri Lankan Tamils who predominantly commemorate every 27th of November, in more and more cities around the world, the Martyrs’ Day (māvīrar nāl) which celebrates the Tamil soldiers who died during the civil war. But many Indian Tamils too have been won over by this sense of belonging to an imagined transnational Tamil community, including Indians as well as Sri Lankans. They have been sensitized to the situation of Sri Lankan Tamils through a number of organizations, more or less politicized websites, social media, email exchanges, and other demonstrations around the world, to the point of showing solidarity with their Sri Lankan ‘cousins’ in most of the countries of settlement, such as Malaysia (Madavan 2011, Rajasingham-Senanayake 2020), Mauritius (Trouillet 2012), the UK, the US, or Canada (Amarasingam 2015).

This transnational awareness of the ‘Tamil cause’ through the Sri Lankans’ predicament also inspires numerous Indian Tamils to assert their identity in their own host countries when they feel marginalized. Delon Madavan explains that in Malaysia, while Tamils of Indian origin may sometimes resent the condescension of older generations of Ceylon Tamils, they have ‘great sympathy’ for Sri Lankan Tamils who fled the war or came to study or work in the country, as ‘the Sinhalese elite’s discriminatory policy against the Tamil minority reminds them of their own marginalisation by the Malays’ (Madavan 2011: 134, my translation; see also Rajasingham-Senanayake 2020). In Mauritius, where the Tamil minority of South Indian origin (6 per cent of the total population) sometimes feels aggrieved by the Bhojpuri majority of North Indian origin (40 per cent), Tamil identity entrepreneurs occasionally evoke the predicament of Sri Lankan Tamils in their speeches in order to rally and gain support. This was notably the case when the Tamil Force, a radical protest movement founded at the beginning of 2008, chose a roaring tiger as its emblem in explicit reference to the ‘Tamil Tigers’ of Sri Lanka (Trouillet 2012).

Nevertheless, if solidarity with the Tamils of Sri Lanka has nourished the consciousness of belonging to a transnational community of all Tamils, Tamil Nadu remains the land of reference for Tamils of Indian origin. Indeed, although many overseas Tamils know and respect the major pan-Hindu and pan-Indian holy places, like Varanasi (Uttar Pradesh) or Tirupati (Andhra Pradesh), they claim (more or less openly depending on people and situations) a distinct cultural and territorial origin from the rest of India. This is due to their strong attachment to the Tamil language and culture,⁸ and to a distinct territory sacralized by numerous regional Hindu holy places and famous temples, which remain known and visited by many overseas Tamils (like Madurai, Palani, Kanchipuram, Rameswaram, Thanjavur, Tiruvannamalai, etc.). Admittedly, not all overseas Hindu Tamils go on trips or pilgrimages to South India, but many do have a great interest in specifically Tamil language, dance and music (the Facebook accounts of Tamil religious and cultural associations are also very popular in the diaspora). These territorial and ethno-linguistic representations owe much to the literary, cultural, political, and social reform movement which has developed since the second half of the nineteenth century in the Tamil-speaking districts of the Madras Presidency⁹ around the ethno-linguistic resistance of the non-Brahman Dravidians of South India to the Brahmanical-cultured Indo-Aryans of the North: the ‘Dravidian Movement’ (Hardgrave 1965, Irschick 1969 and 1986). The ‘Tamil revival’, which has been developing since the 1970s in most countries of Tamil immigration through a ‘Dravidianization’ of Hinduism strongly influenced by the Tamil tradition and texts, such as the Śaiva Siddhānta¹⁰ and the canonical Āgamas,¹¹ perfectly illustrates this transnational diffusion of the ideology of a distinct Dravidian cultural identity (Benoist 1998, Ghasarian 1997, Lang 2021, Murugaiyan 2003, Singaravélou 1987, Trouillet 2014). Moreover, the main Hindu deities whom overseas Hindu Tamils worship in their shrines and temples are preferentially specifically Tamil—such as Murukaṉ (the regional god of Tamils),¹² Aiyaṉār or Muniswara (Tamil village deities) and the multiple forms of the goddess Ammaṉ (see p. 253)—or worshipped through their Tamil representation—such as Vināyakar (Gaṇeśa), Civaṉ (Śiva), or Perumāḷ (Viṣṇu). When they can, many overseas Tamils also return to their village of origin in Tamil Nadu, where the temple of their family deity (kula teyvam) is located. This is almost impossible for the descendants of the colonial indentured labourers who are hardly able to identify their place of origin (ūr), but their attachment to the Tamil homeland remains stronger than to the rest of India.¹³

The last element that has contributed to the development of a sense of belonging to a transnational community from the same territory is the proactive policy of the Tamil Nadu government. In 1966, the Tamil Nadu government organized the first World Tamil Conference in Malaysia, aimed at uniting Tamils worldwide and raising awareness of the Tamil cultural and linguistic heritage. The other nine World Tamil Conferences, held in Chennai (in 1968), Paris (1970), Jaffna (1974), Madurai (1981), Kuala Lumpur (1987), Mauritius (1989), Thanjavur (1995), Kuala Lumpur (2015), and Chicago (2019), reflect the multi-polarity of the Tamil diasporic formation (at least among its intellectual elite). In parallel, the first Conference of the World Tamil Cultural Movement was organized in 1992 in Chennai. In 1999, its seventh edition inaugurated the World Tamil Confederation, the objectives of which were to protect ‘the physical welfare, the cultural identity and the civic, political and human rights of the Tamils’.¹⁴ This confederation even uses national symbols (anthem and flag), displaying the desire of its militants to unite Tamils around a ‘transnation’. Also in 1999, Chief Minister M. Karunanidhi funded the Tamil Virtual University¹⁵ so that overseas Tamils could relearn their ancestral language, have access to an online library, and even graduate from the University of Madras (Carsignol 2011: 231). Some higher education institutions in Tamil Nadu have also had seats reserved for overseas students since 2003 (ibid: 32). In the same year, Jayalalithaa inaugurated a website¹⁶ for overseas Tamils to inform them of economic opportunities in Tamil Nadu, encouraging them to invest in their home state (ibid.). More recently, in 2020, during the COVID-19 health crisis, the Tamil Nadu government created a web portal (www.nonresidenttamil.org) specifically for Tamils living abroad (NRIs) to help them repatriate if they needed it.

Limits Versus Performativity

In view of all these historical, socio-cultural, and political elements, it seems relevant to speak of a ‘global Tamil diaspora’ bringing together Tamils of Indian and Sri Lankan origin, since it meets Brubaker’s three criteria. Nevertheless, some nuances or limitations must be expressed, even if the use of the term is spreading and becoming more and more performative.

First of all, the situation of all Tamil expatriates (Indians and Sri Lankans) who leave their country to work for a few years in the Persian Gulf, in the Malay Peninsula, or in the West, does not really correspond to the concept of diaspora since they, rather, form a group of temporary economic migrants. Moreover, while many overseas Tamils now use the term ‘diaspora’ to refer to what they consider their transnational community, the sense of belonging to a diaspora is not unanimous among overseas Tamils. Admittedly, the retention of certain cultural traits or of an emotional link with the country of origin allows some Tamils to assert their ‘Tamilness’, but phenomena of assimilation or a concern for integration into the host society prevents many others from feeling and claiming that they belong to a transnational community. Besides, many overseas Tamils are not involved in any transnational network and have no intention of returning to the country of their ancestors, especially among the foreign-born generations. It is therefore likely that, in the countries of immigration of the Tamil indentured labourers, the term ‘diaspora’ is not the most relevant to describe and understand local cultural realities, considering three important facts: the frequent ignorance or indifference of many Tamils to this term, the general loss of the Tamil language, and the importance of creolization and of the socio-cultural structures inherited from the ‘plantation society’, especially in rural areas (Claveyrolas 2017 and 2021a). This type of context corresponds to margins or ‘blind spots’ of the Tamil diaspora, where its members are scarcely—or not at all—active in transnational networks.

The situation is of course very different for Sri Lankan Tamils, especially among the first-generation migrants, who not only experienced a forced exile and share nostalgic memories of their homeland, but also often have family members spread over several countries (Maunaguru 2019) and frequently use the term ‘diaspora’ themselves to describe their scattered community (Amarasingam 2015, Étiemble 2017, Guyot 2021). The case of Tamils of Sri Lankan origin thus fits better with restrictive definitions of diasporas because of their exile and their more keenly shared ‘myth of return’ (Meyer 2011: 21).

This sense of belonging to the ‘Tamil diaspora’ has also been well developed among the overseas Tamil elite and identity entrepreneurs, who appropriate and claim this label in order to increase their personal prestige or to revive an ancient and prestigious collective identity.¹⁷ As a result, even in the margins of the Tamil transnational community, many people are progressively made aware of their possible belonging to ‘the Tamil diaspora’ because the expression is increasingly used in different places and circumstances. While more and more academic scholars deal with the ‘Tamil diaspora’ in their publications and conferences, Tamil elite and identity entrepreneurs spread the expression during collective religious or political events. For example, Tamil Mauritians, who are mainly descendants of former Tamil indentured labourers and who can hardly speak Tamil, can see and hear references to the Tamil Sri Lankans’ predicament and to the ‘Tamil diaspora’ displayed by identity entrepreneurs in some Hindu temples during religious festivals. A major consequence of this increasingly widespread use of the term ‘Tamil diaspora’ is that it becomes performative, so much so that one can wonder about the capacity of the blind spots in Tamil transnational space to remain so for so long.

It is no coincidence that speeches promoting belonging to a transnational community resurface during religious events, for if there is one thing that Hindu Tamils around the world share, it is their religiosity (through its specific variations). Indeed, Hinduism lived and practised in its Tamil versions, with their own specificities, adds a concrete and ritual tone to this sense of belonging for Tamils all over the world. Tamil Hinduism is not only shared, but also connected, as we will now see, which is another strong argument in favour of the use of the expression ‘global Hindu Tamil diaspora’.

Shared Religious Practices and Transnational Hinduism

Two aspects of Hinduism practised by overseas Tamil Hindus justify it being described as ‘global’. First, because many religious practices are common among Tamils living in different parts of the globe; and secondly, because these practices and places are increasingly (but not always) connected through transnational networks and exchanges, even in the margins of the Tamil diaspora. This increasingly shared and connected Hinduism across the global Tamil migratory space also fuels the diffusion of a sense of belonging to an imagined transnational Tamil community.

Shared Specific Practices

As in South India and Sri Lanka, the kind of Hinduism practised and experienced by overseas Hindu Tamils is mostly a form of Śaivism, which is centred around the figure of Śiva and his associated deities, like Murukaṉ, Vināyakar (Gaṇeśa), and the many forms of the goddess Ammaṉ (especially Māriyammaṉ, Draupadiyammaṉ, Durgaiyammaṉ, Kālīyammaṉ, Angalammaṉ, Gangaiyammaṉ, Kāṭeriyammaṉ, and other local goddesses). As in homelands, overseas Tamil Śaivism associates ‘folk’ (or ‘popular’¹⁸) traditions dedicated to specifically Tamil village gods (like Aiyaṉār, Madurai Vīran, Muniswaran, and the local goddesses), with Brahmanic and Āgama-based temple rituals, as well as with the Śaiva Siddhānta tradition. Perumāḷ (Viṣṇu) and Ayyappan, the son of Śiva and Mohini (a feminine form of Viṣṇu) are also increasingly worshipped in overseas temples due to the great popularity of their main temples in South India: respectively in Tirupati (Andhra Pradesh) and Sabarimala (Kerala).

Some orthodox Tamil Brahmans, especially the Śri Vaiṣṇavas (or Aiyengars) worship only Viṣṇu. Nevertheless, Brahmans with orthodox practices, such as the Śri Vaiṣṇavas and the Smārtas, or temple priests, such as the Śivācāryas (‘the priests of Śiva’), are largely in the minority in the diaspora, as is the case in Tamil Nadu (Fuller and Narasimhan 2014), and even more so in Sri Lanka, where very few Brahmans have settled, apart from the small caste of Śivācāryas concentrated in the Jaffna region (Derges 2013: 77, McGilvray 2008: 84, Obeyesekere 2015: 2–3). Furthermore, historical and anthropological literature also makes it clear that the majority of Tamils belong to the Śūdra varṇa, with Kṣatriyas and Vaiśyas having little presence in Tamil country.

In fact, although class and caste distinctions between Tamils are found in more or less brahmanic, āgamic, or popular religious practices, overseas Tamil Hinduism is relatively unified around Tamil Śaivism. This is particularly true at the level of the popular practices accomplished at home and in temples (kōyil or kōvil), which are not only of great importance for individuals but also at the levels of family, clan, and caste (Fuller 2004 [1992]). There are also possible differences in terms of affiliation to a sectarian tradition (sampradāya) around a master (guru), such as Ramana Maharshi or Sadhguru, for example, but these are generally individual and not very structuring on a large scale.

As in the homeland, the main difference within overseas Tamil Hinduism is between folk/popular Hinduism, the rituals of which are conducted by non-Brahman priests (pucari), and a more institutionalized and Brahmanical Hinduism, the priests of which are Brahmans recruited from the home country (Baumann 2010, Trouillet 2020). Popular Hinduism with non-Brahman priests is particularly well established in the countries where indentured labourers migrated, such as the Malay peninsula (Ramanathan 2001, Sinha 2005), central Sri Lanka (Bass 2013), the Mascarene Islands (Benoist 1998, Claveyrolas 2017, Ghasarian 1997) or the Caribbean (Benoist 1998, Singaravélou 1987, Younger 2010). Tamil Hinduism that is more institutionalized around ‘āgamic’ temples and Brahman priests is more characteristic of recent immigrant countries, like in Europe or in Northern America (Baumann 2009, Kurien 2007, Maunaguru 2021, Maunaguru and Spencer 2018, Punzo-Waghorne 2004, Trouillet 2020), where Tamil émigrés value the recruitment of Śivācārya Brahman priests from South India or Sri Lanka. Nevertheless, this kind of Hinduism is also developing in the colonial-era immigration countries, which are increasingly linked to Tamil transnational networks, especially for the recruitment of priests and temple artisans (see later in the chapter). This is an expression of the global trend towards uniformity in overseas Tamil Hinduism, which is characterized by processes of ‘templeization’ (Baumann 2009, Narayanan 1992) and ‘Brahmanization’ (Singaravélou 1987 [III]: 133–5, Trouillet 2020, Van der Veer and Vertovec 1991: 158–61). However, this trend driven by the local Tamil socio-economic elites in search of a Brahmanic and āgamic orthodoxy is not unanimous among the descendants of Indian indentured labourers. Some of them prefer, on the contrary, to preserve their popular traditions inherited from their ancestors who arrived from Tamil villages in the nineteenth century, and to reject the ritual authority of the Brahmans. This is the case, for example, among some Tamils in La Réunion (Lang 2021) and Mauritius (Trouillet 2014: 184–91), or among the Madrassi twice-migrants of New York whose ancestors had first settled in Guyana (Claveyrolas 2021b). But despite these different positions, which mainly concern the place to be accorded to Brahmans, animal sacrifice and possession, all overseas Hindu Tamils practise at least one of these two great traditions specific to South India and to the Tamil-speaking provinces of Sri Lanka.

One of the main ritual practices that most overseas Tamils share is religious festivals (tiruvilā̱). Indeed, as in South India and Sri Lanka, religious festivals are dedicated each month and each year to certain gods, in particular Murukaṉ, Vināyakar, and the goddess Ammaṉ. The major annual festivals are the occasion for large processions of devotees to follow the chariots (tēr) on which statues of the deities are installed in order to circulate in the public space surrounding their temples (Jacobsen 2008). Tai Pūcam is probably the most shared festival in the diaspora. It is found in both colonial-era immigration countries and in the West. It is one of the main festivals dedicated to Murukaṉ, which takes place every year in the Tamil month of tai (mid-January to mid-February), when the full moon is close to the pūcam constellation. Devotees then perform various devotional practices for Murukaṉ to whom they are vowing, such as carrying wooden burdens (kāvaṭi) or piercing their skin with silver spears (alaku) or needles (ūci), sometimes weighted with pieces of lemon. The ‘fire-walking’ festival (tīmiti), dedicated to the goddess Draupadiyammaṉ, is also very popular among overseas Tamils, but particularly in countries of colonial immigration, where the ecstatic and trance-like practices associated with it are more easily accepted than in countries of more recent immigration. Vināyaka caturthī (or Gaṇeśa caturthī), which celebrates the arrival to earth from Mount Kailash of the elephant-header god Vināyakar with his mother goddess Pārvatī, is another important religious festival for overseas Tamils, especially in Paris. Every year, from Canada to Malaysia, passing through the Mascarenes, London, and Fiji, images of the rituals performed during these celebrations in different Tamil immigration countries circulate on the Internet, on social media, and in the press, reinforcing the feeling of belonging to a transnational Tamil community whose practices are not only shared but also simultaneous, for they are conducted on the same day.

Hinduism practised by overseas Tamils is thus very similar to that practised in South India and in the Tamil-speaking provinces of Sri Lanka. As in the homelands, it differs from North Indian Hinduism in some of its regional deities (in particular Murukaṉ and the goddess Ammaṉ) and the cults addressed to them, and also in the architecture of its temples. These religious buildings fit the ‘Dravidian’ style, based on the Āgamas and characterized by large sculpted and coloured pyramidal towers (gōpuram), which are increasingly found, following the transnational trend of ‘templeization’¹⁹ already mentioned. This regional distinction of Tamil Hinduism is so embedded in the diaspora that, in some North Indian communities’ temples (mandir), where the statues of the deities are usually white, the deities with a South Indian profile, such as Kārttikēya (called ‘Murukaṉ’ by Tamils), are distinguished by their dark granite, characteristic of Tamil temples (kōyil). Actually, Hindu rituals practised by overseas Tamils rely on many cultural specificities, to such an extent that they can lead, depending on the local socio-political context, to a marked socio-religious ethnicization vis-à-vis non-Tamil Hindus, especially when they originate from North India. This process has been observed in Fiji (Basu 2021), for example, but it is particularly pronounced in Mauritius, where the Mauritians of Tamil origin now use the term ‘Tamil religion’ to refer to the Hinduism they specifically practise (whether popular or āgamic). They also no longer define themselves as Hindus but only as Tamils—the term ‘Hindus’ being left to North Indian Hindus, who are in the majority in Mauritius (Trouillet 2014).

Overseas Tamil Hinduism is not only distinct from that of the North Indian Sanskrit tradition, but it also generally gathers Tamils of different origins. When Indian and Sri Lankan Tamils live in the same areas, as for example in Toronto or Paris, both of them can visit, sponsor, and sometimes even administer the same temples, although one community is always more involved than the other (and if caste distinctions can remain). For example, of the 19 trustees of the large Hindu temple in Richmond Hill near Toronto, which was founded mainly by Sri Lankan Tamils, six are Indian Tamils. Furthermore, overseas temples’ managers and devotees recruit Śivācārya priests regardless of their regional origin (Trouillet 2020). For instance, in Mauritius, some Tamils of Indian origin employ Sri Lankan priests in the temples they manage. And in Toronto, reciprocally, many Indian priests are employed in temples run by Sri Lankan Tamils. A number of Indian priests also work alongside Sri Lankan priests there, and the few of them who preside over temples may even employ Sri Lankans as assistant priests.

More broadly, although the political nationalism promoted by some Sri Lankan temple committees may deter some Tamils from attending such places of worship, most overseas temples serve as a means of social integration for most Tamils regardless of their political position (Maunaguru 2021), because of the opportunities for encounters and the sharing of a common Tamil religiosity that they provide. Whether in its popular or more Brahmanical forms, Hindu religiosity brings overseas Tamils together both physically, in the meeting places of temples and processional routes, and symbolically, through their sharing of specific cultural practices.

Global Connexity and Transnational Religion

Overseas Tamil Hinduism, in its various forms, is not only shared and widespread on a global scale but also increasingly ‘transnationalized’. Indeed, while not all Tamils are personally involved in transnational networks, especially in rural areas of colonial settlement countries, Hinduism practised overseas is developing and transforming through the existence of highly dynamic transnational networks of religious actors. A more transnational Tamil Hinduism is developing, which spreads and feeds the collective feeling of belonging to a transnational Hindu Tamil community.

The field that most obviously relies on transnational networks, exchanges, and circulations is that of temples. Many studies have already pointed out the remarkable cultural and social importance of temples in the Tamil diaspora (Baumann 2009, Clothey 2006, Maunaguru 2021, Punzo-Waghorne 2004, Trouillet 2012, Wilke 2020, Younger 2010), and several studies have even demonstrated how certain diaspora temples benefit from the mobilization of transnational actors (Maunaguru and Spencer 2018, Trouillet 2020). For instance, the construction and inauguration of the first large and distinctly Tamil temple in Montreal (the Arulmigu Tirumurugaṉ Temple) mobilized a whole range of actors living in different places in the Tamil migratory space, in addition to the local Tamil community in Montreal (Bradley and Trouillet 2011, Trouillet 2012). First, the founders called upon a Śivācārya Brahman from Sri Lanka to officiate as referent priest (stāṉikar) of the temple. Secondly, to build the temple, they turned to 12 craftsmen (ciṟpi) and to two architects²⁰ (stapati) with the required skills and knowledge in building science (vāstuśāstra) and in the Āgamas, who all came specially from Tamil Nadu. Then, to celebrate the ritual consecration (makākumpapiṣēkam) of the temple, about 30 Indian and Sri Lankan Tamil priests came from other Canadian cities, but also from the United States and even from Europe and Asia where they were employed, to assist the chief priest.²¹ Nevertheless, the main source of funding for diaspora temples is local. Indeed, even if more and more priests, architects, temple craftsmen, and musicians are called from India or Sri Lanka, which remain the reference lands in terms of sacrality, competence, and authenticity, it is generally the local overseas communities that contribute and call for donations to finance what mostly remains a local project.

This transnational process is effective in most of the temples following the Tamil tradition based on the ritual and architectural treatises of the Āgamas, which have been multiplying all over the world since the 1980s. This was notably the case for the Pittsburgh temple studied by Clothey (2006: 30–58) or for the Richmond Hill temple near Toronto, which is said to be the largest Hindu temple in North America respecting the precepts of the Āgamas. This is also true for many temples in the former destination countries of the Tamil indentured, such as Mauritius and La Réunion, where, as already mentioned, many old and less ‘āgamic’ shrines are replaced with this type of ‘Dravidian’ temples. For instance, one of the very first temples in Mauritius, built between 1838 and 1856 in the remote village of Clemencia, was renovated in 2016 under the supervision of an architect from Devakkottai, Tamil Nadu.

The migration of these architects, artisans, and temple priests illustrate the current transnationalization of Tamil Hinduism and the links that exist between different places in the Tamil diaspora space. For example, in 2014, one of the craftsmen recruited in Tamil Nadu to participate in the renovation of the Richmond Hill temple told me that before his three-year stay in Canada, he had previously worked for seven years in the US and five years in Australia to build other temples.²² Such circulation throughout the transnational Tamil migratory space also involves, of course, the ‘migrant priests’ of the diaspora temples (Trouillet 2020). Indeed, the Brahmanical ban on leaving the ‘holy land’ (puṇya-bhūmi, karma-bhūmi) of India and crossing the ‘black waters’ (kālāpāni) of the Indian Ocean, which was particularly binding for high-caste orthodox Hindus in colonial India between 1850 and 1920 (Clémentin-Ojha 2011), is today far from dissuading these temple priests from seizing the economic opportunity represented by a multi-year work contract in a diaspora temple (Trouillet 2021). Moreover, some of these migrant Brahman priests are Sri Lankan refugees who also often experienced a transnational migration, especially among those officiating in North America and Europe (ibid.). The journey of Sivakumar,²³ who was working in a temple in Toronto in 2014, is particularly evocative of these circulations and transnational relationships. He explained as follows how he managed to work in Mauritius, Paris, and Toronto:

‘It was my guruji [from the Pillayarpatti school of priests, Tamil Nadu] who sent me to Mauritius [in 2003]. Someone from Mauritius asked for a priest at my pāṭacālai [school of priests], then he sent me. I worked there for a year. Then after one year of service there, I went back to India. Two years later I saw an ad in a Tamil newspaper [Dinamalar] about a priest vacancy at the Māṇikka Vināyakar Paris temple, then I did the interviews. Mr. Sanderasekaram [the Paris temple president at that time] selected me and then I was an assistant priest there to perform the rituals for Māṇikka Vināyakar. After working there for five years, I returned to India to get married [in 2011]. I’ve had a daughter since then. And then here also there was a vacancy [in Canada]. One of my relatives informed me and asked the president [of this temple] to take me. And I’ve been working here for two years now.’²⁴

This kind of transnational circulation of Tamil Brahman priests also concerns old immigration countries, like Mauritius. Surendrakurukkal, an Indian priest I met there in 2013, explained that after having worked for 20 years in the same temple in Tamil Nadu (in Coimbatore), he went to Mauritius in 2000. Then he left for La Réunion for two years, before going back in India for six months in 2003. Then he went to Malaysia for two years (in 2004–2005), and he went again to Mauritius in 2010.²⁵

These transnational recruitments sometimes aim to respond to the need of certain overseas Tamil communities to recompose the ritual specificities and the social ties based on the collective patronage of a specific temple in their locality of origin (ūr). Indeed, in contexts of recent immigration, the solidarity recreated in the temple may sometimes mainly concern members of the same extended family, clan, or caste. This is the case of one Toronto temple dedicated to Nagapūśani Ammaṉ (or Nagammal), which is the local goddess of the Nainativu island in Northern Sri Lanka, from where many families have fled since the beginning of the civil war and the establishment of a naval base on the island in July 1983. The new Toronto temple was founded by a community of 21 former residents of Nainativu who succeeded in recruiting a Śivācārya priest precisely from the original temple in Sri Lanka (where his family enjoys the hereditary right of priesthood). This transnational recruitment was facilitated by the social links that this local Tamil community has kept with its native island and by two of the founding members having been ritual patrons of the original Nainativu Temple. The transnational nature of this place of worship is also intentionally made visible by the satellite images of the island of Nainativu that its managers have chosen to post on the walls inside the temple, between the secondary deities’ altars. Furthermore, the forms of the deities represented in the new temple are exactly the same as in the original one, and festivals are celebrated at the same time, which nurtures the devotees’ feeling of transnational ritual links and synchronicity with the homeland. Such a replica of a real temple of the homeland is not an exception in Toronto. There are at least four other community-based temples, as, for instance, a replica of the Murukaṉ Temple of Nallur (one of the most important temples in the Jaffna region), whose chief priest also comes from the original temple in Sri Lanka. Nevertheless, this kind of priest recruitment from the specific native places of diasporic communities is much less likely in countries of immigration of former South Indian indentured labourers, since most of their descendants rarely know the precise locality from which their forefathers had emigrated.²⁶

Sometimes, these migrant priests maintain links between the diaspora and the countries of origin by organizing transnational pilgrimages. This is the case of Indian priests²⁷ employed at a Sri Lankan-run Ayyappan Temple in Toronto, who have been organizing an annual pilgrimage from Canada to Sabari Mala (Kerala), the main Ayyapan pilgrimage centre in India, since 2000. The transnational nature of this pilgrimage is illustrated by the fact that Canadian pilgrims perform their departure ritual (sirappu pūjā) and put on their ritual necklaces (mālā) not in India, but in the Toronto temple before leaving for Chennai. It is also illustrated by the starting point of their pilgrimage to India, Pillaiyarpatti (Tamil Nadu), which has been the ‘biggest’ school of priests in Tamil Nadu since the early 2000s (Fuller 2003: 97) and which now sends priests throughout the Tamil diaspora (Trouillet 2020). The priests who initiated this pilgrimage were trained in this āgamic school, whose guru, K. Pitchai Gurukkal, also supervised the three construction and renovation ceremonies ([mahā-]kumpapiṣēkam) of the Toronto temple. After Pillaiyarpatti, the pilgrims from Toronto continue their pilgrimage through two other major religious (and tourist) places in Tamil Nadu (Rameshwaram and Kanyakumari) before proceeding to Sabari Mala. Finally, the transnational nature of this pilgrimage is also illustrated by the fact that the majority of these Tamil pilgrims travelling to India from Toronto are not Indian but of Sri Lankan origin.

The transnationalization of Tamil Hinduism is thus effective not only in host countries but also in the homeland. And the transnational networks set up for the construction of overseas temples can also benefit projects localized in the country of origin. For example, after the devastating tsunami which struck Sri Lanka and South India in 2004, the committee of the Richmond Hill temple (Ontario, Canada) joined the transnational Tamil community in providing relief. The board contributed over $100,000 to the Sri Lankan relief effort and $20,000 to the Andhra Pradesh state government and the Tamil Nadu tsunami relief funds.²⁸

Regarding homeland temples, the Āṛu Paṭai Vīṭu Complex²⁹ inaugurated in 2002 in Chennai and dedicated to Murukaṉ, illustrates how Tamil transnational networks can be used to create temples in India and also how they can be ritually displayed within sanctuaries. First, most of its trustees live in the US and define the shrine as an ‘NRI temple’.³⁰ Secondly, the founder of this temple (Dr Alagappa Alagappan, an ex-UN Official³¹) is also known for being the founder of the first Tamil temple established in New York city (the Mahā Vallabha Gaṇapati Temple). Thirdly, this sanctuary gathers together within its precincts the replicas of the six main Murukaṉ temples of Tamil Nadu around the replica of the Gaṇapati Temple of New York. Finally, the land for the temple was provided by the Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu, following the request of the Sankaracharya (abbot) of Kanchipuram.

Once again, local and transnational actors are involved in the founding and management of this temple. The story of this Indian temple confirms, just like for the other overseas temples mentioned, the capacity of contemporary Tamil Hinduism to be simultaneously local and global, but also to display signs of its transnationalization inside the temple grounds for the attention of the devotees. Indeed, whether through their ritual actors and the transnational pilgrimages they may motivate, their founders and managers, or through the places represented in their precincts, these ‘transnational temples’ allow the devotees not only to maintain a ritual, cultural, and memorial link with their country of origin, but also to concretely experience the transnationalization of Tamil Hinduism, which feeds the diffusion of the feeling of belonging to a transnational Tamil community, in host countries as well as in homelands.

Conclusion

The joint consideration of Hindu Tamils from India and Sri Lanka shows that it seems appropriate to speak of a global Hindu Tamil diaspora, given the geographical scope of Tamil emigration and the transnational socio-religious links that have been forged between dispersed communities and individuals. However, it should be kept in mind that all Hindu emigrants of Tamil origin are far from being a homogeneous community, as they are marked by class, caste, or regional differences. As Parekh, Singh, and Vertovec (2003) have pointed out concerning the Indian diaspora, the great diversity of the Tamil diaspora makes it very difficult to generalize. And despite the gradual diffusion of the expression ‘Tamil diaspora’, especially among scholars and the Tamil cosmopolitan elite, and following the transnational trauma of the Sri Lankan war, there are still many people of Tamil origin who have no connection with other Tamils living in a country other than their own, or who do not consider themselves to be part of a diaspora or a transnational Tamil community, especially among the descendants of immigrants.

However, refusing to use the term ‘diaspora’ in relation to overseas Hindu Tamils risks not only ignoring all the Tamils who do use it, but also failing to understand the transnational logic at work in the permanent fabric of Tamil Hinduism. Tamil Hinduism can obviously no longer be considered as being limited to South India and to the north and east of Sri Lanka, since it is increasingly linked to devotees and ritual actors scattered and circulating all over the world. A transnational Tamil Hinduism is being constructed, as Tamil temples multiply throughout the world, as their construction and functioning mobilize transnational networks and actors, and as ritual practices become transnationalized, as shown by pilgrimages to South India carried out from the countries of settlement of the diaspora. The diasporization of Tamil Hindu communities as well as the transnationalization of Tamil Hinduism have effects in homelands too, where Hindu Tamils are increasingly encouraged to rethink their ethno-linguistic community and their religion in transnational and globalized terms.

The other argument in favour of recognizing a global Hindu Tamil diaspora is that it is around Tamil Hinduism that Tamil émigrés and their descendants gather the most, regardless of their regional origin, their caste, or their social class. Indeed, much more than the Tamil language, which is not spoken by all overseas Tamils, it is Tamil Hindu religiosity, through its popular or more āgamic/Brahmanical forms, that best unites overseas Tamil Hindus (especially vis-à-vis Hindus who are not of Tamil origin). This is true locally, in temples and processions, but also transnationally, when local communities seek help, workforce, or expertise from the country of origin or from other diaspora communities to establish and run their temples, which feeds the sense of belonging to an imagined transnational community. Thus, what makes the Hindu Tamil diaspora global is not only its global reach but also the transnational connexity of an increasingly shared and linked Tamil Hinduism.³²

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¹ From the Tamil word kūli, ‘salary’. By extension, ‘coolie’ became the colonial name given to bonded labourers of Indian (or Chinese) origin.

² Nevertheless, middlemen or agents (kangani) played a major role in the recruitment and transportation of labour for both recruitment systems (Carter 1995).

³ From the Tamil word kaṅkāṇi, ‘team leader’ or ‘foreman’.

⁴ Moreover, as Darini Rajasingham-Senanayake pointed out, ‘[W]hile many indentured labour immigrants had signed an agreement known as girmitiya, that provided limited safeguards to perform contract labor for three to five years in plantations owned and operated by the British Raj, […] the kangani along with the maistry system, were contrived to circumvent laws of the Governenment of India and Madras, which did not permit indentured labour to some colonies’ (Rajasingham-Senanayake 2020: 74).

⁵ Sundar Pichai, the current CEO of Google, is a native of Chennai.

⁶ Very few governments count the number of Tamils in their national populations. In the few cases where Tamils are counted, no distinction is made as to their country of origin. The governments of Australia, Canada, Norway, and Switzerland are exceptions and have attempted to count and distinguish Tamils from India and Sri Lanka (ICG 2010).

⁷ https://tamilnation.org/diaspora/index.htm/.

⁸ Which is sometimes more of a newly promoted project than a widespread heritage (see for instance Benoist 1998, Das 2016, Lang 2021, Murugayan 2003, Trouillet 2014).

⁹ This ‘Tamil Renaissance’ (or Revival) also developed in Jaffna in the nineteenth century, triggered by Arumuka Navalar (1822–1879).

¹⁰ A school of thought indigenous to Tamil Nadu which propounds a salvation embedded in a dualistic philosophy, the goal being to become an enlightened soul through Śiva’s grace.

¹¹ Texts prescribing ritual in Śaiva temples.

¹² See Clothey 1978 and Trouillet 2010.

¹³ Such returns are also very difficult for overseas Sri Lankan Tamils whose kindred attachment to a specific locality and temple is as strong and ritually institutionalized as for Indian Tamils.

¹⁴ www.thenseide.com/ulagathamizhar-eng/varalaru.htm/.

¹⁵ www.tamilvu.org/coresite/html/cwintrodu.htm/.

¹⁶ www.tamilnadunri.com.

¹⁷ Anouck Carsignol (2011) noticed the same phenomenon among the Indian diaspora.

¹⁸ As Chris Fuller has well explained, ‘[P]opular Hinduism can be distinguished from “textual Hinduism”, the “philosophical” religion set out and elaborated in the sacred texts’ (Fuller 2004 [1992]: 5).

¹⁹ For example, in colonial immigration spaces, like Mauritius or La Réunion, many ancient Tamil temples built in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries in a non-āgamic architecture are currently replaced with new ones that conform to Tamil architectural treatises (Lang 2021, Trouillet 2014).

²⁰ The first one was in charge of planning the temple structure, of getting the work started, and then of the ‘sod turning’ (ground-breaking) ceremonies. The second one supervised the construction of the building.

²¹ Source: Saiva Mission du Quebec (2006) Thirumurugan temple. En souvenir de la consécration. Montréal.

²² Personal interview, May 2014, Toronto.

²³ Pseudonym.

²⁴ Personal interview, May 2014, Toronto.

²⁵ Personal interview, February 2013, Mauritius.

²⁶ But many temples in these countries are named after famous Indian or Sri Lankan temples, like Madurai or Palani, with which the founders have no social ties. In these cases, reusing the name of a famous temple depends rather on a strategy to maintain a collective memory of the original places and to gather as many devotees as possible. This logic of temples’ replication is also frequent in India.

²⁷ Personal interview, May 2014, Toronto.

²⁸ Source: Hindu Temple Society of Canada (2012), Punarudharana Maha Kumbabishekam Souvenir, Richmond Hill, Ontario.

²⁹ The ‘Six Abodes’ Complex.

³⁰ Personal interview with the temple treasurer, May 2007, Chennai.

³¹ For more information on this temple and its founder, see http://murugan.org/temples/arupadai.htm/, and also Punzo-Waghorne 2004 (171–95; 239) and Trouillet (2010: 300–4).

³² Acknowledgement: I thank Mathieu Claveyrolas for his valuable feedback on the draft of this chapter.

11

The Global Gujarati Hindu Diasporas

Inês Lourenço

Introduction

The Gujarati Hindu diasporas are spread across various countries of the world.¹ In all the continents various Hindu communities have settled and there they have developed specific strategies of adaptation and, at the same time, of identity reproduction. Hindus, Muslims, Jains, and Christians have left Gujarat. Most Hindu communities follow predominantly Vaiṣṇava religious traditions, but these are not exclusive and overlap with other religious traditions and other deities. In this chapter, we will focus on the various religious expressions of the Hindu Gujarati communities in the diaspora, in their various aspects.

There are different migration patterns that have influenced the departure of population groups from the Indian subcontinent. As Oonk states, each of the main streams of South Asian migration has its specific backgrounds, characteristics, and conditions (Oonk 2007: 10). The earliest form of migration was led by the merchants who left the coastal areas of India, particularly Gujarat, to do business with East Asia, East Africa, and Central Asia since pre-colonial times. These migration flows were mostly temporary and circular, that is, it did not involve settlement abroad until the nineteenth century.

The second moment of departure from India was following indentured labour that replaced slave labour and pushed many Indians into plantation economies. They eventually settled abroad and remained there for generations. The third period of migratory impulse occurred post-World War II and post-Indian independence, and generated large movements across the borders of the newly created nations (mainly between India and Pakistan) and the departure of highly educated professionals to the UK, US, and Canada. The post-war period marked the fourth pattern, that of the twice-migrants, that is, those who experienced a second—or third—migratory project, either from contexts of indentured labour or following the independence of European colonies in Africa, from where South Asian communities were expelled and re-established themselves in other countries.

Gujaratis played decisive roles in the various migratory periods and were even one of the pioneer groups in the crossing of the Indian Ocean, for whom, from early on, mercantile activity and the resulting migration was a way of life (Mawani and Mukadam 2012: xxii). Indeed, before the arrival of European colonizers, already the state of Gujarat had extensive overseas trading networks, in the form of exchange, trade, and capitalism (Pearson 2003, Poros 2010: 31). Gujaratis have a central presence in the history of migration from an area that was shaped by economic and trade relations that influenced the creation of networks of contacts and social ties that became instrumental in the creation of migration networks, such as to the United Kingdom and the United States of America (Poros 2010: 180). However, not all the groups that left Gujarat to settle in other countries belonged to castes traditionally engaged in trade. Merchant ideologies also extended to other social groups in Gujarat, such as the landowning peasants (Patidar) who, like the merchant castes, had resources and social networks that allowed them to migrate.

The long tradition of trade and commerce in Gujarat has driven the creation of long-distance contemporary diasporas from early on. But it was under the European colonial project that many families left Gujarat and settled in some countries for up to six generations, in the case of East Africa, or are recent arrivals, such as in the Gulf (Oonk 2007: 10). With the creation of the British Empire, Indians were used as a workforce in the various colonies spread across the world, serving the colonial project: Fiji, Mauritius, Guyana, Trinidad, Suriname, South Africa, East Africa (Kenya, Uganda, Tanzania, Madagascar), and also to a lesser extent, under the Portuguese colonial project, having settled mainly in the colony of Mozambique. Hired as indentured labourers by the British and Portuguese governments, many Gujaratis worked in the construction of forts and railways. Unlike indentured labourers hired to work on the plantations, Gujaratis were hired as labourers or engineers or, for the most part, set up businesses, particularly in East Africa, maintaining a constant flow of migration between the East African coast and the subcontinent. During the European empires, they settled in Africa over generations, maintaining family, cultural, and religious ties with the state of Gujarat. During this period, Hindus, Muslims, Jains, and Christians from the British and Portuguese enclaves in Gujarat were divided into religious communities, while sharing a collective Gujarati identity (Shah 2012: 2).

The decolonization processes in Africa forced the exodus of entire families to other countries. Most of these twice migrants (Bhachu 1985) were expelled and settled in large groups either in the metropolises of the former colonial powers or in other countries such as the United States or Canada and Australia. The largest group of East African Gujaratis settled in the UK, usually in large families, through their extended family contacts, where they adapted with great success, either by developing small businesses or investing in the education of younger generations (Mattausch 2012: 37), and built hundreds of mandirs (Hindu temples) and established caste associations, expanding their cultural investment, although keeping their cultural expression private (Mattausch 2012: 37). In Europe, Portugal was the destination of the great majority of Gujaratis from Mozambique, who used identical strategies, based on family contacts and on the colonial historical background to settle in large groups, spatially concentrated, and organized in religious communities (Bastos 1990, Bastos and Bastos 2001).

Others used the social ties set up with people residing in other countries with which they had no colonial connections, establishing new relations with other nation-states in the international system, as is the case in the United States, which invested in immigrants with higher education, promoting social networks for Indians with higher education (medicine, engineering, management), many of them belonging to Gujarati merchant castes. The first major Gujarati migration to the US occurred at the turn of the twentieth century, but intensified after the 1965 reforms to US immigration laws, and in 2000, the Gujarati population in the US was 150,000 (Agarwala 2011). From 1970 onwards, the Patel (a farming caste from Gujarat) distinguished themselves from other Indian immigrant groups by building small businesses and becoming employers themselves, entering the US hotel industry, and are now owners and managers of a large proportion of the motels in the US (Assar 2000).

Gujaratis who had settled in Fiji through the processes of employment as indentured labourers on plantations saw their situation deteriorate after the country’s independence in 1970, when racial tensions emerged and made it very difficult to continue living in the country where the parents of the younger generation had invested in education (Khan et al. 2005) and triggered a new migration flow of these mostly Gujarati Hindus towards New Zealand.

Caste identity has remained significant for many generations of Gujaratis in the diasporas. Although with reformatted and re-evaluated meanings, their places in the social hierarchy have been transferred to their settlement locations. As pointed out by Kumar: ‘The Gujarati linguistic community largely remained a homogenous group on the basis of language notwithstanding the many caste and subcaste divisions that are still noticeable among them’ (Kumar 2012: 217). In many cases, caste identity is maintained through marriage to partners, mostly women, from India, who thus revitalize the system along their migratory journeys (Kumar 2012: 222) up to the present day (Asawari 2017).

The Patidar, or Patel, are effectively the most representative caste of Gujaratis in the diasporas. This caste, who has traditionally owned and worked on their own land in Gujarat, have set up caste organizations (samāj) ‘wherever they have settled to help their own community adapt without losing their traditions’ (Ramji 2006: 708). The Patel surname is indicative of their size in the overall Gujarati migration, as well as of their regulating role of the Gujarati migratory routes (Shukla 2003), using, over time, kin and caste networks to expand the business and patronize several other Gujaratis (Leckie 1998: 170).

Certain religious traditions are associated with particular castes. This is the case with membership of the Svāminārāyaṇa or Puṣṭimārg traditions by merchant castes, the majority of whom are followers of the Vaiṣṇava tradition. However, other castes, particularly service castes, carry with them from Gujarat other dimensions of Hinduism, such as Śiva or Durgā worship, which complexifies the diasporic Gujarati identity. In many diaspora contexts, the various dimensions of Hinduism are present in generalist temples, and this diversity is lived out daily together and in accordance with the Hindu calendar by the members of the overall Gujarati community, not without some tensions (Trovão-Bastos 2005).

Gujarati Hinduism in Diasporas: The Larger Picture

In all the societies where they have settled, Gujarati communities have also established places of worship, and cultural associations, investing in maintaining the family, and the cultural and religious traditions of their state of origin. We will thereafter focus on the reproduction of religious and cultural practices of the overseas Gujarati Hindu communities.

Gujaratis overseas are mostly Vaiṣṇava, followers of bhakti (devotional path), joining movements with regional roots, associated with Gujarat, the case of Svāminārāyaṇa being the most emblematic. This began as a small reformist movement of Hinduism in Gujarat in the early nineteenth century, growing particularly in the last quarter of the twentieth century (Williams 2001: 1) and spread from Gujarat to the rest of India, and also to the settlement contexts of Gujarati communities around the world, with particular emphasis on East Africa, Great Britain, and the United States. As the Gujarati Hindu communities settled in these countries, they soon built Svāminārāyaṇa temples and associations, and Svāminārāyaṇa Hinduism became expressive and representative of these communities in the diaspora. This movement founded by Sahajanand (1781–1830), combined devotionalism, puritanical ethical perceptions, and severe criticism of animal sacrifice, and other customs considered objectionable like female infanticide and immolation of widows (Fuller 2004: 171), and emerged at a time of great social and political change in India. Sahajānanda Svāmi became Svāminārāyaṇa and attained the status of divine manifestation, becoming ‘the last of the medieval saints and the first of the modern sadhus of neo-Hinduism’ (Williams 2001: 2). Svāminārāyaṇa Hinduism is seen in contemporary times as a ‘modern, ethnically based and, transnational form of Hinduism’ (Williams 2001: 4).

Svāminārāyaṇa was the first religious movement to establish connections between India and the diaspora, starting with communities established in East Africa, where it began to set up centres for congregational worship with organizational principles similar to those followed in Gujarat, but more simplified, that is, only consisting of priests and lay people (Dwyer 2004: 192). According to Dwyer, this practice was almost exclusive to Gujaratis in Africa and it contributed significantly to the strengthening of Gujarati cultural elements, perpetuating the language, religion, and cultural references such as dress and gastronomy.

Following the policies of Africanization in the 1960s, some Gujaratis returned to India, where they sponsored the building of Svāminārāyaṇa temples, but the vast majority re-migrated to the UK, where they triggered the process of temple-building, which included one of the largest Hindu temples in the world outside India, the Svāminārāyaṇa temple in Neasden, London. The movement has developed from the arrival of the East African Gujaratis in the 1960s and 1970s and become a dominant form of British Hinduism, both for Hindu communities and in the eyes of wider British society (Dwyer 2004: 180).

As far as mainland Europe is concerned, the presence of Gujarati communities is much smaller than in Britain. Portugal has the largest Gujarati community in mainland Europe. Of the approximately 70,000 people of Indian origin, 33,000 are Hindus, and the overwhelming majority are Gujarati. This presence relates to the colonial links to the former state of Portuguese India (of which Daman and Diu are geographically part of Gujarat) and the former colonies in Africa, particularly Mozambique, from where the vast majority of Gujarati Hindus re-migrated to Portugal after the declaration of Independence. The Svāminārāyaṇa Temple inaugurated in 2014 replaced the previous building that for many years hosted the movement in central Lisbon. According to Williams and Shah, around 150 devotees congregate weekly, reaching up to 500 during major festivities (Williams and Shah 2020: 414). Although in smaller numbers, the movement is present in several European countries: Belgium, France, Italy, Austria, Germany, and Spain. Recently, new sabhas have started in Denmark, the Czech Republic, and Poland (Williams and Shah 2020). According to the authors, the personal and group preservation of Svāminārāyaṇa Hindus in Europe is ensured by three ancient and modern forms of religious transmission: home shrine, pilgrimage, and electronic social media (Williams and Shah 2020: 418). Put together, they convey a common identity that makes Svāminārāyaṇa Hinduism one of the most visible and respected forms of Hinduism in the United Kingdom and growing in continental Europe (Williams and Shah 2020: 420).

In fact, belonging to the movement supported the processes of adaptation to the host countries, functioning as a ‘binding force in preserving their culture and ethnical identity around the globe’ (Naz 2007: 132). Defined as ‘a Gujarati form of Vaishnavism’ and ‘the religion of Gujaratis’ when outside Gujarat by Raymond Williams (1988: 158), the Svāminārāyaṇa movement ‘is embedded in Gujarati culture and identity’ (Naz 2007: 133), and has been an agent for preserving ethnic, linguistic, and regional identity ties around the globe (Naz 2007: 134). This global Gujarati Hindu identity is highly visible through temple construction worldwide: North America, Africa, Asia Pacific, and the Middle East. This building of hundreds of Svāminārāyaṇa temples and satsaṅg centres throughout the world confirms the global presence and cultural and religious activity of Gujarati Hindus.

In the United States, following the immigration laws in 1965, new Indian residents began to settle, mostly from Gujarat, among whom were members of the BAPS organization who built the first Svāminārāyaṇa temple in a private house in 1971 (Melton 2020: 101), leading to the construction of new temples as the Indian American community grew in the country. Temple construction may indicate specific strategies to adapt to the laws of particular countries of settlement. The analysis of the process of building a Svāminārāyaṇa temple in Sydney (Bugg 2013) demonstrates the strategies triggered by members of the movement to legitimize their belonging to the host context and struggle for equality vis à vis other religious associations, with Svāminārāyaṇa associations assuming a mediating and negotiating role in claiming for religious equality rights.

Other Vaiṣṇava traditions remain alive among the Gujarati Hindu devotees in the diaspora. Such is the case of the movement founded by Vallabhācārya (1479–1531), Puṣṭimārg, the ‘path of Grace’. The followers of this movement are expected to devote themselves exclusively to the worship of Viṣṇu, particularly in his manifestations as Śrīnāth. Although some devotees follow this philosophy exclusively, in Portugal the majority of them take part in religious activities that are more comprehensive in their diversity, as a 62-year-old female interlocutor explains: ‘Being Vaishnava and Pushtimargi does not imply believing only in Krishna. The other gods are also part of my religion: Shiva, Mataji…I am Hindu above all’ (Lourenço 2009: 107).

Many of the Vaiṣṇava movements celebrate the love of Kṛṣṇa and Rādhā, and this is also the model for the devotee to follow for his or her relationship with the deity. The worship of Kṛṣṇa during his childhood and youth (as Bālagopāla and Bālakṛṣṇa) is particularly important for followers of Vallabhācārya, to whom bhakti is a form of loving devotion, comparable to that between a son and a mother or between a man and a woman, popularized by Rādhā’s devotion to Kṛṣṇa. The image of united lovers is the metaphor for a perfect encounter with divinity. Pocock has also associated the word ‘enthusiasm’ with the notion of bhakti, in addition to its character of fervent love (Pocock 1973: 100), this being expressed through the chants (bhajan, kīrtan) and hymns (stotras) recited, the music and the dance, which characterize this type of devotion.

The choice of the childhood of the gods also reveals the divine capacity to play. The gods are worshipped as children, and it is frequent to see the images of Kṛṣṇa or Rāma placed in a cradle or swing. Apart from childhood, motherhood is also celebrated in the figure of the mothers of the gods and also in the worship of the Mother Goddess. Kṛṣṇa’s mischiefs exemplify the god’s humour and playfulness. Thus, playing with the deity, singing, and dancing as a mode of celebration, is the preferred form of expression of devotion (Michaels 2005: 258).

Bhakti emerged in southern India in the seventh century and spread to northern India from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries onwards. It also promoted the rejection of caste privilege, and of Brahmanical domination that promotes the exclusion of women and the socially disadvantaged, offering an opportunity to diminish the social and gender stigmas of the most marginalized. In the diaspora, contemporary ideologies circulating through these movements promote a universal and pan-Indian Hinduism, aiming to eliminate the social differences of Hindus and enhance their national unity.² Bhakti should therefore not be seen only as a form of religiosity, but also as a vehicle for social and political transformation, the outcome of various influences—of which Islam is an example—capable of reducing differences and unifying individuals.

Vaiṣṇavism provides predominantly the idiom for what seems to be a special area of Gujarat social life, a section in which universalist values can be expressed through bhajan, and individualistic values asserted through bhakti: ‘Instead of obliging us to see […] purity and impurity, Brahman and Untouchable, linked by symbiosis which makes this life meaningful, this language speaks of an equality brought about by each individual’s dedication to a single lord’ (Pocock 1973: 107). However, despite the impact of reform movements on Gujarat’s religiosity, and the Vaiṣṇava tradition rooted in Gujarat and diffused by Gujaratis transnationally, these coexist with religious practices from the Śaiva and Śākta universes. Take, for example, the relevance of Navrātri among diasporic Gujarati communities (Bastos and Bastos 2001, David 2014, Lourenço 2009, Parmar 2013, Ramji 2006), that highlights the weight of the devotion to the Mother Goddess—Matājī—in Gujarat.³

Transversal to all Gujarat is the worship of popular divine figures from Gujarat. This is the case of Jalārām Bāpā. Martin Wood has referred, regarding the religious practices of Gujarati Hindus in the UK, to the prevalence of vernacular regional traditions alongside theologized Hindu practices and beliefs (Wood 2010). The author demonstrates, through an analysis of the worship of Jalārām Bāpā in Britain, that regional vernacular traditions are very active in the everyday practice and belief of Gujarati Hindus in the diaspora. Following the proposal of Geaves (2007), to focus on ‘the kismetic dimension’ of Indian traditions in a diaspora context which had been neglected by scholars (Geaves 2007: 6), Wood highlighted the importance of the Śaiva traditions in the Gujarati diasporas (Wood 2010: 238–9). In the Portuguese Hindu context, since the beginning of the academic studies on Hindu Gujarati populations, great emphasis has been given to the overlap of Śaiva and Vaiṣṇava traditions, while highlighting regionally rooted vernacular practices (Bastos 1990, Bastos and Bastos 2001, Lourenço 2009, Matias 2015, Roxo 2018). However, these living and dynamic practices among the Gujarati diasporas have also been overlooked by scholars who have emphasized ecumenical, theologized, and preponderantly Vaiṣṇava and bhakti-centric Hinduism.

Vertovec (2000) claimed that a type of ecumenical Hinduism dominated in the diaspora, associated with a distinction between official and popular practices, in which the first superseded the latter, relegating the latter to a secondary role distinct from the former. However, empirical research has shown that both are part of the religious practices of Gujarati Hindus in the diaspora. My research among Hindu Gujarati communities in Portugal and accompanying some of their families to their contexts of origin in India, corroborates the centrality of the figure of Jalārām Bāpā, his teachings and miracles that Wood refers to in relation to British Gujarati Hindus (Wood 2018, 2010). One of the obligatory waypoints on a pilgrimage in Gujarat is the temple dedicated to Jalārām Bāpā in Virpur. According to my interlocutors, Hindu devotees, mainly Gujaratis from various countries, travel to Virpur to visit the birthplace of this saint from the Lohana caste and the temple that has been built in his honour at that location. The locals believe they feel the presence of Jalārām, and those who visit the place do so in the expectation of experiencing this feeling. The Jalārām Temple is built on the spot where the holy man is said to have died, with the samādhi (mausoleum) placed at the feet of the god Rāma, and the entrance to the temple is located on the left side, opposite this monument consisting of the footprints of Jalārām protected by a showcase (Lourenço 2009: 146). In Portugal, in the temples located in the Greater Lisbon area, the day of Jalārām’s birth, the seventh day of the first fortnight (sudsatham) of the month of Kārtik, is marked with a special satsaṅg in his honour, with songs and hymns of veneration to Rāma, Sītā, and Hanumān, the deities favoured by the saint throughout his life of service and penance. A collective meal is shared by the participants as a form of mahāprasād. The Śiva temple also celebrates Jalārām Bāpā monthly, on the last Thursday of every month, with satsaṅg, bhajan, kīrtan, ārtī, and mahāprasād. Jalārām worship, though particularly celebrated by devotees of the Lohana caste, cuts across Śaiva devotees. Similarly, Wood reports that vernacular traditions in the Gujarati diaspora remain strong and publicly visible. The ethnographic studies conducted by Woods among devotees attending temples dedicated to Jalārām Bāpā centres around the significance of miraculous events in the lives of Gujarati Hindus in the UK, and how devotees publicly promote their faith, maintaining vernacular traditions associated with regional characteristics ‘while still interacting comfortably with more representative and rationalized traditions’ (Wood 2010: 253).

Alongside the representative versions in the literature on Hindu traditions in the diaspora, there are other vernacular traditions, expressed in practices such as the evil eye (najar) or food practices (Dwivedi 2010: 174, Spiro 2005, Wood 2010, 2010a). Wood proposes, instead of a dichotomy between representative and vernacular versions, or more simply, between official and popular Hinduism, the idea that both universes overlap. Suggesting an inclusive approach, the author demonstrates through the ethnographic approach of the evil eye (najar) and food consumption in the diaspora, the existence of a ‘symbiotic and dynamic relationship between the official and the popular’ (Wood 2010a: 1). This coexistence has remained invisible by the reinforcement of the idea that contemporary Hinduism is characterized by processes of rationalization and secularization, evidenced in the diaspora (Vertovec 2000), reinforced by an academic perspective that has neglected the popular in favour of the official, resulting in an incomplete portrait of everyday Hinduism (Wood 2010: 3).

Ethnographic observation of everyday practices, however, gives a very different perception. It was always very clear that many of my interlocutors have an everyday concern with supernatural forces such as spirits or the evil eye. Throughout my ethnographic research among Hindu Gujarati women in Portugal, concerns about the health of children, pregnant women, or young mothers were very much present, connected to the danger of being the target of the evil eye. This is deeply linked to feelings of envy, as can be seen in the stories of the mother who had a very beautiful son and who suffered from najar on the part of a young woman who could not get pregnant, for instance. The same has been reported by the pioneers in the study of Portuguese Gujarati Hinduism (Bastos 1990, Bastos and Bastos 2001). As Spiro has shown, it is common among Gujarati Hindu families in the diaspora to protect their children with black threads tied to their wrists, ankles, or necklaces with amulets, as well as black marks of khol around the child’s eyes (Spiro 2005: 64).

In the same way, the belief in spiritual beings, like bhūts (ghosts) or other spirits, influences the daily life of Portuguese Gujarati Hindus, determining the hours of the day when they should or should not circulate outside (it is believed that during the twilight certain malevolent spirits flow) or when a relative dies, in the concern that his soul be released from this world and not torment his living relatives. For this reason, the deceased’s favourite foods are offered during the period when it is believed that his soul is still among the living, that is, twelve days. Should the soul of the ancestor fail to free itself, its spirit will remain to torment its relatives, becoming a bhūt. An unexpected death or unfulfilled obligations or desires can result in ghost activity, and these situations can result in the evil eye (Pocock: 197: 36 in Spiro 2005). According to Spiro, the belief in ghosts ‘is an integral part of Hindu ideas of the soul and the condition of the soul as a result of its activities in life, or the person’s karma’ (Spiro: 2005: 70).

Just as Spiro found the centrality of these supernatural manifestations in the everyday life of Gujarati Hindus in Britain, so Wood analyses the relevance of najar among Gujarati Hindu communities in Britain and New Zealand, demonstrating how these integrate everyday lived religion, which the author defines as vernacular, that is, ‘how religion is lived and how it is encountered, understood, interpreted and practiced on a day to day basis’ (Wood 2010a: 5). Apart from and alongside the theological and liturgical Hinduism (Wood 2010a: 5) these visions and practices are alive in people’s everyday lives, in the way they express them through words or behaviours. Wood was able to demonstrate through ethnographic research in Britain and New Zealand that vernacular Hinduism interacts constantly with representative Hinduism and that, in many cases, the two do not exclude each other, but overlap.

Despite the little documentation of najar among the Gujarati Hindu diasporas, it is quite dominant in the everyday practice of Hinduism. As Wood states, ‘[I]n Gujarat najar is intimately connected with food’ (2010a: 8) and, as such, the analysis of the phenomenon of najar in conjunction with food is quite pertinent. Ethnographic evidence demonstrates how food can be affected by the evil eye and in turn affect those who consume it or, on the other hand, what foods can be used to remove or prevent the effects of najar. My ethnographic observations among Portuguese Gujarati Hindu families, back in their home villages has made very obvious the need for protection of food and the kitchen, the space par excellence for food preparation, which is meant to be protected from evil eyes, either through pot lids or the kitchen door.

These ethnographic materials evidence that diasporic Gujarati Hinduism is not only distinguished by representative and institutionalized versions of rationalized and secular Hinduism, but also by central elements of Gujarati culture such as food-related beliefs and practices. These elements make it evident that ‘the promoted and rationalised, homogeneous and ecumenical representation of Hinduism in this context is merely a part of the larger picture’ (Wood 2010a: 17).⁴

Reproducing Gujarati Hinduism: Religion and Gender

As we have seen, in the diaspora, the circulation dynamics, where spirits, migrants, and markets are included (Huwelmeier and Krause 2009), supernatural forces also travel. However, the fact that, whenever possible, the ashes of the deceased family members or the hair from children`s first cut, are kept to be poured into the watercourses in the places of genealogical origin in India, shows the homeland’s greater sacredness, when compared to the countries of establishment. Nonetheless, when maintaining physical contact with the places of origin is not possible, adaptations are made, such as the use of the Tagus River or the Portuguese seacoast, which are now considered to be affluent in the sacred waters of the Gaṅgā. These adaptations of Hindu practice to the new conditions, leads not only to new ways of practising religion, but also to new social and gender concepts, depending on the specificities of the places of establishment.

Several authors refer to the relevance of religion to migrant populations (Baumann 2009, Bonifacio and Angeles 2010, Gallo 2014, Huwelmeier and Kraus 2009, Levitt 2003, Ryan and Vacchelli 2013), and all agree on the double potential of religion in the lives of migrants: if, on the one hand, it fosters the creation of social networks and feelings of belonging, on the other, the processes of religious place-making can contribute to the integration of migrants in societies of destiny.

Gujarati Hindus in Portugal have adopted Mother Mary (as Fatima) as a mūrti in the Hindu domestic shrines, being daily worshipped, along with Hindu deities. The same is true in the homes of its main transnational contacts, in India (Gujarat), Mozambique, and in the United Kingdom. For many Hindu devotees connected to Portugal, Fatima is a mother goddess; she is loving, benevolent and fulfils her children’s requests. So, in addition to the daily worship and the individual promises and requests, many Hindu Portuguese families go at least once a year to the Sanctuary in Fatima (about 120 km north of Lisbon), both in pilgrimages in large groups or in family groups. When they are visited by family members or guests from other countries, it is almost mandatory to take them to the Sanctuary.

Empirical studies (Cachado and Lourenço 2020, Lourenço and Cachado 2018) show that the devotees, Catholics and Hindus, ask Fatima directly, as a divine mother, to fulfil their requests, as one of the Śiva temple’s pujārīs summarizes it: ‘Near Fatima, we pray. Our prayers are always rewarded. That is why I appeal to all […]to pray with Great faith to Fatima to be rewarded’ (6 July 2017). The closeness between the devotion to Fatima in popular Catholicism to the worship of the Mother Goddess in popular Hinduism, is revealed, therefore, in the synthesis between Fatima and the Hindu mother goddess. In fact, Fatima is considered one of the matājīs: she is a loving mother who brings a message of peace and affection, she who attends the devotees in a sacred place from where protection, healing, and salvation is awarded.

The globalization of religion leads to the transformation, reinforcement, or reinvention of practices when transferred to new places, producing hybrid forms of religious practice (Huwelmeier and Kraus 2009: 4). It was within the scope of a process of institutionalization that many Gujarati communities worldwide developed identity adjustments through the transformation of gender roles. Globalization processes highlight the “transformative quality of religion” (Bonifacio and Angeles 2010: 4), particularly with regard to gender roles, making it possible to challenge traditional gender structures and, simultaneously, actively participate in various arenas of the host society.

Several authors have referred to the centrality of women in the processes of cultural reproduction of their own communities (Dhruvarajan 1999, Hole 2001, Knott 1986, 2000, Pearson 2001, Rayaprol 1995, 1997, 2001, 2005). However, little information exists on women belonging to the Gujarati Hindu communities in diaspora. As previously analysed (Lourenço 2010, 2011), Portuguese Hindu women have developed authority in religious activities that has allowed them to negotiate their own gender status, challenging the centrality of male roles of leadership and sacred power, while simultaneously transmitting contradictory gender patterns. Women from the Hindu community living in the Greater Lisbon area developed spheres of power, which allowed them to enjoy a particular status within the scope of Hinduism within their community: organizers of religious events (satsaṅg group), messengers of the goddesses, and priestesses. This phenomenon was due to the lack of temple priests for a long period, whose absence led older women to fill this gap. Until the presence of a fixed priest, religious activities were continuously carried out by women. This exclusivity had in fact begun in Mozambique, where the majority of these women had lived as part of their migratory journey. With the establishment in Portugal, men maintained their occupation of traders, leaving daily time and space free for women, who occupied it with religious activities. In this situation, three predominant groups of women stood out: the women who, as bearers of extensive traditional knowledge led the rituals and organized religious events in which they actively participated, both in the temple and at home; those who embodied the goddesses through ritual possession, and finally, Brahain widows who inherited from their husbands the knowledge to perform rituals, traditionally exclusive to male priests.

Kalpana Hiralal (2013) has shown how Hindu Gujarati women in Natal challenge traditional gender roles, negotiating new roles for themselves within the domestic space and the family economy. However, a case that is presented by Bugg (2014), regarding migrant Gujarati women in Sydney, Australia, shows stronger similarities to the Portuguese situation. The author analyses how women negotiate their belonging to the local Svāminārāyaṇa temple and how, from this place, they contest and claim doctrinal and cultural authority. In the same way as the Portuguese Gujarati women, they create, negotiate, and re-articulate identities in the particular space of the satsaṅg, or religious community (Bugg 2014: 1935). In the same way as in Portugal, it was institutional precariousness, such as the absence of a space of their own, of facilities, and particularly the absence of temple priests, that allowed women to develop exclusive spaces for themselves, where they “can do everything by themselves” and in an equitable way (Bugg 2014: 1939). Interestingly, in both cases, women completely dominate the kitchen space, preparing the food and taking full control of an activity that is traditionally performed by Brahman men. Similarly, in both, though in different ways, women assume leadership roles, taking on the priestly role. The space of the satsaṅg thus becomes, as Buggs puts it: ‘a space in which these migrant women negotiate, adjust and forge new and hybrid identities as transnational religious subjects’ (Bugg 2014: 1,950).

Concluding Remarks

This chapter has aimed to reflect on the main characteristics of the global Hindu Gujarati diasporas. The aim was to demonstrate that, beyond the prevalence of Vaiṣṇava and the weight of movements promoting a theologized Hinduism, in its religious traditions, the migrant Gujaratis have carried with them along their multiple journeys, the diversity of practices and beliefs that, in many cases, coexist and overlap with each other. This diversity also reflects the variety of social groups—castes—that make up these diasporas. Although commercial activity is dominant among the Gujaratis in the diaspora, not all the castes that migrated from Gujarat were merchants, but adapted to commercial activity over their periods of overseas settlement. In the same way, many families have been leaving their professional tradition and investing in the education of their young people.

The transformations resulting from their paths and settlement patterns in the host countries also led to innovative religious adaptations, such as the adoption of Our Lady of Fatima by Portuguese Hindus and evidence of their transnational contacts. Throughout the process of religious adaptation, gender patterns are also transformed. To think about religion in the Hindu Gujarati diaspora necessarily implies reflecting about the centrality of women in its maintenance and reproduction. In these processes gender patterns are also transformed and new ways of practising religion emerge.

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Inês Lourenço, The Global Gujarati Hindu Diasporas In: Hindu Diasporas. Edited by: Knut A. Jacobsen, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198867692.003.0012

¹ This chapter was funded by FCT, under the strategic plan of CRIA, Centre for Research in Anthropology (UID/04038/2020).

² This changing Hinduism has been called ‘new Hinduism’ (Eck 2000), ‘American Hinduism’ (Eck 2000, Kurien 1998), ‘British Hinduism’ (Knott 1986: 58) or ‘ecumenical Hinduism’ (Williams 1996: 238).

³ Navrātri is a festival in honour of the various manifestations of the Mother Goddess—Mahādevī—celebrated at harvest time and consisting of nine nights of traditional dances. It takes place twice a year, in the months of Chaitra and Aso, corresponding respectively to the beginning of spring and autumn.

⁴ Other examples could be given, such as the maintenance of kuldevī—lineage goddesses—worship by Gujarati families in the diasporas.

12

Śākta (Goddess) Worship in the Hindu Diasporas

Tracy Pintchman

As Hindus have emigrated from India to all parts of the world especially in modern times, their deities, including Hindu goddesses, have emigrated with them. Martin Baumann observes that a critical feature of Hinduism in diaspora is to balance the need to maintain perceived ‘homeland’ traditions with the need to adapt these traditions to suit the new country of residence; as he states, migrated religion often develops over time into ‘re-constructed and reestablished’ religion (Baumann 2010: 237–8). Such is true also of Hindu goddess, or śākta, devotion in diaspora. Hindus acknowledge and honour a diversity of individual goddesses, but they also tend to speak of ‘The Goddess’, Devī, or ‘The Great Goddess’, Mahādevī, as a single transcendent being. She is on the highest level the source of the universe and Divine Mother who generates all that exists. John S. Hawley notes that many Hindus hold the Goddess to be both singular and multiple without feeling any sense of contradiction; since the Goddess is beyond all limitation, she can assume an infinite number of forms (Hawley 1996: 8). In both Hindu scripture and contemporary Hindu belief, there exists a widespread notion that the Hindu goddess in her manifold forms embodies śakti, divine female power, and that power remains available to devotees all over the world. This chapter will examine the numerous ways that diaspora Hindu śākta traditions from a variety of countries and regions outside of South Asia have been transported, modified, and adapted to new homelands in contemporary times.

Hindu Goddess Temples in Diaspora

South Asian Hindus began emigrating to the United States in increasing numbers after US immigration laws changed in 1965 to become more favourable to Asian immigrants. As they began to take up residence in the United States in greater and greater numbers, South Asian Hindu immigrants also began the process of sacralizing the American landscape by building Hindu temples (e.g. Kurien 2007: 49). Today, the same can be said for Hindus in diaspora in all parts of the world. Baumann (2010) makes note of a shift in Hindu diaspora contexts of the locus of much practised religion from home to temple, with diaspora temples coming to function as multipurpose sites where people assemble for not only public religious rituals, but also the performance of saṃskāras (life-cycle rituals), social gatherings, dance and other kinds of arts performance, and religious and cultural education (see Kumar 2012: 392). Temples often function for diasporic Hindus as an extension of the domestic sphere (David 2010: 3,443), with Narayanan observing that among Hindus in the United States, there is a tendency to blur lines between domestic, community, and temple ritual (Narayanan 1992). Hence, among diaspora Hindus, regular visits to temples, including goddess temples, assume greater meaning than they normally might in India (Baumann 2010: 253).

In the United States, the first Hindu temples dedicated specifically to the Goddess were constructed relatively recently. Joanne Waghorne notes that in many of these temples, the goddesses revered are the ‘highly spiritualized and universalized forms of the great Goddess of India’ (Waghorne 2004: 175). Among the earliest such Hindu temples centred on worship of the Goddess are those built to Śrī Lakṣmī in 1990, near Boston, and another built in 1995, near Houston (Waghorne 2004: 174), with several more constructed in the decades since then. Diana Eck notes that the building of temples is a ‘significant measure’ of the life of Hindu immigrant communities (2000: 223). The idea of constructing the Śrī Lakṣmī Temple near Boston began among a group of Tamil Hindu immigrants who incorporated as a group in 1978 (Eck 2000: 220). For Hindu immigrants, the process of building a temple is ‘simultaneously the process of building a community’ of devotees with common devotional interests (Eck 2000: 221).

A more recent goddess temple dedicated to the Goddess in her universal form is the Śrī Rājarājeśwarī Pīṭham in Rush, New York. This temple is rooted in the śākta theology of Śrī Vidyā, a school of Hindu religious thought that recognizes the Goddess as supreme, ultimate reality that transcends all created forms. Corinne Dempsey has described a variety of ways in which this temple engages in the process of both ‘making home’ for the Goddess in upstate New York as well as ‘breaking convention’ (2006). Vasudha Narayanan notes that Hindu temples in the United States may create a sense of home by sanctifying American places and associating them with Hindu geography (2006: 139). Officiating priests at the temple in Rush participate in such a process by invoking the North American continent in general and the town of Rush and the Śrī Rājarājeśwarī Temple in particular prior to ritual performance (Dempsey 2006: 160). Among the most notable ways that this temple ‘breaks convention’ is the inclusion of women as leaders of rituals that are, in India, most often assigned to male Brahman priests. Dempsey observes that the frequency with which women at this temple perform with great confidence the central role of pujārī during traditional, Sanskritic temple rituals is both unusual and striking (Dempsey 2006: 114).

It seems that Hindu goddess temples in diaspora might be more inclined than Hindu temples in India to grant female devotees and officiants important ritual roles. Pratap Kumar has observed, for example, that in South Africa, some Hindu goddess temples include female priests (2012: 392). Annette Wilke makes note of a temple founded in the 1990s in Denmark, the Apirāmi Temple, that has become famous for the powers of its healing, miracle working, goddess-embodying priestess (2020: 252–3). Eck notes that during the consecration rituals for the Sri Lakṣmī Temple near Boston, a contingent of ‘elderly ladies’ with living children and husbands were worshipped as ‘living embodiments of Lakṣmī’ (Eck 2000: 222). Ann R. David observes that an Adhiparasakthi (Tamil: Āṭiparācakti) Temple in the Om Sakthi lineage in East Ham, a district in the London, England, borough of Newham, allows female devotees to embrace roles as religious specialists and leaders of public Hindu ritual (David 2010: 337). The now global Om Sakthi movement started as a South Indian religious faction in the 1970s in Tamil Nadu and is dedicated to the worship of the Goddess as Adhiparasakthi (‘primary highest śakti’); it explicitly rejects Brahmanical values and embraces both lay officiants and trained women ritual specialists, including widows, as well (Spina 2017: 9–10).

It is unclear, however, how much difference a śākta context actually makes when it comes to diaspora Hindu women’s ability to exercise agency in public religious performance. In many countries where Hindus have settled around the world, both men and women gain increased mobility as they cross national borders. Because public diasporic spaces often blur the boundaries of public and private forms of religious practice, diaspora Hindu women have opportunities to participate in public Hindu ritual in ways outside the home that might not be as available to them in India (David 2010: 343). This often occurs even outside of explicitly śākta contexts. Steven Vertovec observes, for example, that a British Hindu woman known as Mother Shyama helped found an āśram and Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa temple in South London. Vertovec describes Mother Shyama as a Hindu advocate of bhakti, or devotion, whose followers describe her as a living saint (Vertovec 1992: 255–6). And Kim Knott notes that other charismatic Hindu women have also attracted a following in Britain that includes Western as well as Indian Hindu followers (Knott 2000: 100).

The South Indian goddess Māriyammaṉ in her many forms as different ammaṉs, or South Indian village goddesses, takes on special importance in diaspora. Vineeta Sinha observes that Māriyammaṉ’s forays ‘beyond her local, rural, Tamil Nadu grounding have been well documented’, noting that her global presence now complicates discussion about her as a ‘local’ deity (2014: 78). Ammaṉ temples have been at the centre of diaspora Hindus’ religious life for several decades in places like Singapore, Malaysia, the Caribbean, Guyana, and South Africa, where South Indian migrants came as indentured labourers (Waghorne 2004: 173–4). In parts of Europe and North America, where many members of the diaspora Hindu community have tended to come more often from the monied professional classes, ammaṉ temples have arrived more recently. But they have arrived. Waghorne notes that the first ammaṉ temple of which she is aware in London, England came to London’s Tooting neighbourhood in 1996. The goddess housed here, Muththumāriammaṉ, is based on a temple in Sri Lanka called Valvedditurai, the hometown of the goddess’s now dislocated devotees. Baumann observes that in Switzerland, ammaṉ temples are especially popular among Tamil Hindu women because these women perceive such temples as particularly strong vectors of śakti (Baumann 2010: 253, citing Vögeli 2005: 67). Waghorne observes that Māriyammaṉ and other originally ‘local’ Tamil goddesses ‘are fomenting a new solidarity that’, she argues, ‘cuts across caste lines, crosses class distinctions, and bridges the urban-rural divide’ (2004: 133–4). Waghorne is especially interested in the globalization of local temple traditions as originally locally situated deities are ‘transported with their wandering devotees into a global context’ (2004: 146, 173). She argues that Tamil goddesses are especially appealing to diaspora Hindus because they generally are portrayed as intruding directly into the lives of devotees: they are not impersonal deities but instead act as ‘living energy, the vibration of the universe and the pulse of the devotee’ (Waghorne 2004: 227).

The Parashakthi Temple in Pontiac, Michigan is one temple that bridges the divide between the ‘highly spiritualized and universalized forms of the great Goddess’ and her localized, South Indian form as an ammaṉ, or village goddess. The website for this temple, which is also known in English as the ‘Eternal Mother Temple’, describes it as ‘a tirtha peetham (pilgrimage) in the west for Devi Adi Parashakti Durga worshipers’. The Goddess housed in this temple is the South Indian Tamil goddess Karumāriyammaṉ, ‘Black Māriyammaṉ’, who, according to temple discourse, has manifested herself both in the village of Thiruverkadu, on the outskirts of Chennai in Tamilnadu, South India, and at the Parashakthi Temple in Pontiac, Michigan (http://www.parashakthitemple.org/shakthi_worship.aspx). The temple in Pontiac, however, claims that she has taken a new form there as the universal, divine mother who has come to the West for the benefit of all beings. While she is present in Pontiac as ‘Parashakthi’, ‘Kundalini Shakthi’, and ‘Prakriti’, her form as Karumāriyammaṉ is the one that is ‘closest to earthly creations’, which is why she has chosen to appear in the temple in this form (https://www.parashakthitemple.org/temple-history.html).

The Parashakthi Temple website proclaims that the Goddess wished to have a house of worship built in the United States so she could offer her ‘Eternal Grace to her devotees and protect them from harm’ and tragedy (https://www.parashakthitemple.org/shakthi-worship.html) (see Pintchman 2014, 2015, 2018a, 2018b). Numerous other deities were installed in the temple during the first 18 years of its existence, allegedly at the Goddess’s behest. A fire destroyed most of the original structure in 2018, and the temple community is in the process of rebuilding the temple so that these deities can be installed once again. Temple literature describes all these deities as manifestations of the Goddess’s vibratory energy (spanda), with the Goddess herself serving as their energizing sources.

The religious life of the Parashakthi Temple is moulded directly by its charismatic leader, Dr G. Krishna Kumar, who serves as the temple committee’s president. Kumar claims that in 1994, he had a vision of the Goddess, who appeared to him during his practice of Kundalini meditation and called on him to build her a temple in the United States so she could radiate to her ‘children’ ‘her celestial blessings for our peace, happiness, and paramount success’ (https://www.parashakthitemple.org/temple-history.html). Kumar is a Tamil American gastroenterologist as well as the temple’s acknowledged spiritual director. Many temple devotees recognize Kumar as a mystic and religious visionary, although he resists the title of ‘guru’; instead, he insists, he is just a ‘mailman’ who delivers instructions and truths that the Goddess communicates to him directly through a process of ongoing revelation. Several members of the board have over the years been not of Indian origin, but instead Caucasian Americans with special connections to Kumar (see Pintchman 2014, 2015, 2018a, 2018b).

Language surrounding the temple stresses its unique nature as a location of concentrated divine power. Temple discourse claims that the Goddess herself chose the land on which the Parashakthi Temple was constructed in 1999 and prepared it over many centuries, imbuing it in a unique way with her concentrated energy. Kumar recounts that the Goddess came to inhabit the temple’s land several millennia ago and established in the landscape the presence of shamanic spirits, rendering it sacred to Native Americans and a site of powerful spiritual activity. Some devotees report that they have encountered on temple grounds enormous deer with large antlers, which are invisible to most humans but are the spirits of deceased Native American shamans. In the temple’s first newsletter, a devotee deeply involved in the temple writes, ‘Modern day visionaries have also been attracted to the land’s power and sacred past. … We, at the Eternal Mother Temple, believe the Holy Land is aligned with the various planetary and star systems in such a way so as to heighten the energies at the present day site’ (Costa 2001: 4). Hence, Parashakthi Temple discourse maintains that the Goddess has always been present in the form of divine energy at the site at which the temple was eventually founded, but did not assume her present form as Karumāriyammaṉ until her installation in 1999. I have heard other devotees refer to the temple lands as a ‘vortex’ of spiritual energy, and several have noted to me that they can feel the intense spiritual energy that the Goddess generates as soon as they set foot on temple grounds (see Pintchman 2014, 2015, 2018a, 2018b).

Indira Arumugam traces a different type of transformation of a South Indian village goddess, Periyāchī, from her manifestations in India to her temples in Singapore. Arumugam notes that in rural Tamil Nadu, Periyāchī is a rural guardian deity who secures fertility and protects children and pregnancies. While she has few Indian temples dedicated to her in India, she has at least six in Singapore and many more in Malaysia. Arumugam argues that, when she moves to Singapore and Malaysia, this ‘semiferal’ goddess comes to be enshrined in temples that domesticate her and render her dependent on her human devotees (2020: 1,460). As she comes to be installed in temples and enshrined in Singaporean temple icons, or mūrtis, in her South East Asian diaspora contexts, she acquires ‘regular worship and a spectacular ritual cult’ but simultaneously gentrifies and changes significantly in the process. Arumugam concludes that in the process of migrating to Singapore with her wandering devotees, Periyāchī has also come to ‘compromise’ the agency she enjoys in South India (2020: 1,467).

In her work on contemporary Hindu ritual practice in South India, Tulasi Srinivas notes the existence of an ongoing dynamic between what she calls the iterative and creative dimensions of modern Hinduism (Srinivas 2018). Srinivas’s work focuses on the world of contemporary Hindu ritual as she has observed it and which, she argues, is comprised of ‘iterative, strategic, and creative improvisation within and around Hindu rituals as they interact with modernity’ (2018: 15). The same could be said about Hindu goddess temples in diaspora, which exhibit both iterative and creative dimensions. While many such diaspora temples are modelled at least to some extent on Indian Hindu temples, they adapt Hindu homeland traditions in new, often highly creative ways.

The Goddess in Diasporic Hindu Religious Practice: Public and Domestic Rites

In India, the Goddess in her many forms takes centre stage in several important festival celebrations. This pattern continues in diaspora, but festivals are often reshaped to suit the diaspora context. Fred Clothey (1992: 127–8) refers to this phenomenon as ‘pragmatic ritualism’, a willingness to allow departures from homeland tradition as needed. Eck refers to some of the larger observances that occur in diaspora as ‘gala festivals’, the most popular of which is the Navarātri, the ‘Nine Nights’ of the Goddess. She observes that in New Jersey, for example, Navarātri is transformed from a nine-day festival into a month-long festival of nine weekend-days (Eck 2000: 232).

In Gujarati communities, the celebration of Navarātri is dominated by the performance of Gujarati dances, especially garbā (‘womb’), also called garbā-rās, and ḍānḍīya (‘stick’) dances. in India, these forms of dance are seen as particular to Gujarat, but among many Hindus in diaspora, they have come to be emblematic of Hindu identity more broadly and have come to dominate Navarātri celebrations among diaspora Hindus from a diversity of regions. Ann R. David (2014) notes a shift in meaning regarding the garbā dance among Gujaratis in the United Kingdom, where garbā has shifted from being a folk dance honouring the Goddess during the Navarātri festival to being primarily a dance that expresses and celebrates Hindu and, more particularly, Gujarati identity among diaspora Gujaratis. Maya Parmar also makes note of this process whereby embodied practices of worshipping the Goddess among Hindus in India shift meaning among diaspora Hindus in Britain to become primarily a way of ‘communicating the community’ (Parmar 2019: 115). Jessica Marie Falcone notes further that in both India and the United States, garbā performance has become increasingly politicized as a technique of religious exclusion and has, in some contexts, allied itself with Hindu nationalist tendencies and organizations (Falcone 2016).

Bengalis celebrate Navarātri as Durgā pūjā. Rachel McDermott observes that the number of Durgā pūjā celebrations in North America has grown steadily since the mid-1960s, most notably among Bengali and Bangladeshi Hindu immigrants, with diaspora pūjā committees trying to stay as close as possible to their traditions of their home communities in India (McDermott 2011: 225). Many organizing committees accommodate the celebration to suit the diaspora context by, for example, shortening the pūjā celebrations, moving them to the weekend, and moving the festivities indoors (McDermott 2011: 229–30). Diaspora celebrations tend to favour Durgā over Kālī, as Durgā is more ‘durable and exportable’ than Kālī has proven to be. The preference for Durgā may also reflect her perceived identity as a unifying symbol of Bengali identity (McDermott 2011: 233). Indeed, Bengali pride is very much on display at these celebrations, which showcase Bengali culture, language, regional dress, cuisine, and artistic traditions (McDermott 2011: 237). Among Bengalis, the Goddess remains a symbol of what it means to be a Bengali Hindu, and in celebrating her autumn festival, Bengalis in the United States celebrate their own identity as well (McDermott 2011: 240). Arnab Banerji makes a similar argument regarding the relationship between Durgā pūjā celebrations and Bengali Hindu identity in Southern California. At Durgā pūjā celebrations organized by the Bengali Association of Southern California (BASC), furthermore, children’s cultural performances function as an opportunity for parents to ‘flaunt’ the degree to which they have been able to immerse their children in Bengali culture despite living in diaspora (Banerji 2019: 6–7). Hence, among diaspora Hindus, dance forms originally intended as religious rituals of devotion directed toward the Goddess have come to assume sociological and political meaning that they have not necessarily had in the past in homeland contexts.

Caroline B. Brettell and Faith Nibbs make a related argument about the celebration of Dīvālī, the Hindu ‘festival of lights’, on a college campus, which they call Southwestern University, in the Dallas-Fort Worth metropolitan area in the United States. In India, Dīvālī serves both to commemorate the victory of Rāma over the demon Rāvaṇa and to celebrate the goddess Lakṣmī, the goddess of auspiciousness and prosperity. Brettell and Nibbs argue that at Southwestern University, Dīvālī has become a form of South Asian second-generation identity construction. They note that ‘from the planning stages through to an evening that includes a talent and fashion show as well as a dinner’, the members of the Indian Students Association on this campus engage with Dīvālī to ‘express and negotiate who they are, enacting cultural symbols and values that are central to their organization and their identity’ (Brettell and Nibbs 2009: 685–6). Brettell and Nibbs offer a nuanced and complex depiction of these students’ sense of identity, however, as ‘hybrid’, including both a sense of ‘Indianness’ and ‘Americanness’ and therefore different from that of their parents’ generation. Henry Johnson observes that in New Zealand, too, Dīvālī has taken on new meaning as a ‘site where diaspora identity’ is expressed and has become a ‘specifically New Zealand construct’. Johnson argues, however, that in this case, music and dance performances that occur during Dīvālī celebrations serve the process of ‘othering’ New Zealand’s South Asian community and constructing a false sense of South Asian homogeneity (Johnson 2007). In Edinburgh, Scotland, the diaspora Hindu community celebrates Dīvālī as an important social as well as religious event, so pūjā and other more explicitly religious practices are followed by activities that members of the Hindu devotional community there understand as more ‘cultural’ than religious (Nye 1995: 153–4).

Other Hindu diaspora goddess festivals also diverge considerably from the way in which they are performed and celebrated in India. Sinha notes the existence in Singapore, for example, of a festival to Samayapuram Māriyammaṉ, a form of Māriyammaṉ originally from Samayapuram, Tamil Nadu in South India. Sinha remarks that the observance of this festival in Singapore is rooted in what was originally a domestic votive ritual centred on making the goddess a porridge offering (kul varppu). Votive rites, called vratas in Sanskrit, are a religiously sanctioned type of Hindu ritual performed at a particular time with a specific desire or intention in mind (McGee 1987, 17). Vratas usually entail some kind of promise directed toward a deity and a fixed form of ritual observance. While the kul varppu ritual was originally a Hindu votive rite, it has greatly expanded and taken on new form in Singapore.

The first collective kul varppu festival celebrated in contemporary Singapore took place in 1999; it was sponsored by a Singaporean Indian Hindu couple, who celebrated the ritual in their apartment with about 50 of their family members and friends (Sinha 2014: 84). The impetus to continue enacting a festival in Samayapuram Māriyammaṉ’s name received a boost in 2000, when a Singaporean Hindu, whom Sinha calls Mrs Moorthy, had a dream in which the goddess appeared to her in a red sari, emerged from the Samayapuram Māriyammaṉ Temple, and asked Mrs Moorthy to plan for the porridge offering to take place in Singapore (Sinha 2014: 83). Both Mrs Moorthy and her husband travelled to Samayapuram and returned to Singapore determined to heed the goddess’s call to ensure that the festival would continue to be celebrated in Singapore (Sinha 2014: 83–4). The kul varppu ritual had persisted in Hindu households on the Malay peninsula since the mid-nineteenth century arrival of Tamil Hindus in British Malaysia. Since 2000, however, it has moved to the centre of ‘a consciously organized, collective goddess festival in an urban, multicultural, cosmopolitan context’ that is enacted over three full days (Sinha 2014: 78). As it has grown and shifted into public spaces, it has adapted to satisfy ‘enhanced demand and popularity’ (Sinha 2014: 84). It has also changed form and acquired a new set of meanings. Sinha observes, for example, that a chariot procession of the goddess was introduced in 2006 and is now firmly entrenched in the festival celebrations. In 2010, the processional route was extended to include a set of Indian foreign worker dormitories, emphasizing the goddess’s care for a disadvantaged population that remains largely marginalized in contemporary Singapore, and underscoring the aspirations of the festival organizers to subsume social service concerns into ritual practice (Sinha 2014: 96–7). Sinha argues further that the performance of the festival reveals a desire to reproduce elements of village Hinduism in an urban, multicultural context (Sinha 2014: 80). Female devotees that Sinha interviewed, furthermore, insisted that the festival is egalitarian in nature and accorded ‘due respect’ to women (Sinha 2014: 89).

Religious processions of all kinds, in fact, remain an important aspect of Hindu religious life in diaspora, including in śākta traditions. Sinha notes that processions serve a variety of purposes: they help, for example, to spread divine power, mark territory, enhance unity and solidarity within the community, and register religious distinction (Sinha 2008: 159). Knut Jacobsen makes note of a ritual festival procession of Thurkkai/Durgā together with Murukaṉ and Vināyakar during summers in Norway at the largest Tamil temple in that country, the Sivasubramniyar Alayam, that celebrates the founding of the temple. Thurkkai/Durgā is celebrated at this temple and during this festival largely as the powerful mother of Murukaṉ and Vināyakar (Jacobsen 2020: 1253–4). Brigitte Luchesi describes the first procession of the goddess Śrī Kāmākṣī in Hamm, Germany in 1993, when about 200–300 Tamil Hindu male devotees carried the goddess on their shoulders. The following year, a processional cart that both male and female devotees pulled with ropes was used to transport the image, and by 2007, when a new Śrī Kāmākṣī temple had been established on the city’s outskirts, up to 20,000 visitors attended the procession (Luchesi 2008: 180–1). The procession originally drew in largely Sri Lankan Tamils devotees living in Germany but has grown enormously over the years and expanded its appeal. It also plays an important role for diaspora Hindus engaged in public practices of vow fulfilment.

Baumann makes note in particular of the votive dimensions of the Śrī Kāmākṣī procession. Some women carry heavy clay pots with burning camphor and others prostrate every second step during the procession to fulfil their votive ritual promises. Men fulfil the terms of their votive rites by rolling their bodies around the temple or carrying a large, decorated arch known as a kāvaṭi while dancing in front of the festival; kāvaṭi carriers may also pierce their bodies with spears and hooks before taking up the kāvaṭi (Baumann 2006: 136–40). These types of bodily practices are relatively common in South India and Sri Lanka but have not, historically, been common among diaspora South Indian and Īḻam Tamil Hindu communities until relatively recently. Writing in 2006, Baumann notes, in fact, that among the most interesting aspects of the votive practices he witnessed during the Śrī Kāmākśī procession is that they are carried out at all since, until the last few decades, Īḻam Tamil Hindus living in diasporic locations in Europe ‘had very few opportunities to fulfil the specific vows of rolling around a temple or carrying the kāvaṭi’ (Baumann 2006: 140). Īḻam Tamil Hindu refugees living in the European diaspora interpret the growth in the procession’s popularity as a sign that the goddess Śrī Kāmākśī has bestowed her grace on the German temple and that her śakti resides there in her consecrated image (mūrti) (Baumann 2006: 142).

In both India and the diaspora, Hindu women are important performers of domestic ritual forms of worship in general. With respect to śākta devotion, Kim Knott notes that in Britain, immigrant Hindu women are especially active in domestic practices that are directed toward goddesses, with women petitioning goddesses directly instead of through a male priest or other intermediary (Knott 2000: 99). Immigrant Hindu women in diaspora contexts are often actively engaged in the organization of religious activities that take place in the home, such as daily pūjā and domestic worship circles. In interviews she conducted with first generation South Indian Hindu women living in Atlanta, Georgia, who had been in the United States for about two decades, Harshita Mruthinti found that these women located their religiosity largely within ritual practice not only in temples, but also in domestic spaces. One interlocutor made note, for example, of women’s role in lighting an oil lamp in the family pūjā room to honour both gods and goddesses every morning and evening (Mruthinti 2006: 276). Many immigrant Hindus also import into their new homelands practices of honouring specific plants as goddesses. Shampa and Sanjoy Mazumdar make note of one family in Southern California, for example, that expressed a desire to bring seeds of the Tulasī (aka. Tulsī) or basil plant from their ancestral home in India to sow in their new garden in the United States, while other immigrant Hindu families may obtain Tulasī cuttings from a local temple or from their friends (2009: 262–3). Many Hindus consider Tulasī also to be a goddess in the form of a plant, and in autumn, many Hindus perform a ritual of marriage between Tulasī and Viṣṇu or Kṛṣṇa to kick off the human marriage season (see Pintchman 2005).

Some diaspora Hindu women use the arts, especially traditions of Indian dance, to maintain and express their relationship to the Goddess. Mruthinti speculates that the second-generation Hindu women she interviewed who lacked an established ritual framework through which to encounter the Goddess encountered her instead through ‘physical ritualized performance’ (2006: 293). She further concludes that first-generation immigrant Hindu women engage in traditional forms of Indian dance to diversify their religious lives and their relationships with the Goddess, while second-generation Hindu women engage in classical dance to create their religious identities. Mruthinti speculates that second-generation Hindu women—who have not been raised in an environment saturated with goddess imagery and narratives—have a harder time establishing a personal, intimate sense of connection with the Goddess than do their first-generation counterparts.

Performing kīrtan, or group singing of devotional songs called bhajans, is another practice that Hindus in diaspora adapt to their new homelands, including in śākta practices. Jennifer B. Saunders has written about a Mātā Caukī group, a group devoted to the Goddess, that meets regularly in the Atlanta, Georgia area of the United States. Mātā Caukī consists of four hours of devotional singing that participants generally conduct on two or three Saturday nights per month. Although Friday is the day of the week that Hindus traditionally allocate to goddess worship, this group moved the kīrtan to Saturday because it was too difficult for devotees to finish work on Friday afternoons and arrive at kīrtan on time. The kīrtan begins around 9 p.m. following a group dinner and favours Punjabi forms of the Goddess, singing bhajans that mostly reference goddesses ‘whose temples lie in the Punjabi hills of Himachal Pradesh’ (Saunders 2019: 153). Saunders notes that this particular kīrtan practice reflects a focus on auspiciousness that participants display in ritual, clothes, and ornaments (Saunders 2019: 152–3).

Channelling the Goddess: Mātās, Women Gurus, and Ecstatic Hinduism in Diaspora

Contemporary Hindu women gurus and holy women often identify with, and are believed to be vehicles of, the Goddess. Some such women are regarded as living incarnations of the Goddess and are revered as ‘Mātā’, ‘Mother’, or ‘Mātā-jī’, ‘Respected Mother’, by their devotees. When used this way, the term mātā refers both to the Goddess as Divine Mother and the woman who serves as the Goddess’s vehicle. Becoming a vehicle of the Goddess, as Kathleen Erndl observes, is a culturally acceptable role available to religiously observant Hindu women that enables them to cultivate and promote power outside the domestic realm. Erndl describes, for example, one such contemporary mātā, Passu Mātājī, who lives in the Indian state of Himachal Pradesh and actively supports educational, social, and economic opportunities for women, arguing that marriage is not necessarily a Hindu woman’s sacred duty (2000: 94–5).

Traditions of reverence for mātās and female gurus continue also among Hindus in diaspora. One example of a mātā who has garnered a large following outside of India is Mātā Amritanandamayi (Sanskrit: Amritānandamāyī), also known as Amma (‘Mother’), a low-caste South Indian female guru whom many Hindus in both India and the diaspora have come to recognize as a holy woman and embodiment of the Goddess. Amma, also known as the ‘hugging saint’, interacts with her devotees through direct physical contact; she embraces and kisses them, and in the process, she transmits her ‘pure vital energy’ to her followers and offers them unconditional love (Raj 2005: 136–7). Selva Raj and Maya Warrier both observe that Amma’s form of interaction with devotees diverges radically from traditional patterns insofar as ‘it entails close and intense bodily contact in the form of touching, hugging, and kissing’ with complete disregard for the recipient’s gender, moral condition, or state of physical purity (Raj 2005: 138–9; cf. Warrier 2005: 28). This style of interaction defies traditional Hindu caste boundaries as well as the purity/impurity distinctions that characterize Brahmanical Hindu social and religious life. Like Passu Mātājī, Amma also promotes public roles and opportunities for women, including ritual roles; she authorizes her female renunciants to study Hindu scripture, and she has installed women as priestesses in Hindu temples (Lucia 2014: 127ff., Raj 2005: 138).

Amanda Lucia notes that in the United States, more than half of Amma’s followers are White Americans, not diaspora Indian Hindus, and she observes that these two populations tend to think of Amma differently. Immigrant Hindu devotees tend to worship Amma as a goddess incarnate, while non-Hindus tend to ‘obfuscate the Hinduness of her inherited tradition and envision her through a generalized conception of the goddess or simply as a maternal figure’ (Lucia 2014: 21–2). Raj observes further that Amma has adopted strategies when she is among her American devotees that reflect the non-Indian context. He notes, for example, that a select group of Western devotees in the United States administers and markets Amma souvenirs to American devotees, and that Amma rarely conducts religious programmes in Hindu temples when she is in the United States, opting instead to offer her darśan to devotees in secular spaces, such as public auditoriums, hotels, or nondenominational Christian churches. Raj speculates that such decisions are guided by her desire to locate herself and her movement outside of mainstream Hinduism in order to appease the many non-Hindu, Western devotees that she attracts along with diaspora Hindu devotees (Raj 2005: 141).

Goddess possession can also be temporary, and in such cases, it may be voluntary or involuntary. These temporary states are called bhāvas (Lucia 2014: 86). Even women whom devotees consider incarnations of the Goddess may experience goddess bhāva. The most commonly possessing goddess in such contexts, both in India and in diaspora, is Kālī in her form as a fierce deity. With respect to Amma, Lucia observes that over time, as Amma’s appeal has broadened to include more and more Western devotees, her goddess bhāvas have become more tame and domesticated; what had been her ‘wild and uncontrollable invocations’ of Kālī (and Kṛṣṇa) have become ‘highly orchestrated demonstrations” of ‘domesticated female comportment’ (Lucia 2014: 88–9). Elsewhere, however, traditions of Kālī bhāva that engage Kālī’s fierce demeanour continue to flourish, although they have in many diaspora cases been reconfigured and shaped to suit the new contexts.

Among Hindus of South Indian heritage living in the Caribbean island of Trinidad, ritual worship of the goddess Kālī often entails forms of temporary, ecstatic ritual possession known in Trinidad as ‘catching power’. Trinidad houses several temples that are centres of worship dedicated to Kālī. Keith E. McNeal has observed that contemporary forms of Kālī worship in these Trinidadian temples, called śakti pūjā, Kālī pūjā, or Kālī Mai (‘Mother Kālī’) pūjā, have been heavily influenced by parallel traditions in Guyana and have become ‘something of a subaltern practice’ sustained ‘on the margins of mainstream postcolonial Caribbean Hinduism’ (McNeal 2013: 953–4). The manifestation of Kālī through an experienced medium is a highlight of Kālī worship all over the island, although other deities associated with Kālī may also possess human worshippers (McNeal 2011: 154). McNeal does note the existence of one ‘undeniably orthodox’ Hindu Kālī temple in Trinidad that conducts an annual pūjā, but he notes that this temple marks an ‘exception to the general profile of Kālī worship in contemporary Trinidad’ (McNeal 2013: 959). Kālī temples in Trinidad tend to engage in a shared pattern of weekly devotion involving offerings, such as flowers, milk, and fruit, that devotees commonly offer in temple worship. But Kālī temple worship also often includes ecstatic healing rituals of spirit manifestation, often accompanied by percussion performed on special goatskin or tappu drums found only in Kālī temples in Trinidad and often followed by animal sacrifice (McNeal 2013: 954). The sacrificing of goats and chickens in particular remains a central element of Trinidadian Kālī worship even though many ‘orthodox’ Trinidadian Hindus frown on it (McNeal 2011: 151).

While Trinidadian Kālī devotees who engage in Kālī pūjā view it as helpful for them in dealing ‘with problems and the forces of chaos and evil in their lives’, many Indo-Trinidadian Hindus who practise more ‘orthodox’ forms of Hinduism are wary of Kālī Mai pūjā and view it as a form of ritual that engages ‘dark’ or ‘sinister’ forces (McNeal 2011: 150). Vertovec proposes that in Trinidad, ecstatic Kālī pūjā traditions share with the non-Hindu Trinidadian Shango and Spiritual Baptist traditions an ‘underlying set of premises’ that links them all. Central to this set of premises is the belief that numerous powers or supernatural forces exist ‘just beyond the cognizance of humans’ and are or can become personified, and that humans can interact with these forces either voluntarily or involuntarily (Vertovec 1998: 252–3). All three traditions, Vertovec argues, involve ritual performance of an altered state of consciousness in which one is able to ‘catch power’, often induced by fasting, singing, drumming, or dancing (Vertovec 1998: 255). McNeal observes that ecstatic forms of Hindu religious practice now take place ‘solely in Kālī, or Shakti, temples in contemporary Trinidad’ and the entire coterie of Hindu deities associated with ecstatic Hinduism ‘are also only found in these very same temples’ (McNeal 2011: 154). In Trinidad, Kālī has come to be partly cross-identified with Māriayammaṉ, and devotees may consider the two goddesses to be the same deity in different forms (McNeal 2011: 178).

Kālī possession continues to occur in other Hindu diaspora communities as well. Alleyn Diesel writes of a South African woman of Tamil background, for example, Padmaṇī [or ‘Pat] Pillay, who experienced her first Kālī possession-trance at the age of eight. Although her paternal grandmother, who had emigrated from South India to South Africa decades earlier, had also experienced Kālī possession, Pat’s parents found Pat’s trance experience concerning. They became even more worried when they found out years later that Pat had been going secretly to a Māriayammaṉ temple, and they encouraged her to marry when she was 15 years old. She had two children born with physical problems, and she credits the Goddess with healing both of them. After drinking the blood of sacrificial goats and chickens at a Kālī pūjā, Pat claims she ceased menstruating and began her career as a healer. To do her therapeutic work, she enters into a ‘Kālī trance’ in which she becomes Kālī, ‘acting and speaking as the Goddess’ (Diesel 1998: 78). Diesel writes that Pat would sit in a Kālī trance every evening in her home Kālī shrine and offer consultations to visitors seeking solutions to their problems (Diesel 1998: 79). She demonstrates her devotion to the Goddess further in ritual practices of firewalking and walking on knives (Diesel 1998: 80).

Diesel argues that Kālī functions for Pat as a kind of ‘alter ego’; as a vehicle of Kālī, Pat is able to assume a persona as a ‘powerful, authoritative, and self-assured woman, sharing her wisdom for the good of others’ (1998: 83). She argues further that Pat’s ability to function in this way must be seen within the specifically South African diaspora Hindu community in which she is located, a community that was historically marginalized and disempowered. In this context, women healers like Pat offer a valuable service to those who might not be able to afford other kinds of medical assistance (Diesel 1998: 85–6).

Conclusion

Hindu śākta traditions continue to flourish all over the world and can be found wherever Hindu diasporic communities have settled and planted their traditions in new soil. Hindu temples to the Goddess in her many forms have sprung up in dozens of countries in ways that both reproduce and recreate indigenous Hindu temple traditions. Hindu communities living outside of South Asia have transported, modified, and reimagined Hindu devotional practices wherever they have gone, adapting these practices to suit the new contexts in which they are found. These processes of adaptation reflect a broader phenomenon that Leela Prasad observes in the way Hindus in Sringeri, South India, construct a notion of ‘the normative’. She argues that in Sringeri, a ‘lived grammar of the normative’ includes a wide field of discourse and practice that includes an interplay among sources like śāstra (scripture), custom (paddhati), proper conduct (ācāra), tradition (sampradāya), and rules pertaining to religious conduct (niyama), reconstituting these as an ‘imagined text’ that is dynamic and emergent (Prasad 2006: 1–5). The institutions and religious practices that engage many contemporary Hindu Goddess devotees living in diaspora communities are similarly dynamic and emergent, reproducing perceived traditions and values, yet often reconstituting or reinterpreting them in light of new geographical realities.

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Tracy Pintchman, Śākta (Goddess) Worship in the Hindu Diasporas In: Hindu Diasporas. Edited by: Knut A. Jacobsen, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198867692.003.0013

13

The Hindu Temple in the Diasporas

Martin Baumann and Annette Wilke

Introduction

Thousands of Hindus from across the US celebrated the inauguration of the grand marble temple in 2007 near Atlanta, Georgia. Constructed by the BAPS Swaminarayan Sanstha, the then guru of the saṃpradāya (line of guru-disciple-succession), Pramukh Swami Maharaj (1921–2016), personally led the opening celebrations of the $19 million temple complex. This marvellously carved mandir (‘temple’) with its tall towers and a huge assembly hall attached is supposedly the largest Hindu temple in traditional South Asian architecture outside India. Since the late twentieth century, numerous temples constructed according to the prescriptions of the Vāstuśāstras and Śilpaśāstras have emerged, including the Śrī Veṅkaṭeśvara temples in Penn Hills, Pennsylvania, US, and in Helensburgh, Australia, in 1977 and 1985 respectively; the BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir in London in 1995, UK; the Richmond Hill Ganesha Temple in Ontario, Canada in 2001; and the Sri Kamadchi Ampal Temple in Hamm-Uentrop, Germany in 2002. Such purpose-built temples are not only visible pointers to the Hindu minorities in the diverse diasporic countries, they also represent the achievements and ambitions of Hindus in becoming a recognized faith community in multi-faith nation-states. These temples function as powerful sources of self-confidence, pride, and cultural identity for the Hindu community. The so-called ‘real temples’ with their exuberant outdoor festivals and processions provide a home away from home and reconnect to the culture and country from which former generations came. The new abode of the gods with the sensory aesthetics of the sacred architecture offers an emotional assurance of being properly at home and in a place where one intends to stay for a long time (see Wilke 2020: 333–40).

However, these traditionally constructed temples are the rare exception among the numerous Hindu temples in a country. Up to now, the vast majority of diasporic temples have remained invisible and unnoticed by the larger public. They are located in basements, converted halls, disused churches, garages, and industrial spaces. These spaces are pragmatic solutions to the needs of the local Hindu people to approach the gods for veneration, to see and be seen by the gods (darśana), and to beg for boon and help. While commonly hidden in functional buildings, the leading figures of a temple aspire to turn the inside into a Hindu sense world with odours, music, colourfully painted walls and shrines, and ritually installed mūrtis (figures of gods).

The variety of Hindu temples in the diaspora is as astonishing as it is in South Asia. Diasporic temples display a strong path dependence regarding the regional background, migration history, sectarian tradition, and saṃpradāya of Hindu communities—although a number in Britain, Sweden, Australia, Canada, and the US also style themselves as pan-Hindu.

A rough sketch of the different developments and Hindu strands needs to start with the British indentured labour system which, from 1834 to 1917, brought 1.5 million Indian men and women to East and South Africa, the Caribbean, and the Malay Pacific region. Small Hindu shrines served as the centre of community life. The living conditions in the plantation estates led to an attenuation of caste distinctions and a standardization of Hindu practices and ideas. The reform movement Arya Samaj gained influence in most overseas regions from around 1910 and led to a fragmentation between followers of the Sanātan Dharma and Arya Samaj during the 1930s. With independence from British, French, Dutch, and Portuguese rule and the upward mobility of the Hindu population, more affluent temples were constructed such as the Arya Dewaker Mandir in Paramaribo, Suriname (1936, officially inaugurated 1947, rebuilt 2001), the Sri Siva Subramaniya Temple in Nadi, Fiji (during 1920s, rebuilt in Dravidian style 1994), and the Sri Sri Radha Radhanath Temple of ISKCON near Durban, South Africa (inaugurated 1985).

Another strand of Hinduism, the Vedānta philosophy of the reform movement Ramakrishna Mission or Vedanta Society, gained some influence in the United States and Western Europe among well-educated audiences from the early twentieth century. The Society founded the first Hindu temple in North America in 1906 in San Francisco, decorated with domes and spires.

From the mid-1960s onwards, immigration of skilled, highly professional Hindu Indians to the US, Canada, and Australia commenced. In the US, the first temples were built in New York and Pittsburgh in 1977, with the Sri Venkateswara Temple in Penn Hills quickly developing into a North American Hindu pilgrimage site (Clothey 2006 [1983], Narayanan 1992). In Europe, Gujarati and Punjabi twice migrants from East Africa arrived in Britain due to the Africanization policies in the early 1970s. They founded caste-based cultural and religious organizations and numerous temples, commonly housed in disused schools, churches, and community centres. Furthermore, due to the escalating war in Sri Lanka, from the mid-1980s more than half a million Tamil people, the majority of them Śaiva (Tam. Caiva) Hindus from rural areas and often from lower social status groups, sought refuge in North America, Australia, and Western Europe. The Tamil Hindus eagerly set up many temples in asylum homes, private houses, and converted factory halls, followed by purpose-built temples in the early twenty-first century. All over the world, and in Australia and many countries of Western Europe in particular, Sri Lankan and Indian Tamil Hindus have been at the forefront of temple building (Kandiah 2003: 50, Trouillet 2020: 1, Wilke 2020: 226 fn 10, 246).

Finally, transnational saṃpradāyas, notably ISKCON and the BAPS Swaminarayan Sanstha, also exerted a lasting influence on temple building in diaspora. After its founding by A.C. Bhaktivedanta in 1965 in New York, ISKCON temples emerged in increasing numbers in the US, Europe, and worldwide. Likewise, the BAPS Swaminarayan Sanstha with its emphasis on Gujarati language and culture styled as pan-Hindu successfully attracted a considerable following among Indian, British, and American Gujaratis. The zeal of cultural, religious, and moral education is closely tied to magnificent temple buildings, as these enable emotional and sensory-aesthetic learning as well as encouraging pride and self-esteem regarding the attributed glorious cultural heritage of India.

All these different strands of Hinduism and the colonial and post-1965 migration histories have strongly influenced the profiles of diasporic temples. We will focus on organizational structures and building styles (part 2), the variety and richness of temple life (part 3), new codifications, and altered agencies of diasporic priests, women, the younger generation, and charismatic individuals (part 4). This chapter argues that diasporic temple cultures aim and manage to strike a balance between strategies of religious authenticity and maintenance on the one hand, and change and innovation on the other.

Hindu Temple Organization and Structure in Diaspora

Wherever Hindus settled in diasporic territories, they set up temples. Despite the enormous importance of the home shrine for the worship of one’s family and favourite deities, the temple with its ritually installed deities (mūrtis) differs, as the temple deities are ascribed greater spiritual power (Long 2020: 149). The temple enables the individual visitor to make obeisance (praṇāma), express devotion, and have sight (darśana) of the deity who is believed to be really present. The consecrated images or stone figures are perceived as genuine embodiments of the gods they represent. The temple priest has (re-)invited the deity to take presence in the mūrti, humbly bathed and dressed it, and during worship (pūjā) offered food, flowers, sound, and incense. The pūjā ritual culminates with the display of lamps (dīpārādhana, āratī/ārtī/āratti) in front of the deity, followed by taking the lamp to the devotees and distributing turmeric powder and white ash to be applied to the forehead. The participants also receive some blessed food or drink as a divine ‘gift’ (prasāda). After weekend worship, a communal meal takes place in the rear or an attached community hall. This is a diaspora-specific feature.

The organizational structure of diasporic temples commonly takes the form of an association, society, or registered corporation, incorporated under private law, or in the US under public regulations. It is led by a committee or board of directors. The aim of the association is generally to make arrangements for establishing a place of worship. This includes raising funds, renting or buying an appropriate place, arranging for a priest, and taking responsibility for the daily management of maintaining the temple premises. We suggest that four different organizational models of running a temple can be distinguished:

(A) A society has a temple committee or board of directors which employs the temple priest(s). The responsibility of the priest(s) is the sacred sphere of serving the deities on a regular basis. In contrast, the responsibility of the board is the non-sacred sphere of the management of the temple in terms of administrative, financial, and representational tasks. This binary structure of board and salaried priest is the general practice in India and Northern Sri Lanka, and also the most frequent model in overseas temples (Trouillet 2020: 9, 16). Committee members are often respected high-caste persons, in the case of Sri Lankan Tamils usually of the wealthy Veļļāļar caste (landowners). Serving on the board of directors enables people to acquire prestige and honour, and therefore can become, as observed with regard to the wonderfully carved Malibu Hindu Temple in California, ‘the battleground for a status struggle within the American Hindu community’ (Kurien 2007: 97). Reciprocal accusations, contestations, and lawsuits have occurred in this and many other temples in the US and also in Australia (Bilimoria and Bapat 2019: 110). However, although fairly widespread, this conflictual pattern is not the general norm.

(B) In another model, a society and temple board officially exist, but in reality it is mainly the head priest who manages the temple. In this case, the priest is both the president of the board and the head priest, thus taking responsibility in the sacred and non-sacred spheres. While this structure concentrates power in the hands of the head priest, it limits board infighting and can promote dynamic growth of the temple and its activities. Examples of this structure are the Chebel Parāśakti Kāḷiyammaṉ temple near Beau-Bassin, Mauritius, with the influential head priest Muthulingam (Trouillet 2020: 18); the Sri Kamadchi Ampal Temple in Hamm-Uentrop, Germany, with its charismatic manager and head priest Sri Paskaran Kurukkal (Wilke 2003); and numerous Tamil temples in Toronto, Canada, with various reputable immigrant Śivācāryas owning and managing the temple as ‘entrepreneur priest’ (Trouillet 2020: 21). In practically all of these cases, the head priests-cum-presidents themselves erected the temple and many became influential ‘big men’ (periyar) in the diasporic setting. These are very diaspora-specific features, uncommon in South Asia where priests are servants without much power or reputation.

(C) The third organizational structure is characterized by the private ownership of a temple with the lay owner employing a priest. Whereas in Sri Lanka such temple owners are commonly from the Veļļāļar caste who have built the temple and maintain it, in the diaspora this patron–priest model is also observable among less prestigious castes. To cite an example, the low-caste shopkeeper Mr Yoganathan is the owner of the nicely decorated Murukaṉ temple in Hamm, Germany. Mr Yoganathan told us that in dreams, the god Murukaṉ had asked him to build the temple. He successfully established the temple in 2001 and employs a Brahman priest from Sri Lanka (Wilke 2003: 157), or if none is available officiates himself. Another example would be the North Indian (Hindustani Surinamese) Rām temple in Wijchen, the Netherlands, which today is the largest and most highly regarded temple in the country (Nugteren 2009). It was established and is managed and served by a non-Brahman Hindustani lay-person, who due to his good education and sincerity has acquired priestly functions—and considerable reputation—in the diaspora. Despite Brahman resistance in the country, he is fully accepted by the local community as a ‘natural priest’ (ibid. 135). Yet another, completely different example of this organizational structure would be the Guyana temple ritual in the Vishnu Mandir of Toronto—one of the most prominent temples in the city. An initiative paṇḍit and heart surgeon established the temple, hires assistant priests, and himself directs and leads the mega-church-like rituals (Younger 2014: 132).

(D) Finally, in few cases a temple is owned by the charismatic head priest or priestess and no structural features such as a society and board exist. This model is based on the extraordinary capacities and miraculous ‘powers’ of the person whom the devotees approach to receive advice and help. A telling example is the Srī Apirāmi Ammaṉ temple in Brande, Denmark, with the autodidact laywoman, healer, and priestess, Lalitha Sripalan. At specific occasions such as the avatāra days, the priestess becomes possessed, manifesting herself as the Goddess, and she is said to heal and to speak divinations. The temple itself is cared for by a group of devoted volunteers (Fibiger 2012). Other examples of temple-founding, charismatic, wonder-working priests are encountered in the Bābā Bālaknāth temples in Britain, who in this case act as exorcists and healers (Geaves 2007: 102–34), as well as in the heterodox Kālī-temples of Trinidad where we find among the non-Brahman priests possession-trance (even among lay-persons in this case), mediumship, self-affliction, firewalking, and sometimes also animal sacrifice (McNeal 2013, Vertovec 1992: 121)—today performed for healing and personal problems of the devotees (notwithstanding that the practices are despised by upper-class contemporary Hindus). Different from such ‘folk’ practices typical of village Hinduism are the temple communities of various Hindu traditions, which are founded and led by charismatic gurus. Examples are Skanda Vale in Wales following the devotional-mystical side of Śaiva-Siddhānta, and an inclusivist spiritual style of ritual and contemplation (Geaves 2007: 208–38) and the Rājarājeśvarī temple in Rush, upstate New York, which in favour of female ritual power is based on the Tantric Śrīvidyā tradition (Dempsey 2014: 106–25, in particular 123 fn 1).

As indicated, in legal terms the most widespread form for a temple is the privately formed association, society, or corporation, registered as a non-profit organization. Dependent on the countries’ legal systems, there are exceptional cases in Europe where a temple community has been granted the legal status of a cooperate body of public law. This happened in the federal state of North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany, in 2017 for the ‘Hindu community in Germany’ affiliated to the Sri Kamadchi Ampal Temple. This prestigious legal status enables ‘church’ taxes to be levied like the established Catholic and Protestant churches and provides further privileges. Given this singular status, the Kamadchi Temple claims to unite and represent all Hindus and Hindu traditions in Germany.

The financial resources for the maintenance and at times construction of a temple are primarily derived from donations by families and individuals. This is provided by countless hours of voluntary work, individual loans, pledges to sponsor a shrine or a deity icon, membership fees, and at times donations or loans from transnational Hindu organizations. To cite one example of many, the Śrī Lakṣmī temple in Ashland near Boston, US, was created in 1978 when urban professional Tamil families from South India established the corporation of the New England Hindu Temple and donated the auspicious amount of $101. The corporation secured non-profit status, enabling it to receive tax-deductible contributions. Within three years, the group had amassed enough funds to purchase 12 acres of land nearby. Donations and pledges continued and were augmented by the successful application for a loan of half a million Indian rupees by one of the most popular, oldest, and richest temples in India, the Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanam in Andhra Pradesh. Both the affluent socio-economic status of Indian Hindus in New England, and donations, sponsorship, and loans enabled the inauguration of the magnificent Dravidian-styled Śrī Lakṣmī temple in 1990 (Eck 2001: 87–93, https://srilakshmi.org/history/).

The example points to the backing of the Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanam. This multi-temple complex has also supported, among others, the Śrī Veṅkaṭeśvara temples in Penn Hills. US, and Helensburgh, Australia, the Sri Maha Vallabha Ganapati Devasthanam in Flushing, New York, and the Shri Shiva Vishnu Temple in Carrum Downs, Victoria, Australia. Remarkably, in 2018, the Victorian government granted this large South Indian styled temple AU$160,000 of funding to upgrade the temple. In Italy and Norway, the national Hindu umbrella organization and Hindu temples respectively receive annual subsidies from the state or municipality based on national income tax revenue and their registered members respectively. Hindu organizations thus have been able to extend their financial means and are eager to boost their membership (Jacobsen 2020b: 1251–2, Nencini/Squarcini 2020: 1116–7).

During the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020 and 2021, the flow of individual donations shrank due to fewer temple and festival visitors, which caused considerable financial problems for smaller temples. In contrast, temples with a regular member status fared better as the revenue from membership fees financed the considerable daily expenses of a temple and its staff. Whilst this membership status does not exist among temples in South Asia, in diasporic temples, membership of a temple association channels and secures the allegiance of devotees and supporters. Individual or family membership commonly includes the payment of a monthly or yearly amount and signals the commitment to the specific temple and its mission. A typical example is the Bharatiya Temple of metropolitan Detroit in Troy, Michigan. In many diasporic settings, membership acquires a heightened importance and ideally unites the members to form a joint temple community. The criteria of membership status and thus the right to democratically elect delegates to the prestigious board of directors, however, have been disputed in controversial elections at some temples (Kurien 2007: 97).

The mission of the temple association and the financial resources available condition the architecture of the temple building and the ritual decisions. In diaspora, we observe strategies both of authentication, with constructing traditional South Asian carved temples, and of adaptation and innovation with new modern temple buildings fitting the local architecture of the country.

Building Hindu temples outside South Asia started in the colonial plantation context of Fiji, Mauritius, South Africa, and the Caribbean where, first, small bamboo Hindu shrines were changed to clay-brick temples with the end of indentureship. In Trinidad, such temples took the form of a square building with the enshrined deities under a dome or śikhara. During the 1920s, an assembly hall (maṇḍapa) was added to the domed temple to accommodate travelling svāmis. From the late 1950s during a Hindu revival, the new style of Trinidadian temple evolved as a combination of the temple and the hall in the form of a flat roof construction with a rectangular layout, and a dome at the rear end under which the deities were displayed on an elevated platform. Benches in the assembly hall face the altar area, and the congregational Sunday worship closes with each participant displaying the ārtī lamp in front of the deities (Prorok 1991: 76–84).

In contrast to this centuries-long development of adaptive innovation, in continental Europe Sri Lankan Tamil Hindus pragmatically maintain their numerous temples in spacious industrial buildings, often hardly noticed by outsiders. Only few temple boards and priests have successfully established a purpose-built South Asian styled temple (Wilke 2020: 242, 252–3).

In Britain, with its different migration history, the middle-class socio-economic status of the predominantly Gujarati and Punjabi Hindus, and its strong Tamil Hindu minority, the majority of the more than 300 temples are kept in converted premises. Due to the increase in wealth and self-confidence among Hindus, since the 1990s a process of visibilization has emerged in the form of publicly discernible temple buildings. Firstly, temples were built as large halls in country-specific red brick and given one or more domes as visible religious signs, such as the Shree Krishna Temple opened in Coventry in 1992 and the Sri Krishna Mandir inaugurated in Wolverhampton in 1994. Secondly, purpose-built temples in traditional Gujarati or Dravidian architecture emerged, such as the marble construction of the BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir inaugurated in Neasden, London, in 1995; the London Sri Murugan Temple in East Ham in 2005; and the spacious Sri Venkateswara (Balaji) Temple in Tividale, near Birmingham, in 2006 (Jones 2020: 1,574–5, 1,581–2).

In the US and Australian context with affluent urban immigrant Indians, similar developments of constructing ‘authentic’ temples can be identified. Examples are the Sri Venkateswara Temple in Penn Hills and the Sri Lakshmi Temple in Ashland (Eck 2001: 88–93, Narayanan 1992: 152–4) as well as the Shri Shiva-Vishnu Temple in Carrum Downs near Melbourne (Bilimoria and Bapat 2019: 114–20) and the Kurinchi Kumaran Temple near Wellington, New Zealand. In contrast, if the board’s mission was to set up a centre for cultural, religious, and educational purposes, emphasis was laid on a functional building. An example is the Hindu American Religious Institute (HARI) Temple in rural Pennsylvania, built in the country’s customary style of a large, two-storey house. In addition to the spacious functional temple room, it comprises a large dining room and kitchen, classrooms, and an apartment for one of the priests and his family. This temple-cum-cultural centre building, which can also be seen in the style and shape of the Washington Kali Temple in Burtonsville, Maryland, represents adaptations to American communal centres with their wide range of activities (Long 2020: 156–65).

Overall, the newly constructed temples—in whatever shape—reflect the socio-economic improvement and the rise of self-confidence of the Hindu minorities. Whereas the traditionally styled temples aim to replicate South Asian temples and aesthetics, new temple structures such as the Trinidadian temple, the British red-brick temple, and the American communal temple centre point to country-specific architectural innovations in diaspora.

While finances have mostly allowed ‘only’ pragmatic and adapted temples, numerous temple boards and devotees share the collective dream of constructing a ‘real’, ‘authentic’ temple (Clothey 2006: 40, 51, Long 2020:165, Narayanan 1992: 148, Swamy 2016: 69, Wilke 2020: 332–40). The purpose-built temple through its sensory aesthetics of beautiful architecture, lavish shrines, ritually installed deities, and colourful paintings has deep emotional, spiritual, and personal significance and value for visiting Hindus. It presents, embodies, and enacts the atmosphere and feeling of Indian and Sri Lankan temples in the diasporic setting for both insiders and outsiders. Experiencing the encounter with the deities in such purpose-built and properly consecrated temples creates a feeling of belonging and a home where the deities have now taken root (Nugteren 2009: 125–31). Importantly, the next generation is introduced to devotional practices and annual festivals—not only cognitively and performatively, by learning stories and rituals, but also via the temples’ powerful sensory-emotive impact (Nesbitt 2020: 753). Last but not least, ‘real temples’ take on the function of representing and making the local Hindu minority visible to the municipality and general public, whilst temple boards themselves attribute to such temples the role of a focal point for the ‘Hindu community’ (Eck 2001: 93, Knott 2009: 101). In fact, some of these magnificent South Asian styled temples have become new national and even international pilgrimage centres, such as the impressive Śrī Veṅkaṭeśvara (Balaji) Temples in Tividale, UK, in Penn Hills, US, and in Helensburgh, Australia; the Sri Kamadchi Ampal Temple in Hamm-Uentrop, Germany; and various stunning BAPS Swaminarayan mandirs in North America, Africa, Europe, and Asia Pacific (see at www.baps.org/Global-Network.aspx).

While such grand temples have been praised in the media, temple construction and running a visible or invisible temple have not been without controversies. In residential areas, various temple boards have received complaints about noise, smell, illegal parking, and too many visitors. Temple projects such as the Mahālakṣmī Temple in East Ham, London, and the Dwarkadhish Temple in Sayreville, New Jersey, US, were objected to by local residents out of fear of congested streets, reduced parking options, and undisclosed racism (David 2008: 89–91, Eck 2001: 131). Typical for such not-in-my-neighbourhood protests, residents objected to change and the intrusion of new, unknown players in their district. As a consequence, temple boards sought to achieve compromises. Others relocated temples to industrial areas and the outskirts to avoid conflicts and to gain more space and fewer neighbours.

Despite such retreats, temple construction has faced additional practical problems as authorities have denied or postponed visas and work permits to Indian priests, craftsmen, and artisans, resulting in extra costs and delaying the consecration rites at times. Apart from such issues, generally temple boards have aimed to cooperate with local stakeholders and opened their temples up to school classes and visitor groups to offer a first-hand impression of Hinduism. Often, the friendly and welcoming atmosphere is praised by non-Hindu visitors. Involvement with civil society also includes the participation of board members in local interfaith dialogue meetings, multicultural festivals, and more.

In various countries, national umbrella organizations of Hindu temples exist to represent Hinduism to the authorities and general public. For the setting up and operating of temples, however, transnational networks are often much more important. The powerful saṃpradāyas of the BAPS Swaminarayan Sanstha, ISKCON, and Chinmaya Mission, with their headquarters in India, have each created their own specific global network with priests, teachers, monks, and devotees in cross-continental exchange. One network emanating from South India is the financial support and religious guidance granted by the Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanam to numerous temples in North America, Britain, and Australia. In addition, the Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP, founded 1964) has exerted a strong educational and mobilizing influence among many Indian Hindus in the diaspora since the 1990s. It promotes a politically right-wing Hindu nationalism, strength, and unity via its national branches, globally touring speakers and sādhus (ascetics), youth summer camps, Hindutva websites, etc. (Bhatt and Mukta 2000, Bilimoria and Bapat 2019: 112–3, Kurien 2007: 144–62). Another type of transnational network concerns the recruitment of Brahman śivācārya priests from South India and Northern Sri Lanka to the numerous temples in the Tamil Hindu diaspora. As Pierre-Yves Trouillet (2020) describes, their recruitment as ritual specialists in temples in Mauritius, Paris, Toronto, and also Singapore and Malaysia operates via family networks, mediating middlemen, and South Indian priest schools. During their career, many of the migrant priests circulate between different South Asian and diasporic temples, and while the salaried employed priest remains the norm, some ambitious ‘entrepreneur priests’ have become successful as temple owner, manager, and head-priest. Finally, another global network is operated by the Śaiva Siddhānta Church of the late Satguru Sivaya Subramuniyacarya (1927–2001). With its headquarters in Kauai, Hawaii, the organization has supported the building of temples and donated deity icons to various temples in Europe and the United States. Moreover, its monthly magazine Hinduism Today, promoting the unity of Hinduism and a Hindu renaissance, reaches a worldwide audience (Neubert 2013). In addition, regional networks exist, as the case of head priest Sri Paskaran of the Sri Kamadchi Ampal temple shows. He is well connected to the Vināyakar temple in Stockholm, Sweden, and the Apirāmi temple in Brande, Denmark, and maintains contacts with sponsors and temples in Britain and the US (Wilke 2020: 254–5). More studies on such diasporic networks and their potential repercussions in South Asia would further highlight the importance of temples, priests, and boards in the diaspora.

Hindu Temple Life in Diaspora—Maintenance and Change

In the first decades of the twenty-first century, more than 700 temples were counted in the US (Kurien 2007: 86) and probably even more in Canada (Long 2020: 167, Younger 2014: 126). Compared to this, the number in Europe is much more modest, topped by far by Britain’s over 300 temples (Knott 2009: 99). Not one of these temples completely resembles another: all have their own specific profile. Nevertheless, certain common trends can be ascertained which reflect the large internal diversity of Hindu traditions and the manifold patterns of maintenance and change in the new surroundings.

It is not only classical sacred architecture that makes a ‘real’ temple, but also the ritual techniques. For both North and South Indian temples, consecration rites and their symbolic power play a fundamental role, as they establish divine embodiment and a place where the divine can be encountered in physical form (Clothey 2006: 43–51, Eck 2001: 87–94, Eulberg 2022: 244–8, Luchesi 2020, Nugteren 2009: 125–31, Wilke 2017). The centuries-old consecration of images involves a complex series of ritual acts to infuse the stone with the life of the deity. In diaspora, despite such strategies of authentication, changes, adaptations, and compromises will almost inevitably occur. Even the beautiful, orthodox Śrīvaiṣṇava Veṅkaṭeśvara temple in Penn Hills, while faithfully following the daily schedule of the parent temple in Tirupati, has been shifting its major pūjās to weekends and suitable daytimes. Similarly, festivals are celebrated on long weekends and holidays of the secular and religious calendar of the new country, instead of rigorously following astrologically fixed dates, although seeking to stay as close as possible to the traditional ritual almanac. Whereas such concessions in sacred time to assure maximum attendance are very common in all diaspora temples, there is less compromise regarding concepts of sacred space and sacred geography, the sacrality of the land and power of the place where the Lord (or the Goddess) dwells (Eck 2001: 123–7, Geaves 2007: 169–70, Narayanan 1992: 148, 157–64).

The importance of sacred topography or topographical religiosity in the home culture makes it a major strategy of authenticity and of maintaining collective memory in diaspora. Real or simply imaginary reproductions of India’s sacred landscape and the reuse of famous temple names became fairly common around the globe. We find an abundance of duplicates of famous Indian pilgrimage places which seek to reproduce more or less faithfully not only the ritual cultures, theologies, priests, and architecture, but if possible even the very terrain and scenic beauty of the original place. Such duplicates include the various Veṅkateśvara temples in the US, Australia, East Africa, and Great Britain, as well as the goddess Kāmākṣī of Kanchi in Hamm-Uentrop (Germany), the goddess Mīnākṣī of Madurai in Houston, Nagapūśani Ammaṉ of Nainativu (Northern Sri Lanka) in Toronto, and holy Kashi (Varanasi) in Sebastian (Florida) and in Flint (Michigan), known as ‘Kashi of the West’ (Eck 2001: 125, Trouillet 2020: 7, Wilke 2003). Virtually the entire sacred geography of South India was reproduced in the Śiva-Viṣṇu Temple in the suburbs of Washington DC (Eck 2001: 126).

However, it is also typical for the diasporic context that even following meticulously traditional ritual rules does not exclude significant ritual change. For example, in the Rājarājeśvarī temple in Rush (upstate New York), extreme care is being taken to ensure ritual orthopraxy and authenticity in performing public pūjā and Vedic homa (fire ritual). However, the rituals are not carried out by male Brahman priests as usual, but by lay women of all backgrounds who assume the role of priests and leadership during temple ritual and processions, and may even receive the sacred thread (Dempsey 2014: 107–11). This unconventional agenda would hardly be possible in India or Sri Lanka. It is the temple’s location in North America that allows for extreme deviation from what is customary in South Asia (ibid.: 108).

For some, especially North Indian temples, the performance of exacting rituals is less central than the bhakti practice of communal singing of devotional bhajans. This has fostered a congregational style of worship, which is uncommon in temples in India, but frequently occurs in the diaspora (Kurien 2007: 93, 102, 106, Limacher 2021: 189–99, Long 2020: 159, Nugteren 2009: 131, 138–44, Nye 1995: 117, 146, 184, 212, Vertovec 2000: 137–9, Williams 1992: 239). Malory Nye (1995: 123) ascertained in the mid-1990s that communal bhajan singing (usually complemented by ritual action) had become the most common form of temple worship in British Hinduism and developed into a major feature of congregational worship. Furthermore, from the US and Canada to Sweden, in addition to new congregational rituals there is also a transformation of the temple from a place of (exclusively) worshipping the deities to a place of community, including greater participation by women and new socializing functions (Knott 2009: 96–7, Kurien 2007: 99–100, Narayanan 1992: 153, 170, 175, Rayaprol 1997, Schalk 2004: 75, 101, 202–5, Younger 2014).

In particular, a congregational style was developed early on by the indentured labourers in Guyana and other Caribbean countries (Vertovec 1992: 121, Younger 2014: 133)—to a much more pronounced degree than in other diaspora communities, and partly inspired by Christian church services. So, in Canada, where twice migrants from Guyana form a particularly large group, we can find English-speaking worship and gatherings around a paṇḍit (here: Hindustani priest) for bhajan singing and kathā, the telling, singing, and reciting of sacred narratives, preferably the Hindi Rāmāyaṇa of Tulsīdās, and the paṇḍit’s sermons on a verse of the sacred scripture. These performances developed into megachurch-like events in the Vishnu Mandir of Toronto, which is today one of the most prominent temples of the city (Younger 2014: 130–3). While many of the new additions introduced by Caribbean migrants, such as the use of English for worship and benches in the temple space, are rarely found among other Hindu communities, it is remarkable that sermon-like speeches in vernaculars (at the weekend service) are a new diaspora-specific element that became common in many temples, regardless of the tradition they follow, including Sri Lankan Tamil ones.

Sri Lankan Hindus have been the most faithful in reproducing their home culture and an experience of Tamil ethnicity—likely because dislocation from the home country is more acutely felt in the case of such a violently forced migration as theirs. The immense growth of Sri Lankan Tamil temples is also due to the fact that Sri Lankan Hindus currently constitute the world’s largest Hindu diaspora community (Trouillet 2020: 2, 14, Wilke 2020: 226 fn 10, 227) and the most industrious in temple-building. Sri Lankan Tamil places of worship may be seen as prototypical for ethnic and sectarian temples in diaspora, that is, temples steeped in a specific regional tradition and devoted to one singular deity. In contrast to South Indian Tamil Hinduism, the Sri Lankan variant is almost exclusively Śaiva (Caivam), which also means Śākta (Cāktam)—relating to the feminine and creative divine ‘power’ (śakti/cakti), the ‘mother’ (ammaṉ) of the world, as a constitutive element of Śivaism. Most diaspora temples are not dedicated to Śiva himself, but to the Goddess or Ammaṉ, Śiva’s śākti and spouse, or to one of their sons, Gaṇeśa (Vināyakaṉ) and Murukaṉ, the old Tamil god par excellence. A distinctive mark of Tamilness within Sri Lankan Hinduism is moreover the continuum of orthodox Āgamic Śaivasiddhānta/Caivacittāntam (complex ritual prescriptions in Sanskrit and Tamil), genuinely Tamil bhakti (an ecstatic devotional habitus, expressed in Tamil poems, songs, and recitals reaching back to the sixth century ad), and so-called ‘folk’ practices (appearing particularly in private vows (vrata/viratam) which are an integral part of temple culture).

Tamil temples cater to their audience through the rituals’ lush aesthetics, especially during the annual festivals. These are staged with as much opulence and splendour as possible, including great processions with huge, beautifully carved wooden processional chariots shipped from India or Sri Lanka to make the festivals just like ‘back home’ (Jacobsen 2008, 2020a, see also this volume, Chapter 14, Luchesi 2008, Wilke 2013). The yearly temple festivals often last ten to fourteen days, and on each day, the deity in the form of a movable processional icon is taken out of the pure temple space for a ride in colourful vehicles to grant darśan and bless the land and everyone in the profane world. The climax is the day of rathotsava (‘chariot festival’) or simply tēr (‘chariot’) when the big procession with the costly chariots, constructed like movable temples, takes place and attracts large crowds—in the case of the Kamadchi Temple of Hamm-Uentrop, for instance, with up to 20,000 participants young and old from all over Germany and neighbouring countries, mostly Tamil, but also native Germans. All of them feel, as it is often heard, like they are in Sri Lanka or South India. Everything that is experienced as most Tamil and a source of pride is abundantly present: Tamil language, Tamil arts (poetry, dance, music, and song), Tamil food, Tamil garments (usually not worn in everyday ‘normal life’), Tamil rituals, and Tamil vows, the embodied signs of Tamil piety. This is the day when physically strenuous and spectacular vows and self-mutilations are publicly performed to seek divine help for all kinds of ailments, illnesses, visa problems, childlessness, or to offer thanks for relief, and also to feel divine presence in one’s physical body (Baumann 2006, David 2008: 94, 96–8, Geaves 2007: 189–95, Jacobsen 2020a: 353–62, Wilke 2013). Women are constantly prostrating themselves on the processional route or carry clay pots filled with burning camphor or heavy metal pots with milk on their heads, men roll all the way on the ground, many dance to the rhythm of drums and flutes while carrying a heavy wooden arch with peacock feathers on their shoulders (kāvaṭi), and most have their bodies pierced with needles, spears, and hooks (alaku). They are called ‘god-dancers’; their self-mutilations are seen as acts of self-sacrifice and ‘miracle performance’ (David 2009: 349, Jacobsen 2020a: 356), and the trance induced in some by the ecstatic kāvaṭi dance and the musical rhythm is perceived as a form of divine possession (Baumann 2006: 139). The number of vow fulfillers is for Sri Lankan Hindus a sign of the authenticity of the temple and that the deity takes care of the devotees’ mundane problems (ibid.).

Kāvaṭi and alaku are unique features of Sri Lankan Tamil processions. Like the beautiful chariots, such vernacular practices are an important part of the re-creation of the familiar in the diaspora for the Sri Lankan Hindus. They produce deep emotion and a sensory feeling of ‘Tamilness’ and home culture, and are key events even for those who do not identify strongly with religion. Processions are organized even by small temples that remain otherwise ‘invisible’, as they are major avenues for the display of Tamil devotion in public space in front of larger audiences (Jacobsen 2008: 201, 2020a: 353–62).

Besides ‘ethnic’ and ‘sectarian temples‘ that seek to replicate home culture, such as the South Indian Veṅkaṭeśvara temples which are decidedly Śrivaiṣṇava and can now be found around the globe, there is another frequent temple type that has been variously characterized as ‘universal’, ‘ecumenical’, ‘pan-Indian’, ‘all-India deities (sarvā devatā) temple’, and ‘intentionally pan-Hindu’ (Clothey 2006: 38, 41–3, Eck 2001: 128, Kurien 2007: 86, 91–3, 98–100, Limacher 2021: 140–8, Long 2020: 159). This is a new temple type in diaspora, uncommon in India, which is deliberately multi-ethnic and attends to more than one central deity. It is a non-sectarian type of temple that does not exclusively cater to a specific denomination, but is open for all, and generally houses all major pan-Indian (Sanskritic) deities. Diane Eck explains the programmatic ‘eclecticism’ of these temples with a long-standing Indian habitus: ‘Unity in diversity is a keynote of Hindu civilization’ and with an ancient theological underpinning in the often-quoted Vedic affirmation: ‘Truth is One. People call it by many names’ (2001: 80). At the most basic level, the ecumenical or universal temple type emphasizes the common ‘pan-Indian’ or ‘pan-Hindu’ heritage. Yet the pre-eminent deity is often Vaiṣṇava (Rām or Kṛṣṇa). A number keep a more or less ethnic and regional colouring (North more than South) regarding deities, mode of worship, theology, and temple community. More specifically and more truly universal are temples that combine Śiva and Viṣṇu in one temple complex (which is not found in India), such as in American Livermore and Malibu or in Australian Helensburg and Canberra (Eck 2001: 83–5, 126, Kandiah 2003: 49, 144, Kurien 2007: 92). Other temples house North and South Indian deities that are each worshipped in their specific modes, such as in the American HARI Temple in rural Pennsylvania with a North and South Indian priest (Long 2020: 156–61) or the Canadian Hindu Samaj in Hamilton, in which only a Hindi-speaking priest is responsible for the daily routine (Younger 2014: 129–31).

The ‘universal temple’ type is quite common in the Hindu diaspora (Long 2020: 159). It can be found in the US, Canada, Australia, Britain, and those countries of continental Europe that have a majority of Indian Hindus. The intentional pan-Hindu programme and the wish to attract the entire local Hindu community often manifests in the temples’ generic names, such as ‘mandir’ (Hindi for ‘temple’). The Austrian ‘Hindu Mandir Association’ and ‘Sanatan Dharam Mandir’ (Limacher 2021: 140–8), the Pennsylvanian ‘HARI temple’ (Long 2020: 156–61), the ‘Canberra Hindu Temple’ (Kandiah 2003: 146), and the ‘Hindu Mandir’ in Leeds (Knott 1986) belong to this type, the latter two being the first in Australia’s capital city and the first joint temple in Europe. However, despite these and innumerable other pan-Hindu temples, the North–South Indian divide has rarely been completely overcome, as has been acknowledged in the US (Kurien 2007: 100), Canada (ibid.), Australia (ibid.), and Europe (Jacobsen 2013: 281).

Hindu temples in diaspora become favoured arenas for acting out identities that have become complex and hybrid as a result of migration processes. Persons are both Indian and American, ritual authenticity co-exists with significant ritual change, and temples are both local and pan-Indian. Particularly the sampradāya-based temples of the globally acting BAPS Swaminarayan and ISKCON consciously display both an ethnic and pan-Hindu profile. Authenticity in the diaspora therefore is not what it would be in the original homelands, where no such claim is needed in the first place. At the turn of the century, Diana Eck diagnosed that ‘a new and somehow American Hinduism is coming into being’ (Eck 2001: 140). Similar claims have been made for Britain, starting with the consolidation of the term ‘Hinduism’ or a ‘Hindu faith community’ (Knott 2009).

There is a broad spectrum of continuity and innovation which varies among the different temple communities. One fundamental change, however, concerns them all, namely the new social function of temples. People go to temples not only to pray and have darśan, but also to meet and socialize, to partake in the communal meal after worship, and to have children attend Sunday school or music, dance, and language classes (be it Sanskrit, native Indian languages, or the language of the diaspora country). Free meals offered after weekend services, cooked in turns by families of the temple community, are a very common new feature throughout the diaspora (Baumann, Luchesi, and Wilke 2003: 34, Limacher 2021: 176–82, Narayanan 1992: 170, Nugteren 2009: 139, Schalk 2004, Younger 2014: 136). Temples and festivals have become a new socializing space, a place of community building, and not only a place where devotions and serious rituals are going on. Rather, they are also places of merriment during processions, music concerts, children’s theatre plays, garbha dance parties, or marriage ceremonies. Even sport events sometimes take place, and craft goods, food, jewellery, garments, and music CDs are available at festival markets. Thus, throughout all the diaspora countries, Hindu temples not only became more congregational and shifted from places of worship towards community, but also transformed themselves into multifunctional buildings and community centres similar to those of churches (Long 2020: 149). This broadened function also explains the addition of a separate community hall or a cultural centre, where various classes and courses are held and where more space for life-cycle rituals, particularly weddings and big marriage parties, is available. Adjacent community halls have become quite common in the US and Canada, sometimes being larger than the relatively modest temple itself (Younger 2014: 137), or built before the temple with classical architecture was erected (Clothey 2006: 40, Eck 2001: 129, Kurien 2007: 87, Narayanan 1992: 153, 175). In Europe, a discernible new development is not only the amazing sudden growth of new ‘real’ temples (mainly for Sri Lankan Hindus), but also the emergence of purpose-built temples-cum-cultural centres (Nugteren 2009, Wilke 2020: 333).

Hindu Temple in Diaspora—Innovations and Challenges

In her study on the Hindu Mandir in Leeds early on, Kim Knott points to processes of standardization of Hindu beliefs and practices (1986: 85, 155). As the temple was jointly established by Punjabi and Gujarati Hindus, temple representatives and the priest sought to emphasize shared and pan-Indian aspects of Hindu beliefs and practices. Moreover, influenced by both the Arya Samaj and the VHP, a ‘Hindu Catechism’ and ‘nine articles of Hindu faith’ have been in use and intended to provide a shared platform for Hindus themselves and to explain Hinduism to non-Hindus, such as in educational and civic encounters (Knott 1986: 83–6, 295–6). Similar standardized presentations of the basics of Hinduism to insiders and outsiders have since been in use by various temples in Britain, as temple souvenir guides show (Knott 2009: 104–5). In the United States, Raymond B. Williams (1992: 239) likewise observes standardizing and unifying processes in the development of a ‘universal’, ‘ecumenical Hinduism’. This form of Hinduism ‘unites deities, rituals, sacred texts, and people in temples and programs in ways that would not be found together in India’ (ibid.). As indicated, the first processes of standardization or homogenization of Hindu concepts and practices evolved in the Caribbean due to the ritual monopoly of the Brahman priests who reacted to the reform programme of the Arya Samaj. From the 1950s onwards, a ‘Brahmanization’ with the ‘marginalization of low caste religious activities’ and the spreading of Sanskritic concepts and rituals came to the fore alongside the evolution of congregational worship with joint singing, prayer book, and sermon (van der Veer and Vertovec 1991: 158). Likewise, Trouillet in his study on migrant priests serving in Mauritian and Canadian Tamil temples argues that there has been a process of standardization and Brahmanization of diasporic Tamil temple Hinduism. These Śivācāryas, recruited primarily from South India to many overseas temples, would denounce low-caste practices and favour a Brahmanical repertoire of rituals as taught in (by now numerous) Āgama-based training schools in South India (Trouillet 2020: 6, 20). Overall, such standardizing processes are observable in various diasporic countries in order to unite Hindus from different traditions on a lowest common denominator, and to present Hinduism to non-Hindus, authorities, and civic agents as a coherent and respected religion on a par with Christianity, Islam, and Buddhism.

Moreover, the new expanded roles of priests bring challenges and new opportunities. As Brahman priests are rare in the diaspora, they are usually recruited from India, but there is also new circulation amongst priests within the diaspora countries. Not just any Brahman priest can serve in every diaspora temple. The priests must be well accustomed to the local deities and ritual traditions, and generally come from the respective places and from families with the hereditary right to be temple priests. They must be trained in accurate ritual performance and have received additional initiation to be the chief priest. These traditional roles are now combined with new ones. The ecumenism of major American temples with catering to a pan-Indian clientele means that priests must learn about other ritual traditions (Kurien 2007: 98). Moreover, temple priests in India are not responsible for the traditionally domestic life-cycle rituals, but in the diaspora they usually are—sometimes even for the (highly polluting) death rituals (Kurien 2007: 99). The life-cycle ceremonies represent extra workload, but increase prestige and finances. This is especially so when performing the rites in private homes and receiving a donation or fee in addition to the salary from the temple committee (Trouillet 2020: 4, 9). Another new role some priests attain is the one of a counsellor (Kurien 2007: 99), guru, or pastor caring for the spiritual welfare of individuals of any age, including the sick, the mourning, and even prisoners (as has been requested of the chief priest of Hamm-Uentrop). A new task is also teaching classes in religious education (unless performed by lay volunteers) and giving sermons, explaining the ritual or the festival day.

As literature testifies (Knott 1986: 115, Jacobsen 2013: 283, Marla-Küsters 2015: 20–1, Younger 2014: 144) and our field research confirms, numerous board members and parents justify the foundation of a temple with the aim of securing the continuation and transmission of the Hindu tradition to the next generation(s). Many regard this is a key task and challenge. Do the temple and its rituals support this wish for transmission of tradition to the young generation and what role do they exactly play regarding this? In South Asia, the venue for transmitting Hindu practices and knowledge is not the temple but the domestic shrine, with women acting as ritual specialists. Women perform the pūjā for the family’s favoured deities, conduct fasts (vrata) on special days, and at times meet in small groups to join in devotional songs (bhajan) (Leslie 1991). To a large extent, this domestic practice also continues in the diaspora, with mothers introducing the children to the devotional practice of honouring the deities, and telling stories about the gods. The children learn by observing and doing. Robert Jackson and Eleanor Nesbitt studied Hindu children aged eight to 12 in Coventry, Britain, who referred to the domestic shrine with regards to prayer and worship (1993: 93–109). Sandhya Marla-Küsters in her study on young Tamil Hindus aged 14 to 31 in Germany supports the before mentioned findings of Jackson and Nesbitt that religious socialization takes place at home with the pious mother venerating the deities (Marla-Küsters 2015: 138–99). The temple, however, is regarded with suspicion by many youths as they feel constantly controlled and watched by the elders. Many thus visit the temple only rarely, though a small minority attribute high importance to the temple and regularly take part in temple life (ibid. 199–220, Gupta 2006: 29). All, however, love to go to the great procession at the Kamadchi Temple in Hamm-Uentrop, albeit less for religious reasons but rather for socializing, having fun with their peers, buying goods at the festival market, and attending the procession as a sort of marriage market or ‘Tamil love parade’ (Marla-Küsters 2015: 352–3).

Qualitative studies in Germany, Britain, and Norway attest to a serious break in teenage years, when the young start asking questions such as, ‘Why so many gods?’ and ‘What is the meaning of the rituals?’ Mothers/parents commonly are not able to give answers, and responses like, ‘It has always been done that way’ have become unacceptable for the young (Gupta 2006: 127, 130, 135–36, Marla-Küsters 2015: 146–50, 156–8, Nesbitt 2020: 748, 760). Religion and philosophy classes at school have become important locations for new identity formation, introducing discussions, discursive argumentation, debate, and questioning. They expose young Hindus to Christian notions about religion which profoundly change their perception. Marla-Küster’s and other studies demonstrate a move from their families’ inclusive praxis of religious boundary crossing (such as Sri Lankan Hindus visiting Roman Catholic churches) to sharper distinctions between ‘religions’ as well as a shifting emphasis from praxis to faith and doctrine—up to qualifying their parents’ religious style as ‘empty ritualism’ and ‘idol worship’ (Fibiger 2010, Gupta 2006: 126, 135–7, Kleive 2017, Knott 2013: 338, Marla-Küsters 2015: 149, 319, 385, Nesbitt 2020: 746–8).

Young Hindus seek to fill the gaps in their knowledge about Hinduism via Indian movies and social media which, moreover, create a transnational community among them (Jackson and Nesbitt 1993: 135, Marla-Küsters 2015: 193–9, 243–51, Nesbitt 2020: 745, 760). Self-help via the Internet is all the more frequent when formal religious education in Hinduism is lacking, as in most countries of continental Europe. Supplementary Tamil schools have been established in many European countries less for religious matters, but rather to strengthen Tamil language skills and national identity (Nesbitt 2020: 759). Noteworthy exceptions are the state-funded Hindu schools in the Netherlands (with its majority of Surinamese Hindus) and a number of independent, partly state-funded Hindu schools in Britain, established to ward off the erosion of cultural identity (ibid., 744–6, 757–8).

In contrast to the general situation in continental Europe (possibly because it is limping two decades behind in establishing temple culture), many British and North American temples offer regular Sunday schools and classes on Hindu culture, as well as on languages, music, and dance which also comprise religious heritage (Eck 2001: 136–8, Jackson and Nesbitt 1993: 147–65, Kurien 2007: 113–15, Nesbitt 2020: 754–6, Reifenrath 2010: 126, 144). With reference to the US, Vasudha Narayanan (1992: 170) discerned a process of ‘templification’, alluding not only to the substantial growth of Hindu temples in diaspora, but also to a shift of life-cycle rituals, festivals, and religious education from homes and (grand)mothers to the temple and temple priests (see also Baumann 2009 and Kurien 2007: 99).

Hindu heritage classes abound in American temples—some using makeshift curricula, others comprehensive teaching materials explicitly produced to teach Hinduism in the West (Eck 2001: 137). Strikingly, the most comprehensive and systematic materials were developed by modern transnational sampradāyas, such as the Vedic Heritage curriculum of the Arsha Vidya Gurukula (Saylorsburg) with student workbooks and teachers’ guides, and the skilful curricular programme for all age groups of the Chinmaya Mission (Houston). These are widely used in American temples, both movements being Advaita Vedānta-based. In addition, there are the Śaiva Siddhānta curriculum of the Himalayan Institute (Hawaii and California) and the standardized (‘Vaiṣṇavaite/pan-Hindu’) BAPS Swaminarayan syllabus, including exams, issued from the national headquarters, and used in the movement’s temples and own school buildings exclusively for BAPS members. Furthermore, the materials of the ISKCON, the Satya Sai Baba, the Hindu Swayam Sevak Sangh, and the Vishva Hindu Parishad are also in use (Eck 2001: 136–9, Kurien 2007: 113–15, Long 2020: 153, Nesbitt 2020: 754–5, Reifenrath 2010: 120–1, 126). Besides weekly classes, the Chinmaya Mission, the Arsha Vidya Pitham, and the BAPS also offer youth and family camps as well as pilgrimages to India, which in the US are favourite sites for learning about the Hindu religion in cognitive, sensory, and emotional ways. The most effective agents for transmitting the Hindu religion to the young generation in a systematic way have obviously been these powerful transnational modern sampradāyas, thereby producing a new codification and an American Hindu identity.

Special mention needs to be made of the BAPS Swaminarayan Sanstha. Although being predominantly Gujarati, in many ways atypical for Hindu traditions, and constituting only a small percentage of Hindus in the diaspora, it managed to become the public face of Hinduism in Britain and to some extent also in the US, due to its megafestivals and stunningly beautiful ornate temples. These are the biggest constructions outside India and belong as powerful sensory amplifiers to the moral-aesthetic, educational, and missionizing project of the movement (Kurien 2007: 100–4, Reifenrath 2010: 120–55, Williams 2001: 123–36).

While initiative priests and transnational sampradāyas have been driving forces for innovation and standardization, it is the young generation in the first place that is confronted with the challenge to identify what parts of Hindu tradition(s) they claim for themselves and what parts they will let go (Eck 2001: 137). The diasporic setting poses challenges and new opportunities—including for women. Hindu women not only often maintain their powerful role as religious specialists in the domestic sphere and their reputation and self-estimation of having greater piety and moral strength than males (Marla-Küsters 2015: 142, 159, Reifenrath 2010: 169). They also attain new roles reaching out into the public sphere previously primarily dominated by men. Women take an active lead in community development, participate in temple boards, fundraising, management, and religious education, and publish their own magazines. Some act as priestesses, ritual specialists, charismatic oracles, gurus, worship and bhajan group leaders, and organizers of collective devotions, festivals, and satsaṅgs (religious gatherings) (David 2009, Dempsey 2014, Knott 2013: 337–9, Kurien 2007: 109–13, Lorenço 2015: 106–13, Rayaprol 1997, Reifenrath 2010: 146, 150, Schalk 2004: 203–5, Younger 2014: 141–3). While Inês Lorenço (2015: 106–8) justifiably argues that there is no clear-cut divide but rather continuity between private/domestic and public/temple spaces, Ann David (2009: 342–3) considers some of the strongest and most important diaspora developments to be the new ritual spaces for women and the presence of priestesses—although only few, nevertheless spectacular temples exist with women at the centre, such as the Danish Apirāmi temple in Brande with its ecstatic priestess and the Rājarājeśvarī temple upstate New York with its exclusively female ritual leaders and priestesses (Dempsey 2014). Priestly functions are also fulfilled by the red-clad lay-women worshippers of the great goddess Ātiparāśakti in the East Ham Sakthi Peetham in London, the Ati Para Sakti Temple in Toronto, and the Adiparasakthi Amman Temple in Kirchberg, Switzerland. These temples belong to a new transnational movement inspired by a village goddess temple and a guru of Melmaruvathūr, Tamilnadu (David 2009, Eulberg 2022: 248–9, Younger 2014: 141–3).

Equally innovative, and thereby challenging traditional hierarchies, are the Western priests in ISKCON as well as the fair number of highly motivated individuals and non-Brahman enthusiasts whose charisma and devotional zeal brought about the most renowned European temples and pilgrimage centres. Mention needs to be made of the Sri Lankan Guru Subramaniyam, son of a Sinhalese Buddhist father and a Tamil Hindu mother. He built the monastic Community of the ‘Many Names of God’—a new Śaiva pilgrimage centre in Skanda Vale, rural South Wales, which became nationally and internationally renowned as a place of peaceful serenity and deep spirituality (Geaves 2007: 92–93, 208–38). Another example is the enthusiastic German Tamil head priest Sri Paskaran, a non-Brahman Sri Lankan Vīraśaiva, who established the first and still largest Dravidian temple in continental Europe that became a famous pilgrimage site during its yearly processions (Baumann et al. 2003: 125–274, Wilke 2013). Reference has already been made to the Apirāmi temple in Danish Brande and its famous ecstatic non-Brahman priestess Lalitha Sripalan (Fibiger 2012). Moreover, there is the non-Brahman Dutch Hindustani priest in Wijchen who founded the largest temple in the country, a custom-built temple-cum-cultural centre for Rām, designed as a light, airy, pure, and simple building, in which a very active temple life and interfaith activity developed (Nugteren 2009). Overall, such charismatic individuals, as well as temple boards, head priests, and sampradāyas and also women and an engaged youth are eager to find a balance between strategies of authentication and processes of adaptation and innovation to secure the continuity of Hindu temples in diaspora over the next decades and centuries.

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Younger, Paul. 2014. ‘Hindu Ritual in Canadian Context.’ In Hindu Ritual at the Margins. Innovations, Transformations, and Reconsiderations, edited by Linda Penkowera and Tracy Pintchman, 126–47. Columbia: The University of South Carolina Press.

Martin Baumann and Annette Wilke, The Hindu Temple in the Diasporas In: Hindu Diasporas. Edited by: Knut A. Jacobsen, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198867692.003.0014

14

Pilgrimage Sites and Procession Rituals in the Hindu Diasporas

Knut A. Jacobsen

Studies of Hindu pilgrimage sites (tīrthas) have mainly focused on India (Bhardwaj 1973, Eck 2012, Jacobsen 2013). The statement made a few decades ago that ‘the pilgrimage practices of the overseas Hindus have been largely ignored’ (Bhardwaj and Rao 1988: 159) is mostly still correct.¹ Studies of overseas Hindu tīrthas are not usually included in volumes on the Indian or Hindu diasporas. Furthermore, the lack of pilgrimage has also been claimed as a characteristic of Hindu religion in the diasporas when compared to Hinduism in India (Smart 1987: 292). However, Hindu sacred sites (tīrthas) with temples and pilgrimage festivals, and various forms of processions connected to them are part of Hindu traditions not only in India but also in the Hindu diasporas globally. The sacred geography of Hinduism is no longer limited to an Indian or a South Asian geography but encompasses the whole world. As Hindus from South Asia have migrated to the rest of the world, so have their pilgrimage traditions.

The second half of the twentieth century saw a revival of Hindu religion in many of the ‘old’ Hindu diasporas,² and a global consolidation, and this development has continued into the twenty-first. The increased popularity and growth of pilgrimage festivals and pilgrimage practices around sacred sites in the old diasporas connect to this revival and global consolidation (Belle 2017, Claveyrolas 2018, Clothey 2006, Collins 1997, Eisenlohr 2006, Lang 2021, Lee 1989, Prorok 2003, Younger 2010). In the ‘new’ Hindu diasporas in Europe, North America, Australia, and New Zealand, migration of Hindus from South India and Sri Lanka in particular has led to the construction of monumental temples based on South Indian traditions of temple architecture, sometimes modelled on the famous South Indian pilgrimage temple of Veṅkaṭeśvara in Andhra Pradesh, and a number of these new temples have become objects of pilgrimage travel and sites of pilgrimage processions (Bhardwaj 1991, Bhardwaj and Rao 1988, Geaves 2007a, Jacobsen 2008, Jones 2020, Luchesi 2008a, Wilke 2013). In addition, some movements such as Svāminārāyaṇa and ISKCON have established their own sacred sites which have attracted Hindu visitors from beyond the local community. Strengthening of religious identities and growth in prosperity have taken place in both the old and new diasporas, which are some of the reasons for the increase in pilgrimage sites and pilgrimage practices.³

The pilgrimage sites and pilgrimage processions welcome all, and this inclusiveness favours, to some degree, egalitarian values and thus also a common group identity. Pilgrimage festivals in the Hindu diasporas can gather a large Hindu public presence and are important for displaying and promoting Hindu connection to territory in the diasporic contexts. Pilgrimage and other festivals often mobilize feelings of happiness and pride in the Hindu diasporas (Jacobsen 2008, Lang 2021, Prorok 2003).⁴ Revival of Hinduism has functioned to give Hindu communities esteem and recognition. Having done field research for many years at the annual tīrthotsava, the festival of bathing in sacred water, at Sivasubramaniyar Alayam in Oslo, Norway, in which the utsava mūrtis of Murukaṉ, Ammaṉ, Vināyakar (Piḷḷaiyār), and Sandesvarar are carried in procession to a Hindu sacred lake in the forest where the vēl, the weapon of Murukaṉ is given a sacred bath (see Figure 14.1.), I have seen and been told many times by participants how happy they feel at the festival, especially in the moments after the ritual bathing of the vēl has been completed, at which time there is a playful atmosphere. The pilgrimages also welcome persons with non-Indian ethnicity, and tourists and non-Hindus are easily included, the Tamil taipūcam processions in Penang, Malaysia, being a good example, with many participants belonging also to the Chinese minority (Lee 1989). Public religious festivals have also been important for Hinduism overcoming invisibility (Knott 2017). The pilgrimage festivals and processions are intensively filmed and made available on the Web, which also illustrates the importance of the pilgrimage festivals for the display of religion (Jacobsen 2008).

Figure 14.1 Tīrthotsav procession, Sivasubramaniyar Alayam in Oslo, Norway (photograph by author, June 2010).

India, Diaspora and Hindu Sacred Sites

Hindu pilgrimage sites in the diasporas are often connected to India’s sacred geography which becomes an important basis for their sacredness. Of course, the Hindu gods and goddesses worshipped in the diaspora manifested themselves first in India, and sacred sites in India are in many cases considered their original homes. This connects all Hindus in some way to the Hindu sacred geography of India. Some gods or goddesses may have attained increased importance in the diaspora, but they are nevertheless also of Indian origin. An exception seems to be the deity Muneeswaran who perhaps is a new Hindu god created in the diasporas and has become an important god in Singapore and Malaysia (Sinha 2005).⁵ Hindu material religion in the form of ritual equipment for worship in the diasporas is Indian (Sinha 2011: 30), and Indian Hindu temple architecture defines the temples in the diasporas. ‘Authentic’ temples are those constructed in styles similar to temples in India. Reduplications of the famous Veṅkaṭeśvara temple in Tirupati are found in Britain and the United States. Even the Veṅkaṭeśvara temple’s role as the richest temple has been reduplicated! The Sri Venkateshwara Temple in Pittsburgh in the United States was at some point the wealthiest temple in the Western hemisphere (Bhardwaj 1991), and perhaps still is. Water bodies such as lakes and rivers in several countries such as Mauritius, Trinidad, and Suriname are claimed to be the River Gaṅgā and thus extensions of India’s geography. The River Soar in Leicestershire in Britain was in 2005 turned into the River Gaṅgā by pouring a bowl of Gaṅgā water from India into the river.⁶ In the future, water from the River Gaṅgā will most likely flow in many more countries of the world. The mūrtis and liṅgas of all larger (orthodox or āgamic) Hindu temples in the world come from India which shows how religious iconopraxis (Jain 2021) connects the diasporas with India. Sounds from musical instruments, drumming, or chanting are important parts of pilgrimage processions and contribute to making a sacred and dramatic atmosphere. Temple musicians often come from India or Sri Lanka for the festivals. Festivals at the Īḷam Tamil temples in Europe are often scheduled so that the same musicians from Sri Lanka can perform at several festivals. The śilpis or stone workers building the shrines and temple ornamentations in the Hindu temples worldwide are hired from India. Other parts of Hindu social religion are also Indian. Priests (pujārīs, brāhmaṇas, śivācāryas, śaiva kurukkaḷs) in the temples are often recruited from India (or Sri Lanka, but better if also educated in India), especially in those temples that attempt to be prestigious and ‘authentic’. In the 1970s, Hindu priests from India started to engage in work abroad (Fuller 2003) and since then priests from India and Sri Lanka have increasingly become internationally mobile (Troillet 2020, see also Chapter 10 in this volume). This international mobility of Hindu priests has become so prominent that it has led to certain standardizations of forms of overseas Hinduism, most notable in overseas Tamil Hinduism where there is a tendency for practices in temples to become homogenized under their influence (Troillet 2020). An illustration of the transformation of Hinduism from a religion limited mostly to the South Asian geography to a religion that includes sacred sites around the world is that the main ambition of many aspiring young priests in India and Sri Lanka is to leave South Asia to work as priests in diaspora countries (Troillet 2020). This demonstrates well how Hindu sacred sites have become a global phenomenon, and the relationship of these sites to India. Also, many small temples around the world recruit priests from India (or Sri Lanka) because employing priests from India (or Sri Lanka) is regarded as a way of becoming more authentically Hindu. Inherited mother tongues from South Asia are promoted and are seen to connect to ‘authentic’ identities. Sacred sites, pilgrimage festivals, and processions in the diasporas promote, and often rely on, connections to India.

Pilgrimage and diaspora connect in many ways. The movement of Indians as indentured labour that started in the 1830s and which created the largest Hindu diasporas in the early modern period took place in a society that already had much mobility. India has many migratory cultures often connected to economic mobility such as work and trade (Tumbe 2018), and Indians had been crossing the ocean to South East Asia and East Africa for centuries before the modern era.⁷ Circulation and mobility of people also included pilgrimage. The recruiters of indentured labour actively used these mobilities as well as teachings about India’s sacred geography in their recruitment efforts. Persons who were on pilgrimage were thought to be easy to recruit because they were already on the move (Kelly 1992). Indenture travel was also sometimes presented by recruiters as a pilgrimage to a sacred destination. The travel to Suriname was portrayed by many recruiters ‘as a pilgrimage to the holy country of God Ram, named Sri Ram or sarnam (famous) or srinam (sublime name)’ (Choenni 2008: 112). Young widows who had completed a pilgrimage were sought out by contractors in Mathura, which was a place for widows; here, Suriname was presented to them as Sri Ram Desh, and ‘many young widows recruited from Mathura were apparently willing to undertake the pilgrimage to what they were made to believe was the land of lord Ram’ (Choenni 2008: 114).

From a diasporic perspective, pilgrimage sites in the diaspora have a double function. They connect Hindus simultaneously to two locations. On the one hand, the pilgrimage sites function to connect the Hindu diaspora groups to their ancestral country of origin. Hindu religion becomes a source of their identity, which is substantiated at the sites. On the other hand, pilgrimage sites function to make Hindus feel at home in the diaspora. In addition, participation is group oriented, and often draws large crowds, which confirms the feeling of belonging.

How are Hindu Sacred Sites in the Diasporas Being Established?

Since Hindu pilgrimage sites in India are often connected to narratives about the presence of gods and goddesses at the sites, and this traditional Hindu mythology is connected to the geography of India, how is the divine presence at the Hindu pilgrimage places in the diasporas explained or constructed? How is the sacred landscape of Hinduism being expanded to the rest of the world? In 1994, the Flushing-based Council of Hindu Temples of North America published a guide to the Hindu pilgrimage sites in America (Mohan 1999: 289–94). In that text, the Council repeated a classification of tīrthas made in the Brahmapurāṇa, categorized into four types according to their origin: (1) daiva tīrthas are sacred places resulting directly from divine acts; (2) asura tīrthas are places where Asuras were destroyed by gods and dharma restored; (3) arṣa tīrthas have their origin in the penance of ṛṣis; and (4) manuṣa tīrthas are founded by humans belonging to the solar and lunar dynasties (the Sūrya and Candra dynasties). The text states: ‘Here in North America, all the temple sites are Manusha Tīrthas, examples of religious societies and temple authorities creating sacred space’ (Mohan 1999: 292–3). Be that as it may, this is not so in many other Hindu diasporas. Daiva tīrthas are found in the diasporas and perhaps also asura tīrthas and arṣa tīrthas (see next section). It is often an encounter with a god in a vision or in a dream (Narayanan 1992: 155–7) that provides the initial push for discovering a sacred site, building a temple, or establishing a particular mūrti.

A different typology of Hindu pilgrimage sites than the one from the Brahmapurāṇa will be attempted here. Hindu pilgrimage sites in the diasporas can be divided into (1) places that have become pilgrimage sites because of special natural features such as a svayambhū phenomenon; (2) places that have become pilgrimage sites because of the temples at the sites; (3) places that have become pilgrimage sites because they are connected to gurus or other sacred persons; and (4) Marian pilgrimage shrines that have become objects of Hindu pilgrimage travel. Temples are naturally established at all the first three sites, but these three types of tīrthas in the diasporas can nevertheless be analytically distinguished. We will now look at some significant examples of these four types of sacred sites.

Hindu Pilgrimage Sites Connected to Special Natural Features

In Fiji one can find a daiva tīrtha, the sacralization of a location based on the transference of a Hindu myth. In the north-western part of the largest island of Fiji, Viti Levu, where around 75 per cent of the population of Fiji live, the Nakauvadra mountain range is believed to be the dwelling place of Kāliya Nāg, the snake king banished to a remote southern island by Kṛṣṇa (Miller 2008: 153–4). Hindus in Fiji believe that the Fiji Islands are referred to as Ramaṇaka Dvīpa in Hindu texts and is the place where Garuḍa brought Kāliya Nāg from the River Yamunā and dropped it. This shows how the sacred narratives of India’s sacred geography and Hinduism’s locative processes can be extended to countries far away from India. In Fiji, many natural objects at sacred sites are thought to be svayambhū, appearing by their own power, and as signs of their inherent power they are believed to continue to grow after they have been discovered. One such svayambhū stone is the object of the only site of pilgrimage in Fiji:

Indo-Fijian Hindus located divinity in various self-manifested phenomena (svayambhu), such as rock formations or other geologically formed objects that resemble deities or their associated symbols. These objects, believed to be naturally invested with the presence of god, are often moved into temples or, in extraordinary cases, become temple sites themselves. The most famous example is Fiji’s only Hindu pilgrimage site (on a modest scale), the Sanatani Naag Mandir (‘Snake Temple’) near Labasa [in northwestern part of Vanua Levu], built around an impressive rock outcrop that resembles a hooded cobra. More impressive still is the local belief that the rock ‘grows’ several centimeters a year, a miraculous phenomenon that has caused the temple roof to be raised four times in its fifty-year history. (Miller 2008: 154)

This myth of Kāliya is joined with a precolonial indigenous Fijian snake deity Degei, and thus Hindu mythology is made to precede the arrival of the Hindus to the island.

In Mauritius, Trinidad, and Suriname, and also other countries, water bodies are identified with the water of the River Gaṅgā. Sacred Gaṅgās with pilgrimages include the Ganga Talao in Mauritius, Datta Ganga in Trinidad, and many rivers in Suriname. The pilgrimage to the lake Ganga Talao in Mauritius (Talao in Bhojpuri, Talab in Hindi, meaning ‘small lake’) is one of the largest pilgrimages in the Hindu diasporas. Ganga Talao is also a daiva tīrtha. More than 400,000 people or 30 per cent of the population of Mauritius participate in the Ganga Talao pilgrimage processions during śivarātri (Eisenlohr 2006: 245). In Mauritius pilgrimage circulation has attained some functions similar to those in India, such as pilgrimage activating territorial national networks. The pilgrimage functions to claim Mauritius as Hindu. Mauritius is the only country outside of South Asia with a Hindu majority, and only one of three in the world, the other two being India and Nepal. Hinduization of space in Mauritius shows how a majority Hindu population has used sacred sites, pilgrimage, and processions to define the landscape as Hindu and to use their Indian ancestral origin to define their identity. The largest group of Hindus are from North India (Bhojpuri-speaking areas of Bihar and Uttar Pradesh) and it is mainly they who participate in this procession pilgrimage.⁸ When the Hindu plantation workers arrived they built their own sacred places and during the twentieth century, when the descendants of these workers left the plantations, the Hindu communities ‘began to claim the entire Mauritian national territory, most of all through an ever-growing network of sacred places and religious circulation’ (Claveyrolas 2018: 25–6). It has been suggested that the pilgrimage mirrors the success story of the Hindu community in Mauritius (Claveyrolas 2018, Eisenlohr 2006). During śivarātri, processions are organized from every corner of Mauritius, and they meet at the Ganga Talao, where water from the lake is collected and used for worship in the Śiva temple at the site, and carried back home to the villages and towns to be used in the local Śiva temples. Some pilgrims walk 40 miles (Eisenlohr 2006: 245).

The original foundation of the Ganga Talao is based on the claim that the lake contained water from the River Gaṅgā. This claim not only made the water of the lake sacred, but it also made the lake Hindu. The Purāṇic style of narrative makes Ganga Talao a daiva tīrtha that connects the lake to Śiva and Pārvatī:

The god Shiva, the transformer and destroyer, and his wife Parvati were flying around the world in a ship. Shiva wanted to show Parvati the most beautiful places on earth, so they stopped in Mauritius. During the journey, Shiva was carrying the river Ganges on his head, to prevent the earth from flooding. When they wanted to land in Mauritius, Shiva accidently spilled water of the holy river. Drops of it were flowing together in the crater—this is how Grand Bassin emerged.⁹

It is notable in this narrative that the activities of the gods take place in the world outside of India. Other stories about the origin of the lake connect it to Gaṅgā and the god Vāyu. When the goddess Gaṅgā saw the emigrants leave India for faraway Mauritius, a tear fell from her eye. The wind god, Vāyu, then carried the drop to the site of the lake (Eisenlohr 2006: 248).

The sacredness of the place was apparently discovered by Pandit Jhummon Giri Gossagne, based on a dream. In 1897 he dreamt that a tributary to the Gaṅgā, the River Jahnavī, was emptying into the lake. In 1898 Gossagne, together with Pandit Sajeewon (or Sajhiwon), the chief priest and founder in 1892 of the Maheshwarnath Temple in Triolet, led a pilgrimage for the first time to the lake. It appears stories were circulated claiming that the river was joined to the Gaṅgā by a subterranean connection beneath the ocean. Hindu organizations such as the Hindu Mahasabha were active in promoting such connections. Pilgrims took water from the lake and brought it to the Śiva temple in Triolet. Thus, the lake became associated with Śiva and śivarātri, when pilgrims used kāṅvars (bamboo poles with pots suspended at each end) to fetch water, similar to the kānvar pilgrimage in North India (Bose 2020). In 1972 water from Gaṅgā was in a ritual mixed with the water of the lake, thus turning the lake ‘officially’ into Gaṅgā.

The pilgrimage place has several temples, and one of the temples along the lake is a Kashi Visvanath Temple, established in 1964, which links the lake to Gaṅgā at a particular spot in India, at Varanasi, a major Śaiva pilgrimage centre and a place where Gaṅgā is particularly sacred. This naming of the temple as Kashi Visvanath transfers the power of Śiva’s manifestation in Varanasi to Ganga Talao. The ghāts, the steps down to the lake, are another parallel to Varanasi. The water in Ganga Talao is not only Gaṅgā, but Gaṅgā in Varanasi. The other main temple along the lake is Mauritiuseswarnath Mandir and it is the Mauritiuseswarnath liṅga of this temple that is claimed to be an addition to the 12 jyotirlinga shrines in India. A table in the Mauritiuseswarnath Mandir lists 13 jyotirliṅgas (trayodaś jyotir liṅga), the 12 jyotirliṅgas in India¹⁰ and an additional one in Mauritius, ‘Mauritiuseswarnath ji: On the banks of Ganga Talab, Mauritius’ (Eisenlohr 2006: 246). This in an interesting way expands the sacred geography of India to also include Mauritius. The claim of being the thirteenth jyotirliṅga is reinforced by accounts of ‘miraculous manifestations’, such as ‘the appearance of Shiva’s face on the lingam during a Mahashivaratri prayer’ (Jain 2021: 135). The Hanumān statue on the top of the hill facing the Ganga Talao is another continuity with sacred Hindu landscape in India (Eisenlohr 2006: 247). It was Atal Bihari Vajpayee, when he was India’s minister of foreign affairs, who in 1977 proposed the construction of a Hanumān temple on the hill and arranged for the donation of the large Hanumān statue. The statue of Hanumān at the site, on top of a hill, is supposed to remind the Hindu pilgrims about his deed of carrying Mount Kailas in order to heal Rām’s brother, Lakṣman.

These examples attempt to perceive Mauritius as a geographical extension of India and not really separate. Pilgrimage here is part of a larger process of establishing a diasporic relationship to an ancestral homeland in India (Eisenlohr 2004: 94). This meant including Mauritius in India’s sacredness. In Mauritius, diasporic identities have been actively promoted as the foundation of the nation (Eisenlohr 2006), and some consider Hinduism in Mauritius to have achieved an ‘unofficial status as the national religion’ (Younger 2010: 53). Pilgrimage has played a main role in this process and the annual pilgrimage is a national celebration. The pilgrimage illustrates well the double function of relating Hindus simultaneously to two locations: India and the new home by claiming the Indian River Gaṅgā is present also in Mauritius, and that one of the jyotirliṅgas, the thirteenth, the Mauritiuseswarnath liṅga, has manifested at the site. The example of Mauritius shows that the Hindu sacred geography is mobile and expandable.

Some of the most popular Hindu pilgrimages outside of South Asia are connected to taipūcam celebrations. This festival is a good example of pilgrimage and procession in the global Hindu diaspora. It is celebrated with public processions in Malaysia, Singapore, Mauritius, the US, Canada, South Africa, and many other places. These processions connect the sacred sites to Palani, the most important temple to Murukaṉ in Tamil Nadu and a model for the taipūcam celebrations. The largest Hindu pilgrimage beyond South Asia is the taipūcam pilgrimage in Batu Caves (see Figure 14.2), situated outside of Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia, and according to some also the most significant (Belle 2017: xxi) and certainly the ‘single most important annual event for Malaysia’s Hindus’ (Prorok 1998: 105). More than one million people usually participate. The majority of participants are from outside of Kuala Lumpur or from other states in Malaysia. It takes its model and narrative from Palani in South India, and connects to India in that way, but the Batu Caves are also a unique natural feature. The Caves are understood as a svayambhū (self-born) site, as caves are equal to the garbhagṛhas (inner sanctuary) of the temples. The definition of that space as Hindu is the background of this particular pilgrimage.¹¹ Taipūcam processions are organized in many places in Malaysia—the one in Penang has been well documented (Collins 1997)—but the largest is the Batu Caves procession. The site has functioned both to create pride in Tamil heritage and to integrate different Hindu identities and traditions in Malaysia and to revive a Hindu identity.¹² Taipūcam celebrates the giving of the vēl (spear) by Pārvatī to Murukaṉ.

Figure 14.2 Batu Caves in Malaysia with the statue of Murukaṉ in front (photograph by author, December 2022).

The establishment of the temple within the Batu Caves was, according to tradition, based on a dream by K. Thambusamy Pillai, in which the goddess Māriammaṉ directed him to construct a temple dedicated to her son Murukaṉ (Belle 2017: 186). In 1891 he visited the caves with a workforce and planted the vēl, Murukaṉ’s weapon, in the largest cave after clearing it. According to Fred Clothey, however, ‘Plantation workers around Batu Caves urged the Mariyamman temple officials to designate one of the caves as a shrine to Murukaṉ’ and this was the reason the cave was claimed as a shrine for Murukaṉ (Clothey 2006: 177). The placing of the vēl made the Caves attractive to devotees and can be considered the beginning of the site as an object of pilgrimage. In 1892 the first official taipūcam celebration at the shrine was held (Belle 2017: 186). British residents had since their discovery of the Caves in 1878 used them for recreational purposes. The placing of the vēl by Thambusamy can be understood as a form of religious ‘land grabbing’ in which places become ‘owned’ by ritual traditions by attaching religious narratives and powers to them (see Jacobsen 2013). The British District Office in Kuala Lumpur attempted to remove the vēl and bar public access to the Caves, but this attempt was rejected by the courts which decided in favour of the Hindus (Belle 2017: 187). The shrine soon attracted many devotees, and steps were constructed. In 1920 the vēl was replaced by a mūrti of Murukaṉ. The festival was at the outset associated with the Mariamman Kovil Devastanam in the centre of Kuala Lumpur, founded in the 1870s and perhaps the oldest Hindu temple in Malaysia. The pilgrimage procession proceeds from this temple to the Batu Caves.

The spectacular kāvaṭis and other forms of ‘sacrifices’ are perhaps the most striking feature of the taipūcam pilgrimage procession. The highlight of the taipūcam in Malaysia is the second day of the three-day festival, when the carrying of kāvaṭi reaches its peak. In Batu Caves, the first day of the procession from the Māriyammaṉ temple to the Caves is a chariot procession and takes six hours including several stops. The second day is dominated by kāvaṭi carriers. This procession starts from half a mile away from the Caves. Kāvaṭi are wooden or metal arches carried on the shoulders and often attached to sharp hooks dug into the devotees’ skin. Many types of kāvaṭi are found in the procession in addition to wooden or metal arches such as milk in small metal containers, a needle in the shape of a lance pierced through the tongue or both cheeks, pots of fire or pots of jasmine-scented water carried in the hand (see Lee 1989 for descriptions of ten types of kāvaṭis). Kāvaṭi is understood to be a re-enactment of the demon Iṭampan’s submission to Murukaṉ at Palani in Tamil Nadu, which is the narrative origin of taipūcam. However, many Hindus believe that the god Murukaṉ is present in the kāvaṭi dancers. The taipūcam festival of the Batu Caves has been described as ‘the antithesis of Srinivas’ model of Sanskritisation’ and the ‘“plebianisation” of Tamil Hindu identity, in the sense of rediscovery of the village roots of the festival’ (Lee 1989: 335). However, while kāvaṭi was a practice mainly among low-caste Hindus, it has had a revival both in South Asia (Derges 2013) and in the diaspora (Jacobsen 2020) and seems now no longer to be a low-caste phenomenon. Much film material is available as it is a heavily photographed and filmed procession ritual.

Like the Mauritiuseswarnath liṅga participates in the group of 12 jyotirliṅgas, the Batu Caves participates in the six sacred centres of Murukaṉ in Tamil Nadu. Clothey suggests that it is quite plausible that ‘once Murukaṉ is perceived to be a global deity by overseas Tamils, Batu Caves will be mythically upgraded to one of his six “global” centers’ (Clothey 2006: 197).

Hindu Pilgrimage Sites Connected to Monumental Temples

Monumental temples are the dominant Hindu pilgrimage sites in the ‘new’ diasporas in Europe and North America. A pilgrimage temple is a temple that attains importance beyond the local community and may attract people from afar. While the presences of gods and goddesses are found in all the temples, some presences are considered by devotees to be more powerful than others for various reasons. In the United States a notable characteristic of Hinduism is the large number of monumental temples. In Europe a few such temples are found, mainly in Britain and Germany. Bhardwaj noted in 1991 that after 1965 it took around ten years ‘for the first architecturally and ritual authentic Hindu temples to emerge, but since then virtually every major concentration of Hindus in America has started, or already finished construction of a temple’ (Bhardwaj 1991: 82). The oldest and most renowned Hindu pilgrimage temple in North America, and the ‘outstanding example’ of a Hindu pilgrimage place in America (Bhardwaj 1991: 84, Bhardwaj and Rao 1988: 167) is the Sri Venkateswara Temple in Pittsburgh (Penn Hills, Pennsylvania) which was consecrated in 1976. Bhardwaj showed that pilgrims and donors to the temple came from many areas of the United States and Canada, but also that the majority had Dravidian cultural and linguistic roots. Donations came also from the Veṅkaṭeśvara temple in Tirupati in India (Bhardwaj and Rao 1998). The Sri Venkateswara Temple in Pittsburgh organizes several procession festivals called brahmotsavas, modelled on the brahmotsavas in Tirupati, which attract pilgrims, and these brahmotsavas are also adapted to coincide with public holidays in the United States so that people from farther away can drive to Pittsburgh for the festival.

That monumental temples have become a dominant form of Hinduism is probably due to migration patterns, levels of prosperity, and the size of the Hindu population. Around two and a half million Hindus live in the United States. Bhardwaj and Rao noted that the situation in the United States is unique:

The grand conception of Hindu temple building by the Hindu Temple Society of North America in various parts of the United States, and basing it on the local and regional Hindu immigrants’ resources for the actual construction, has not been achieved by any other ‘overseas’ Indian cultural group. (Bhardwaj and Rao 1988: 164)

In North America it is the South Indians and the Īḷam Tamils (mainly in Canada) in particular that have established monumental temples. It was the South Indians’ regrouping in the United States that provided opportunities for the ‘re-actualization’ of their major Indian religious centre Tirupati in the form of the Veṅkaṭeśvara temple in Pittsburgh. Vasudha Narayanan noted in 1992 that in the United States people seemed to prefer the pilgrimage temple situated within the shortest distance and concluded that the Veṅkaṭeśvara temple in Pittsburgh attracted pilgrims from all over the United States and Canada and continued to do so until similar temples were built in other parts of the country (Narayanan 1992: 149). Internal competition between temples can therefore be a problem for the growth of Hindu long-distance pilgrimage in the United States. It also illustrates that pilgrimage places come and go. Bhardwaj and Rao suggested that the longer the distance people were willing to travel the more important the temple could be considered to be. The average distance travelled by pilgrims to the Veṅkaṭeśvara temple was 475 kilometres (Bhardwaj and Rao 1988: 167). South Indians in the United States are willing to travel longer distances to visit the temple because the god of the temple is a South Indian divinity. After the Veṅkaṭeśvara temple, several other temples attracting pilgrims were built, such as a Houston temple to Mīnakṣī, a New York temple to Gaṇeśa, and a Chicago temple to Rāma. If the Veṅkaṭeśvara temple has remained the most important pilgrimage temple, it would mean that an Indian pattern of pilgrimage had been transferred to the United States ‘virtually intact’ (Bhardwaj and Rao 1988: 176). However, there is in the United States a clear tendency for the North and South Indian groups to develop separate temples (Bhardwaj and Rao 1998: 140). Other Veṅkaṭeśvara temples in the United States are the Sri Venkateswara Swami (Balaji) Temple in Greater Chicago and the Malibu Hindu Temple in Southern California. All three temples received support, trained pujārīs, temple architects, and management advice from the Veṅkaṭeśvara temple in Tirupati. Bhardwaj argued in 1991 that a cār dhām pilgrimage was evolving in the United States, with a Gaṇeśa temple and a Veṅkaṭeśvara temple in the east (New York and Pittsburgh), a Kāśī Viśvanāth temple in the north (Paschima Kasi Sri Viswanath Temple in Flint, Michigan), a Veṅkaṭeśvara temple in the West (Malibu, California), and a Mīnakṣī temple (Sri Meenakshi Devasthanam) in the south (Pearland, Texas).¹³ By covering all directions, North America had been ‘sanctified and made fit for permanent residence’. What marks the pilgrimage temples is not only their organizational affiliations to India but also their reduplication of the temple landscapes of India. Bhardwaj notes that temples that lack these affiliations are merely places of worship and centres for Hindu festivals, but not pilgrimage centres. Bhardwaj lists the following attributes of Hindu temples in America that have developed or will develop as pilgrimage places: (1) a specific deity whose temple is already a pilgrimage centre in India; (2) a deity who is already famous for granting wishes; (3) a favourable geographical location; (4) a topography symbolically replicating the Indian scene of a favourite pilgrimage site; (5) uniqueness of the place, that has some symbolic value; (6) organizational ability; and (7) authenticity (Bhardwaj 1991: 90–5).

Pilgrimage temples also typically attract people to the surrounding landscape, such as a procession road or sacred hills. When Hindu temples that are modelled on Indian originals are built in the diaspora, the landscape around the temple should also mirror that of the Indian original. When the Sri Venkateswara Temple in Pittsburgh was built, the sponsors from the original temple in India, the Veṅkaṭeśvara temple in Tirupati, recognized the hills around the property as being similar to the Indian original, and thus the site was appropriate for the temple. Veṅkaṭeśvara means the god of the Veṅkaṭa Hill, which is the site of the original temple. The Veṅkaṭésvara temple in Tirupati is surrounded by seven hills. The Shri Venkateswara (Balaji) Temple, Tividale in West Midlands in Britain, is another of several Hindu temples around the world based on the model of Veṅkaṭeśvara in Tirupati.¹⁴ In this case also, it is the sacred geography of Tirupati with the seven hills that has been recreated and not just the sacred building for the divinity. However, their interpretation of the hills is somewhat different and probably reflects adaptation to the British religious environment and to modern interpretations of Hinduism, such as the idea that it is a uniquely tolerant religion:

Seven hills on the site are to show our respect to seven major faiths and to reflect the seven peaks of Shri Venkateswara Temple in Tirupati, Andhra Pradesh, India. ‘Unity is divinity’ is the motto of our temple and this motto is so relevant for our interfaith work. We took the concept of 7 peaks and created 7 faith hills in our temple complex here in Tividale. Each of the seven Faith hills represents seven major faiths in the United Kingdom and India.¹⁵

This Veńkaṭeśvara temple also includes a Śaiva liṅga brought from Gangotri and was consecrated in 2010¹⁶ with pilgrims coming from all over the world.¹⁷ The liṅga is also understood in the context of India’s sacred geography. The temple is not only connected to the Veṅkaṭeśvara temple in Tirupati, but also to a Śaiva Hindu geography of the Gangotri, Gaṅgā, and the Himalayas.

The Shri Venkateswara (Balaji) Temple in Tividale claims to be ‘the largest of its kind in the UK and Europe’ with half a million visitors a year. The kumbhābhiṣeka (official opening) for the temple took place in 2006. Work continues, with priority given to a route for a chariot procession that will be used during the annual brahmotsava, which includes such a procession (rathotsava).¹⁸ An indication of the busy ritual activity of the temple is that among the staff in the temple there is the full-time position of garland maker.¹⁹

While the Shri Venkateswara (Balaji) Temple in Tividale claims to be the largest temple exemplifying South Indian architecture in Europe, the Kamadchi Ampal Temple in Hamm in Germany, established by Īḷam Tamil Hindus, is the finest monumental Hindu temple in mainland Europe. This unique temple has attained fame, and represents the public image of Hinduism in Germany (Luchesi 2020, Wilke 2013, 2017, 2020) and is probably the most important Hindu pilgrimage place in mainland Europe. Wilke argues that the temple has been pivotal in the successful foundation of Hinduism in the German public space, which illustrates the important role of sacred sites for the establishment of Hinduism. The temple has developed into a Hindu pilgrimage place, not only for Tamil Hindus, but also for persons with a German ancestral background (Wilke 2017: 310). The annual chariot procession attracts up to 20 thousand visitors, both pilgrims and tourists, from all over Europe (Wilke 2017: 310) as well as ‘spiritual seekers who deliberately want to cross religious boundaries’ (Wilke 2017: 333). The city of Hamm sees the temple as a resource for tourism and is using the festival in advertisements to attract visitors to the city.

In Australia the main form of Hindu pilgrimage is also temple pilgrimage. The Hindu Council of Australia organizes an annual padayātrā (walking pilgrimage) between temples in the Sydney area, comprising a short and a long walk:²⁰ (1) Sydney Murugan Temple, Mays Hill, to Shirdi Sai Mandir, Strathfield; (2) Shirdi Sai Mandir Sydney to Sri Venkateswara Temple, Helensburgh; and (3) A full walk from Sydney Murugan Temple, Mays Hill, to Sri Venkateshwara Temple, Helensburgh.²¹ There seems to be more emphasis perhaps on the walking aspect of pilgrimage in Australia than in the temple pilgrimages in the United States and Europe.

While Hindu pilgrimage in North America, Europe, and Australia is primarily temple-based pilgrimage, there are emerging taipūcam pilgrimages in the United States. A Concord Murugan Temple Yatra was started in 2011, inspired by the taipūcam in Singapore, and in 2019 it included 6,000 persons in a pilgrimage procession:

The walk has grown exponentially since its start in 2011. Says Solai Alagappan, the founder-organizer, ‘In 2011, I participated in a kavadi walk in Singapore, and that was the primary inspiration. With the help of a few friends, we found the trail (Iron Horse regional trail) by biking throughout to make sure that we could navigate the way from San Ramon to Concord without hitting highways or crowded roads. About 150 of us walked in 2011, and this year, we had over 6,000 people participating.’²²

The taipūcam procession in Palani is referred to as the model, and the goal is to have the same experience as at the original sacred site. The mentioning of Palani connects the ritual to an Indian sacred site and gives authenticity:

Traditionally people undertake pathayathirai (a spiritual journey on foot) to places of Murugan worship, prominent among them being the Murugan Temple at Palani, India. The Concord Shiva Murugan Temple is organizing the Thaipusam Walk 2022 to bring that same experience. Participating in the Thaipusam Walk 2022 provides you the wholesome experience that enriches your mind, body, and soul.²³

In this taipūcam pilgrimage procession in California there are kāvaṭis, as in Palani, but the pilgrimage procession is too long, so devotees at the Concord Temple recreate this symbolically by carrying kāvaṭis during a short walk near the temple. Those who walk for longer do not carry kāvaṭis purely due to logistical constraints, the organizers inform us.²⁴

Places That Are Sacred Because They Are Connected to Gurus or Other Sacred Persons

The Skanda Vale pilgrimage place in South Wales exemplifies a pilgrimage founded by a guru and his disciples, but it was the arrival of large numbers of Īḷam Tamils to Britain that turned Skanda Vale into a major Hindu pilgrimage place. It is claimed to be ‘a major pilgrimage centre for British Hindus’ (Geaves 2007b: 109) and one of the most important Hindu pilgrimage places in the world outside of India (Geaves 2007a: 226–8). The guru who founded the maṭha community had a Sri Lankan background. None of the disciples of the guru are South Asian (Geaves 2007a: 221), but the pilgrims are predominantly Hindus with a South Asian ancestral background (Tamil and Gujarati) living in Britain. Around 90,000 pilgrims visit every year.²⁵ Skanda Vale was started in 1973 when Guru Sri Subramanium (born as P. R. de Silva in 1929; d. 2007), a worshipper of Murukaṉ, moved his temple from London to Wales. Sri Subramanium was born in Sri Lanka and arrived in Britain in 1948. According to the community’s web pages, the origin of the community can be traced

to the temples of Badulla and Kataragama in Sri Lanka, because it was in these ancient places of worship that Guruji was given the power and authority from the Lord, to help establish Sanathana Dharma (the timeless consciousness of God) in Britain.²⁶

This origin connects the site to Hindu sacred geography in South Asia. The Skanda Vale is also considered a ‘replication of an ancient Indian forest community of ascetics’. The Tamil pilgrims ‘recognize the wilderness hilltop location of Skanda Vale as part of the familiar geography of sacred space dedicated to Murugan, the Lord of the mountains and the animals’ (Geaves 2007a: 224). The travel itself is reminiscent of the pilgrimage travel at home:

Although the behaviour of the Tamil families, arriving at Skanda Vale after travelling all night to attend puja at 5 a.m., may seem very committed and unusual, it is, in fact, a reminder of home, invoking the possibility of experiencing hardship to journey to a remote hilltop temple for darshan. (Geaves 2007b: 113)

Geaves argues that the site is now regarded as a śakti pīṭha and a ‘location for traditional Hindu tirtha yatra to be performed’ (Geaves 2007a: 224). The only missing element for the Tamil devotees would be the non-performance of kāvaṭi. There are several temples at the site, which is probably an important reason for the pilgrims to visit the place, in addition to the sacred landscape. That the main temple is dedicated to Murukaṉ makes the site particularly meaningful as a pilgrimage site for Tamils. Other temples are dedicated to Viṣṇu and Kālī (Geaves 2007a: 210). The mūrti in Ranganatha Temple is claimed to be svayambhū (Geaves 2007b: 116–17). Several of the temples have been built based on divine commands and there are so many narratives of direct encounters with Hindu gods and goddesses at the site that ‘the physical landscape of the community is penetrated with encounters with the divine’ (Geaves 2007a: 227). This confirms it as an authentic Hindu sacred site. Geaves compares Skanda Vale with the pilgrimage centres in Mauritius in that these are creations of alternative or parallel sacred geographies that exist alongside India (Geaves 2007a: 232–3).

A unique Hindu pilgrimage site has developed in Denmark around Lalitha Sripalan, who is a śakti medium and healer and works as a priest in the Sri Abirami Amman Temple in Brande, which is dedicated to the goddess Apirāmi (Pārvatī). Sripalan is known as Amman and she conducts temple rites according to what she experienced in her local temple in Jaffna, Sri Lanka before she came to Denmark, but she performs them in silence (Fibiger 2012). In the temple, Sripalan becomes possessed by śakti and she is then believed to be able to heal all kinds of physical and mental diseases and is also known for helping childless women conceive. The temple festival here attracts Īḷam Tamil pilgrims from many other European countries, such as Norway, Switzerland, and Germany, and even pilgrims from Sri Lanka who ‘view their travel to the Sri Abirami Amman Temple in Denmark as a sort of tīrthayātrā (pilgrimage)’ (Fibiger 2020).²⁷

Hindu Diaspora Pilgrimage to Marian Shrines

The fourth and final type of Hindu pilgrimage site in the diaspora to be discussed in this chapter is the Marian shrines. Hindus established pilgrimage traditions at these shrines by defining the worship of Mary as a Hindu practice.

In Trinidad, a Catholic shrine to Our Mother of La Divina Pastora was established several centuries ago. When the Hindus settled in the area, they offered their devotion to her perhaps because of her similarity to Hindu goddesses, and as a result the shrine is also known as Sipari Mai or Sipari ke Mai, meaning ‘Mother of Siparia’ (Prorok 2003: 289, Vertovec 1993: 185). Hindus worship her in a major pilgrimage festival during the week before Easter. At that time, the statue of Our Mother of La Divina Pastora is moved to another room where she is worshipped by the Hindus and a Hindu pilgrimage takes place (Vertovec 1993). Vertovec notes that ‘up to ten thousand Hindus make pilgrimage to the church, queuing night and day’ (Vertovec 1993: 185). It is not clear why these two days became institutionalized as the time for Hindus to make the pilgrimage. Vertovec suggests that perhaps the days (Holy Thursday and Good Friday) were two of the only days each year when Indians were allowed time off from their work on the estates, or another possible contributing factor was that the first day of the spring navarātri festivals takes place at the same time, and Hindus would want to look for ways to worship the goddess at that time (Vertovec 1993). The pilgrimage site involves several features typical of Hindu pilgrimage sites:

While countless beggars receive alms, and transvestite dancers dance with babies—a mode of blessing unique to Siparia on these days—each person individually files past the statue/murti, to offer gifts and to anoint the forehead of the statue of the Virgin/ Sipari Mai, just as it is done to Hindu images. This period is when most will bring their son or daughter for the first haircut rites; hence, at this time the churchyard is filled with barbers and bawling children. A piece of the clipped hair is offered to the goddess, just as in villages of India. Nearby, streets are lined with stalls selling sweets, produce and religious paraphernalia (appropriate to any of the religions on the island). The undertaking is massive, and the local Catholic priest currently tries his best to accommodate the Hindus in their devotions. (Vertovec 1993: 185–6)

Hindu pilgrimages to Marian shrines are also found in Europe. Since 1987 Īḷam Tamils, both Hindus and Catholics, have been meeting once a year in Kevelaer (Luchesi 2008b, 2018), a town in the western part of Germany close to the Dutch border. Its popularity is due to a miraculous picture of the Madonna, who is known as ‘Consolatrix Afflictorum’ (‘Comforter of the Afflicted’). The annual visit of Tamils is referred to as the ‘Tamilenwalfahrt’ (‘the Tamil pilgrimage’) (Luchesi 2008b, 2018). Baumann in 1998 suggested that 20 to 30 per cent of pilgrims were Hindus, and later sources have referred to claims that up to 60 per cent are Hindus (Luchesi 2018). Tamil visitors connect the Kevelaer Madonna with the site in Madhu in Sri Lanka, which is one of the largest Tamil pilgrimages in Sri Lanka. Many Hindus include the Madonna in the Hindu pantheon as the Divine Mother. There are many other examples of Hindu Marian pilgrimages in Europe. The Black Madonna at Einsiedeln in Switzerland and the Madonna in Mariastein near Basle have been popular pilgrimage sites among Tamils since the 1980s (Luchesi 2018: 288, Lüthi 2008: 105). The Madonna of Lourdes in France is the object of pilgrimage travel among Hindu Tamils and group travel has been organized by Hindu temples in Germany (Luchesi 2018: 289).

The Trinidadian and European Marian pilgrimages illustrate the Hindu tendency to find the sacred wherever they are and the importance of the locative dimension of Hinduism. That Marian pilgrimages have become part of the pilgrimage practices of the Hindu diasporas should not surprise us, since the worship at Marian shrines by Hindus takes place also in South Asia and has a long history there.

Concluding Remarks

The expansion of Hindu sacred sites and geography beyond India and to the rest of the world has similarities to the historical expansion of Hindu sacred sites recorded in the Purāṇas and to the sacred geography in India. Pilgrimage sites and pilgrimage rituals focus on the spatial dimensions of rituals, and these activities turn space into Hindu sacred space. Hindu sacred sites are continuously created. Some may last many hundreds of years; some are abandoned. Perhaps diasporic situations motivate people to engage in practices intended to overcome the sense of spatio-temporal removal that characterizes diasporic experiences by establishing pilgrimage sites. We have seen many examples in this chapter. Establishing new sacred sites thus expands Hindu mythology geographically, and current processes of migration and globalization have made the geography of the whole world the sacred geography of Hindu gods and goddesses. Systems of classifying Hindu sacred sites are expanding beyond South Asia, with a thirteenth jyotirliṅga in Mauritius and a Murukaṉ hill in Malaysia that is expected to outcompete one of the Murukaṉ centres in India to make it onto the list of the six sacred Murukaṉ hills. Reduplication of pilgrimages sites and temples is a well-known process in India, and it has now expanded to include the whole world. Also, fanciful etymologies are used to make places Hindu by expanding old mythologies into new geographies. An example of Hindu myths extending into new geographies is the idea, first suggested in the 1930s and now promoted on the Web, that California was originally named Kapila Araṇya (the forest of Kapila) and that the meditation place of Kapila, where he was attacked by the sons of Sagara, as told in the famous narrative of the birth of the River Gaṅgā, was in California.²⁸ This illustrates the technique already used in the pilgrimage texts of the Mahābhārata for entertaining pilgrims at pilgrimage sites by narrating stories that claim to be explaining the origin of place names.²⁹ The narrative etymologies of pilgrimage sites in the Mahābhārata can be understood as part of a process of Hinduization, making sacred sites Hindu, and one of the ways Hindu traditions historically have been expanding. The global expansion of Hindu sacred sites and geography shows that Hindus sacralize space wherever they settle and that encounters with Hindu gods and goddesses may happen wherever Hindus live.

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van der Veer, Peter and Steven Vertovec. 1991. ‘Brahmanism Abroad: On Caribbean Hinduism As an Ethnic Religion.’ Ethnology 30: 149–66.

Vertovec, Steven. 1991. ‘Hinduism in Diaspora: The Transformation of Tradition in Trinidad.’ In Hinduism Reconsidered, edited by Günther D. Sontheimer and Hermann Kulke, 157–86. New Delhi: Manohar.

Vertovec, Steven. 1993. ‘Hindu Mother-Goddess Cults in the Caribbean.’ Etnolog 54 (3): 179–94.

Waghorne, Joanne Punzo. 2004. Diaspora of the Gods: Modern Hindu Temples in Urban Middle-Class Worlds. New York: Oxford University Press.

Wilke, Annette. 2013. ‘Tamil Temple Festival Culture in Germany: A New Hindu Pilgrimage Place.’ In South Asian Festivals on the Move, edited by Ute Hüsken and Axel Michaels, 369–95. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag.

Wilke, Annette. 2017. ‘Āgamic Temple Consecration Transnationalized.’ In Consecration Rituals in South Asia, edited by István Keul, 309–50. Brill: Leiden.

Wilke, Annette. 2020. ‘Temple Hinduism in Europe.’ In Handbook of Hinduism in Europe, edited by Knut A. Jacobsen and Ferdinando Sardella, Vol. 1, 215–348. Leiden: Brill.

Younger, Paul. 2010. New Homelands: Hindu Communities in Mauritius, Guyana, Trinidad, South Africa, Fiji, and East Africa. New York: Oxford University Press.

Knut A. Jacobsen, Pilgrimage Sites and Procession Rituals in the Hindu Diasporas In: Hindu Diasporas. Edited by: Knut A. Jacobsen, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198867692.003.0015

¹ Pilgrimage travel to India or South Asia by Hindus living in the diasporas is a different topic. In this chapter I am only concerned with pilgrimage sites in the Hindu diasporas.

² The old Hindu diasporas refer here to those formed in the colonial era in such countries and regions as Mauritius, Réunion, Fiji, Trinidad and Tobago, Suriname, Guyana, Jamaica, South Africa, East Africa, Malaysia, Burma, and Sri Lanka (Sri Lanka has in addition an ancient Hindu population, Īḷam Tamils, different from the Indian Tamils that were brought to Sri Lanka by the British to work on tea plantations).

³ In addition, a revised view of the diaspora and redefinition of the Indian nation in ‘nonterritorial terms’ (Abraham 2014: 77) has probably encouraged global Hinduization. In the 1990s earlier representations of the overseas Indians as poor and lower caste, working-class economic migrants, excluded from a territorialized India, were replaced by images of the overseas Indian as an educated, middle-class, and upper-caste person, ‘the normative Indian citizen’ (Abraham 2014: 78).

⁴ This is not in itself Hindu nationalism, but Hindu nationalism abroad may exemplify it, and also lead to such aberrations as ideas of Hindu supremacy. The role of Hinduism to mobilize feelings of pride is also relevant in the case of the Īḷam Tamil diaspora which has no connection to Indian Hindu nationalism.

⁵ Sinha presents her research on Muneeswaran as a study of a new deity who is ‘an addition to the Hindu pantheon’ and has ‘emerged from a locale outside India, despite the fact that India continues to be revered as the locus and source of all things relating to Hinduism’ (Sinha 2005: 1).

⁶ ‘British river turns surrogate Ganga’, available at https://www.downtoearth.org.in/news/british-river-turns-surrogate-ganga-8962. Note the use in the heading of the term ‘surrogate’ which does not express the Hindu point of view. The purpose of bringing the Gaṅgā to Britain was to be able to perform immersion rituals in the river.

⁷ The prohibition of crossing the black waters (kālāpāni), which is repeated endlessly in academic literature on the diasporas, had limited interest and validity and was of concern mainly to orthodox high castes, and has not hindered Indians from crossing the waters. A discussion of this travel regulation started only in the modern era (Clémentin-Ojha 2011).

⁸ The second largest Hindu population is Tamil Hindus. The Tamils in Mauritius have a separate pilgrimage and procession ritual during Taipūcam, with processions to the nation’s various Murukaṉ temples. Their processions include kāvaṭi and have a different Hindu identity. The increase in Tamil Taipūcam pilgrimage can be interpreted as a response to the pilgrimage mobilization of the North Indian Hindus. Processions lay claims on public space and one response to the Hindu communities with a North Indian background attempting to claim the entire Mauritian national territory, is to use the public space in a similar way to make their presence acknowledged. The Tamils’ claim to sacredness is as old as the North Indians’ claim. A Tamil labourer arriving in 1884, Velamurugan, had the dream of erecting a temple on the flanks of the Corps de Garde Mountain. In 1907 it was established with hundreds of steps leading to the modest temple higher up the mountain. This was transformed into a Dravidian temple dedicated to Lord Murukaṉ, and the temple is now a major pilgrimage site in Mauritius (https://www.mauritiusexplored.com/top-activities-mauritius/kovil-montagne-sri-siva-subramanya-thirukovil/).

⁹ ‘Mauritius Guide: Pilgrimage Sites’, available at https://www.mauritius-guide.net/pilgrimage-sites/; https://www.mauritiusexplored.com/top-activities-mauritius/kovil-montagne-sri-siva-subramanya-thirukovil/.

¹⁰ Somanātha and Nāgeśvara in Gujarat, Mallikārjuna in Andhra Pradesh, Mahākāleśvara and Oṅkāreśvara in Madhya Pradesh, Kedārnātha in Uttarakhand, Kāśī Viśvanāth in Uttar Pradesh, Bhīmāśaṅkara, Tryambakeśvara, and Ghṛṣṇeśvara in Maharashtra, Vaidyanātha in Jharkhand, and Rāmeśvara in Tamil Nadu.

¹¹ Carolyn Prorok (1998) has distinguished between three types of temples in Malaysia and one of these are temples established at sites with natural features that are often imbued with sacred significance, such as alongside a riverbank or waterfall, at a cave, under special trees or by termite mounds. People believe that local spirits manifest themselves at such places. She notes that ‘If an extraordinary experience occurs in conjunction with such a site, then often a simple structure is erected in association with, or around, the natural feature’ (Prorok 1998: 96). The other two types of temples are āgamic temples and folk temples established on the estates or along the railroad where many Hindus laboured and may or may not have been built in association with a special natural feature.

¹² According to the latest census, the Malaysian Census of 2010, 6.3 per cent of the population were Hindus, of which 80 per cent is of Tamil ancestry. Hinduism in Malaysia is dominated by Tamil Śaivism and the worship of the Tamil god Murukaṉ. Hinduism in Malaysia is nevertheless heterogenous, like everywhere else, with different ethnic groups and traditions, and competing discourses among Tamil Hindus, both village-based folk Hindu traditions and āgamic traditions. Vineeta Sinha writes: ‘A striking feature of everyday Hinduism in Singapore and Malaysia is its hybrid nature, which draws from within the vast Hindu tradition but also extends well beyond to include non-Hindu facets’ (Sinha 2013: 121; see Sinha 2013 for an overview of research on Hinduism in Malaysia and Singapore).

¹³ It is perhaps unlikely that such a pattern developed as Bhardwaj predicted given the large number of new temples. But this needs further investigation.

¹⁴ See ‘History of the Temple,’ available at https://www.venkateswara.org.uk/history-of-temple/.

¹⁵ ‘Faith Hill’, available at https://www.venkateswara.org.uk/faith-hills/.

¹⁶ ‘Shiva Stone journey to Tividale Hindu’, available at http://news.bbc.co.uk/local/blackcountry/hi/people_and_places/religion_and_ethics/newsid_8936000/8936896.stm/.

¹⁷ ‘Dr Kandiah Somasundarrajah, one of the Founding Trustees of the temple said that nearly 15,000 people coming from places including Europe, Malaysia, India, and Australia had visited Tividale over the four days between Thursday, 19 August and Sunday, 22 August 2010.’ ‘Shiva Stone journey to Tividale Hindu,’ available at http://news.bbc.co.uk/local/blackcountry/hi/people_and_places/religion_and_ethics/newsid_8936000/8936896.stm/.

¹⁸ The annual festival calendar is available in English at https://www.venkateswara.org.uk/storage/pdf/balaji_2022_Long_calender.pdf/.

¹⁹ The full-time position of garland maker was advertised on the website of the temple, see https://www.venkateswara.org.uk/vacancies, accessed 24 February 2022.

²⁰ ‘Paad Yatra or Walkathon to Temple’, available at https://hinducouncil.com.au/new/projects/paad-yatra-or-walkathon-to-temple/.

²¹ ‘Paada Yatra Walk to temples 19th April’, available at https://hinducouncil.com.au/new/paada-yatra-walk-to-temples-19th-april/.

²² ‘Concord Murugan Temple Yatra: Unique Feat’, available at https://www.hinduismtoday.com/hpi/2019/02/06/concord-murugan-temple-yatra-unique-feat/.

²³ ‘Thaipusam Walk 2023,’ available at https://walk.temple.org/.

²⁴ Personal communication, email from Krish Sivakumar, 28 January 2022.

²⁵ See https://www.skandavale.org/, and for pilgrimage information, see ‘The Pilgrim’s Guide’, available at https://www.skandavale.org/pilgrims-guide/. It states: ‘Skanda Vale is an ashram, not a tourist destination. If you would like to visit, then you should come as a pilgrim, not a sightseer.’

²⁶ ‘Skanda Vale: Our History’, available at https://www.skandavale.org/history/.

²⁷ Some of the material in this section has also been presented in Jacobsen 2022.

²⁸ ‘California, USA was Kapila-Aranya’, available at https://www.booksfact.com/puranas/california-usa-kapila-aranya.html/.

²⁹ Such as the explanation of Kurukṣetra as Kuru plowing the field (kṣetra) to establish salvific power for pilgrims at the site or Arjuna releasing women from a curse at the pilgrimage place Narītīrtha (pilgirimage place of the women), see Jacobsen 2021.

15

Hindutva, Hindu Organizations, and the Hindu Diasporas

Jeffery D. Long

Hindutva: A Complex and Controversial Topic

Few topics are as polarizing, even in the hyper-polarized world of the early twenty-first century, as Hindutva. One is hesitant to take up this topic, not only for fear of running afoul of one side or the other of the debate surrounding it, but also because the topic itself is incredibly complex. Even the terms in which this debate is carried out are subject to heated disagreement: so much so that, to an outside observer, it can be difficult to determine what, exactly, Hindutva is. Is Hindutva a political movement and ideology distinct from the Hindu religion (‘Hinduism’, or ‘Hindu Dharma’, or ‘Sanātana Dharma’, depending on which term one chooses to refer to the family of traditions that fall under the umbrella label of Hindu)? Is Hindutva part of Hinduism—distinct from Hinduism as a totality, but nevertheless deeply entwined with it, something like a Hindu school of political and social thought? Or is it co-extensive with Hinduism? That is, as its etymology suggests, is Hindutva simply ‘Hindu-ness’, the beliefs and ways of life of Hindus in general?

Normatively speaking, beyond simply defining it, how should one evaluate Hindutva? Is Hindutva a good thing, an ideology of Hindu self-empowerment, and ultimately benevolent, given the Hindu tradition’s affirmation of values such as pluralism and nonviolence? Or is Hindutva a bad thing, a majoritarian ideology aimed at the domination—and, in its most extreme formulations, the elimination—of the religious minority communities of India? Or is it, as this chapter will suggest, both of these things—an internally diverse and wide-ranging political movement with subsets that include both moderate and extreme formulations of roughly the same core ideology?

Regarding how to define Hindutva, given the polarized nature of the discourse surrounding it, one finds that the definitional choices various authors make with reference to it are often part of a rhetorical strategy to advance a stance toward this ideology, either for it or against it. An attempt to differentiate Hindutva from Hinduism can thus be an attempt to separate Hindutva—a political ideology which one opposes—from Hinduism—a religious tradition which one admires, supports, and may even practise. But such differentiation can also be part of an attempt to support Hindutva, seen as an indigenous Hindu term, and oppose ‘Hinduism’, seen as a construct of Western colonial scholarship and a foreign imposition upon Hindu traditions that is complicit in the domination of India by the West. Similarly, an attempt to identify Hindutva with Hinduism can be an attempt to affirm the legitimacy of Hindutva as an authentic—perhaps the authentic—expression of Hinduism in the contemporary world. Or it can be an attempt to criticize the Hindu tradition as a whole by identifying it with a political movement one opposes, seeing this movement as typical of Hinduism as such, and attributing its worst excesses, ultimately, to Hinduism itself.

Clarifying and Critiquing the Definitions of Hindutva Current in Contemporary Discourse

In an attempt to clarify this complex and potentially confusing discourse, one can represent these four possible definitions of Hindutva with the following schematic, differentiating them with subscripts:

• HindutvaIHG: The idea that Hindutva is inherent to Hinduism, and that it is inherently good (pluralistic, nonviolent, wise, ecologically conscious, and so on.)

• HindutvaIHB: The idea that Hindutva is inherent to Hinduism, and that it is inherently bad (antagonistic and violent towards non-Hindu communities, casteist, patriarchal, and so on).

• HindutvaDHG: The idea that Hindutva is distinct from Hinduism (or at least a mainstream understanding of Hinduism), and that Hindutva, seen in this definition as an affirmative discourse of Hindu self-empowerment, is good, while Hinduism, a construct of Western scholarship is designed to make Hindus weak and servile through its promotion of ideals such as pluralism and nonviolence, and is therefore a bad thing.

• HindutvaDHB: The idea that Hindutva is distinct from Hinduism, and that Hindutva, seen in this definition as a belligerent, nationalistic discourse which promotes violence against the minority communities of India, is bad, while Hinduism is a great religion which promotes pluralism and nonviolence.

All four of these definitions can be found in both popular and scholarly discourse about the Hindutva movement. Again, each definition is tied to a stance toward Hindutva which it is intended rhetorically either to support or oppose. The two axes around which these definitions revolve are whether Hindutva is a good or bad thing and whether it is distinct from or identical with Hinduism.

HindutvaIHG, the identification of Hindutva with Hinduism in which both are seen as being inherently good, is typically found in works that promote Hindutva. Hindutva Parivar, by M.G. Chitkara, is a clear example of a work which holds this perspective (Chitkara 2003). In this work, Chitkara argues for Hindutva ideology while simultaneously affirming its continuity with ancient Hindu traditions, saying that ‘Hindutva, Hinduness, is the way of life of all Hindus’ (Chitkara 2003: viii).

HindutvaIHB, the identification of Hindutva with Hinduism in which both are seen as being inherently bad, can be found in works which reject Hinduism as a whole as an evil institution that promotes human inequality and caste-based oppression. Why I Am Not a Hindu: A Sudra Critique of Hindutva Philosophy, Culture, and Political Economy, by Kanchan Ilaiah, advances this point of view (Ilaiah 1996). Ilaiah argues that caste-based prejudice, or casteism, is inherent to all Hindu traditions (Ilaiah 1996: 80).

HindutvaDHG, the view which differentiates Hindutva from Hinduism and sees Hindutva as good, but Hinduism—or at least a certain understanding of Hinduism—as bad or problematic is found most frequently in social media posts by adherents of Hindutva who perceive a mainstream view of Hinduism as rendering Hindus weak, servile, and easily subject to foreign conquest and rule. The chief culprits, according to this discourse, in promoting this problematic model of Hinduism include, in addition to Western scholarship, the Buddhist and Jain traditions (which are argued to have had an enervating influence on premodern Hindu traditions), popular Hindu gurus, and, most of all, Mahatma Gandhi. Hindutva, in this discourse, is seen as a self-empowering ideal for Hindus.

Finally, HindutvaDHB, in which Hindutva is differentiated from Hinduism and in which it is Hindutva that is seen as bad or problematic, with Hinduism itself being inherently good, is well reflected in Shashi Tharoor’s book, Why I Am a Hindu—the title of which provides a counterpoint to Ilaiah’s work, which condemns Hinduism and Hindutva as one and the same (Tharoor 2018). Tharoor critiques Hindutva in part for not actually adhering to Hindu ideals: ‘I wrote this book…to show that the intolerant and often violent forms of Hindutva…went against the spirit of Hinduism’ (Tharoor 2018: i).

The problem with all four of these definitions is that they are essentialist and unfalsifiable. They are therefore incapable of serving as useful analytic tools for understanding the movement that goes by the name Hindutva. Essentialism, long an object of critique by scholars of religion, is the view that the phenomenon one is studying has an unchanging, underlying essence that it is the task of scholarship to discern. As famously argued by religion scholar Jonathan Z. Smith, as well as historian of India Ronald J. Inden, essentialism displaces human agency in accounts of religious and social phenomena.¹ Thus one, for example, speaks of Buddhism ‘spreading’ across Asia, rather than about Buddhists transmitting their ideas, practices, and texts to various locations, and the host of factors involved in the choices that they made in so doing. The focus becomes not actual human beings, but an abstraction called Buddhism which has certain essential traits. If a phenomenon does not fit precisely with this set of traits, it becomes anomalous, rather than being the understandable fact that it would be if it were analysed using a different kind of categorial scheme. So, for example, if part of the essence of Buddhism is that it is nonviolent, then Buddhists behaving violently are an anomaly, somehow unrelated to the tradition to which they may see themselves as adhering. Similarly, if Hinduism is essentially casteist, then an egalitarian Hindu movement is rendered an anomaly, and somehow not quite Hindu. Or if Hinduism is essentially peaceful, then, as in the case of Buddhism, Hindus who behave violently and the ideology that motivates them cannot be Hindu.

Essentialism is therefore a barrier, rather than a key, to understanding complex social and historical phenomena like religions and political ideologies as practised by actual human beings.

It also robs human beings of agency. One assumes that if one has understood the essence of a particular religion, nation, or ethnicity, one can reliably predict the behaviour of actual human beings. As we have seen, this renders behaviour that does not correspond to a preconceived essence anomalous and in need of explanation (when, in reality, the problem is with one’s essentialist lens). But preconceptions also limit what human agents can do by acting as stereotypes. If stereotypes inform how one relates to a group of people, it will force those people into certain situations with which they may be uncomfortable (or, at worst, which may endanger their lives, as in the case of the disproportionate number of police shootings experienced by African Americans, due to their being stereotyped as essentially violent and unpredictable in the dominant ideology of American society).

Essentialist definitions are also unfalsifiable. Falsifiability is of course a vital component of any scientific model. It must be possible, at least in principle, for something to count against an idea in order for it to be a valid tool for interpreting empirical reality.² An essentialist definition of Hinduism as an intrinsically nonviolent tradition thus predetermines the answer to the question, ‘Is it possible for a Hindu to be violent?’ The answer must necessarily be ‘no’, according to the logic of essentialism. If one then points to actual Hindus behaving violently, the response must be that these are not ‘true Hindus’.³ Similarly, an essentialist definition of Hinduism as intrinsically casteist predetermines the answer to the question, ‘Is it possible for a Hindu to treat all persons as equals?’ The answer to this question, again, must necessarily be ‘no’. If one then points to Hindus who live by an egalitarian ethos, then this phenomenon, again, will be said to be not ‘truly Hindu’, perhaps being attributable to some outside influence, such as Western liberalism.

Returning to Hindutva, if essentialist definitions of this phenomenon (and by implication, of Hinduism) are unhelpful, serving to distort discourse and bend it inevitably in a direction that leads to a predetermined conclusion (whether in favour of or against Hindutva itself), there is a need for a definition that is more amenable to scholarly analysis.

Specifically—and this brings us to the main topic of this chapter—if one is going to discern how Hindutva is related to Hindu organizations in the Hindu diasporas, then one needs a definition that can serve this purpose: that can be shown to be related or not to the organizations which are under consideration. A definition of Hindutva as co-extensive with Hinduism (like HindutvaIHG or HindutvaIHB) will lead to the conclusion that all Hindu organizations, and the Hindu diasporas as a whole, are fully involved with Hindutva simply by being Hindu. This is redundant and unhelpful.

Similarly, polemically motivated attempts to completely sever Hindutva from Hinduism (like HindutvaDHG or HindutvaDHB) are unhelpful in the opposite sense. If Hindutva is completely separate from Hinduism, then this ought to be a very short chapter, because there would then be no relationship between Hindutva, on the one hand, and Hindu organizations in the Hindu diasporas, on the other.

Hindutva as Hindu Nationalism (HindutvaHN)

Thankfully, a definition of Hindutva exists which is prominent in the work of scholars who study this phenomenon, and which does not suffer from the essentialist assumptions of the popular definitions just discussed. It does not presume to judge a priori whether Hindutva is a good or bad thing, but allows, rather, for a fact-based discussion of this phenomenon. Certainly, the individual authors who utilize this definition have views about Hindutva and whether or not it is a good thing. They also express these views in their work: work which is often motivated by political or ethical commitments. But these stances do not follow inevitably from an a priori definition of Hindutva, but from the application of values to facts which can be agreed on, at least in principle, by anyone.

Hindutva, on this understanding, is the ideology of Hindu nationalism, particularly as it is articulated by Hindu political leader Vinayak Damodar Savarkar (1883–1966) in a 1923 pamphlet titled Hindutva: Who Is a Hindu? in which, it is widely held, the term Hindutva was coined. We can refer to this definition as HindutvaHN, in which ‘HN’ stands for Hindu nationalism.

At its simplest, Hindu nationalism can be defined as the claim that India is an inherently Hindu nation, or Hindu Rāṣṭra. It has evoked sharp criticism for being a majoritarian ideology that perceives non-Hindu Indians as second-class citizens. Author I.K. Shukla labels Hindu nationalism a form of ‘pseudo-religious fascism’ (Shukla 2003: 12). The most extreme Hindu nationalists have called for, or have even engaged in, violence against members of religious minority communities. According to news sources, ‘There have been scores of cases of lynchings of people on a mere suspicion of eating or possessing beef or of carrying cattle to clandestine slaughterhouses where their slaughter is banned. Hindus consider [the] cow a sacred animal, and murders, many of which have been caught on cameras, in the name of cow protection have multiplied since [Hindu nationalist Prime Minister Narendra] Modi came to power’ (Alares 2019). Though the Hindu nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party, or BJP, which administered India from 1998 to 2004 and which has continued its rule from 2014 to the present, does not call for such violence, critics argue that it gives it its tacit approval (Ayyub 2021).

Many scholars and activists thus see Hindu nationalism as a major threat both to Indian democracy and to the life and well-being of non-Hindu Indians. This perception was underscored by the holding of a conference in September 2021 with the title ‘Dismantling Global Hindutva’ (Dismantling Global Hindutva 2021). Although they were united in their opposition to Hindutva, the conference participants differed in their definitions of Hindutva, and thus regarding whether Hindutva was part of Hinduism, identical with Hinduism, or completely distinct from it. The official website of the conference, however, differentiates between the two, but does not take the position of HindutvaDHB, in which Hindutva is problematic and the Hindu religion is not. Rather, it is critical of Hinduism for promoting ‘deep inequities in Indian society’ (Dismantling Global Hindutva 2021).

Although the current Hindu nationalist government of India has made no moves to change the constitution of India to make the country, formally, a Hindu state, the idea of India as a Hindu state is a marked departure from the secular national order long expressed and upheld in the Indian constitution. It is important to note, however, that secularism, in India, does not refer precisely to the phenomenon of secularism as this is generally understood in the Western world, particularly in the United States. Secularism, in the Western sense, involves the formal separation of religion and government—or of ‘church and state’—as enshrined in the First Amendment of the United States Constitution. In India, however, the state does become involved in religious affairs in the name of pursuing social equity (Smith 2011: 133–4). In regard to family law—laws related to marriage, inheritance, and so on—there are actually different laws which apply to people of different religious communities (Smith 2011: 277–91): ‘On the one hand, the Indian Constitution possesses many of the attributes of a classically secular state. It endows citizens with religious liberty and strictly prohibits discrimination on the grounds of religion, as well as caste, sex, place of birth, and other factors…However, the Indian Constitution provides ample grounds for the state to interfere in religious affairs. For instance, the constitution recognizes group rights as well as community rights, including the rights of religious minorities’ (Vaishnav 2019).

Efforts by the Indian government to ensure that India’s minority religious communities are not disadvantaged have often been perceived by members of the majority Hindu community as ‘preferential treatment’ or ‘appeasement’ which, in effect, disadvantages the majority. Resentment of such efforts has arguably been a factor in fuelling the Hindutva movement.

Probably the most dramatic example of such government involvement in religion has been the ‘Haj subsidy’, in which Indian Muslims received government support to go on the Haj, or the required pilgrimage to Mecca that is one of the five pillars of Islam. This subsidy began prior to the writing of the Indian constitution, during the period of British rule, and has been the object of strong criticism, not only by Hindu nationalists, but also by many Muslims, who have seen it as an un-Islamic practice, given that the Haj is supposed to involve some hardship on the part of those who undertake it (Haq 2010). In light of the criticism from both Hindu and Muslim leaders, the subsidy was repealed in 2018 (Anonymous 2018).

Another famous case connected with Indian governmental efforts to ensure equity in its treatment of minority traditions in ways that have created a sense of grievance among Hindus is the case of the attempt by the Ramakrishna Mission, a popular and venerable Hindu organization, to have itself defined as a minority tradition rather than a Hindu tradition. In an effort to ensure equity for minority communities, Islamic and Christian schools are not subjected to many of the regulations that are imposed on schools run by Hindu organizations. The Ramakrishna Mission runs an extensive network of schools which are subject to these regulations. Their court case was an attempt to change this situation. The case is recounted in a 2018 editorial by Balbir Punj:

‘I am proud to be a Hindu,’ Swami Vivekananda had declared at the historic Chicago Parliament of Religions in 1893. But officials of [the] Ramakrishna Mission—an institution set up by Vivekananda himself to spread the teachings of his guru Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa—claimed through a petition in [the] 1980s that they were not Hindus, but followers of a minority religion called Ramakrishnaism…Why did the Ramakrishna Mission take such an absurd stand? Because it felt the burden of bearing a Hindu identity. The mission wanted to gain the privileges accorded only to minorities in India, specifically, the right to manage their extensive educational institutions, free of rapacious state control. The Mission’s labyrinthine efforts to claim minority status, however, came to naught when on 2 July 1995, the Supreme Court ruled that neither Sri Ramakrishna nor Swami Vivekananda founded any independent, non-Hindu religion. (Punj 2018)

The very fact that a secular court in India made a ruling on the affiliation of a religious movement is illustrative of the fact that Indian secularism is quite different from, say, American secularism. It would be difficult to conceive, for example, of the Supreme Court of the United States weighing in on whether the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (popularly known as the Mormons) was part of Christianity or not (a topic on which many Christians disagree).

Hindu nationalism, as a political ideology, is clearly not identical with Hinduism, which is a religious tradition whose adherents have a wide range of political views. As we shall see, in the Hindu diasporas, there are organizations, such as the Vishwa Hindu Parishad of America, which support Hindu nationalism, and organizations such as Hindus for Human Rights, which strongly oppose it. Similarly, there were many Hindus who objected to the ‘Dismantling Global Hindutva’ conference, mentioned earlier, often motivated by a belief that Hindutva is identical to Hinduism, and that the conference was therefore anti-Hindu; but there were also Hindus who supported and participated in it, seeing Hindu nationalism—HindutvaHD—as antithetical to Hindu values. Hinduism is a religious tradition. Hindu nationalism, however, is a political ideology: a response to Indian secularism and an expression of a broader sense of grievance and perceived threat experienced, rightly or wrongly, by many contemporary Hindus (Long 2011: 196–210).

Clearly, though, there is a relationship between Hindu nationalism and Hinduism. Contrary to HindutvaIHG and HindutvaIHB, they are not identical. Contrary to HindutvaDHG and HindutvaDHB, however, they are also not wholly separable. So, what, precisely, is the relationship between Hindu nationalism and Hinduism? How might an answer to this question illuminate our understanding of Hindu organizations in the Hindu diasporas?

Scholars who have examined this topic have provided a variety of answers to this question. Jyotirmaya Sharma’s book, Hindutva: Exploring the Idea of Hindu Nationalism, ‘does not make any distinction between Hinduism and Hindutva. What it explicitly argues is that Hindutva is the dominant expression of Hinduism in our times’ (Sharma 2011: 7). At first glance, this statement appears to suggest that Sharma simply identifies Hindutva with Hinduism. He, however, goes on to emphasize that ‘[b]y no means does the argument [of the book] suggest that it [Hindutva] is the only way in which Hinduism expresses itself today, but, to use a musical metaphor, Hindutva is the note on which the stress falls’ (Sharma 2011: 7). A simpler, albeit less poetic way of putting Sharma’s point is that he sees Hindutva, meaning Hindu nationalism, as one particular current of Hindu social and political thought; but he also sees it as the dominant current of contemporary Hindu self-expression.

Scholar Christophe Jaffrelot defines Hindutva ‘as a form of ethnoreligious nationalism that in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries came as a reaction to a perceived threat to the majority’ Hindu community in India (Jaffrelot 2021: 28). Jaffrelot’s term ethnoreligious nationalism appears to be an attempt to bridge a gap between earlier characterizations of Hindutva as primarily a religious movement—and indeed, as a ‘Hindu fundamentalism’—and more recent characterizations by scholars such as Eviane Leidig of Hindutva as a right-wing political movement, specifically, as an ethnonationalist movement, akin to similar movements that have emerged across the globe in a variety of contexts.

Leidig states that ‘[w]hen it comes to India, scholars of right-wing extremism in the West have misrepresented Hindutva as a type of nationalism that is primarily religious rather than ethno-nationalist.’ Leidig instead argues:

[T]he notion that religious identity takes precedence over national identity is flawed when considering the notion of Hindutva as an ideology seeking to create an ethnonationalist state…Hindutva is not centered on religion (although Hinduism does play a significant role), but rather on how religion is politicized in such a way that being a Hindu generates belonging as an ethnonationalist identity. Indeed, the founder of Hindutva, Vinayak Damodar Savarkar, stressed that religion was not even the most important element of Hindu identity; in his view, influenced by western theories of nationalism, identity was a combination of sacred territory, race, and language. (Leidig 2020)

The emergence of the Hindu diasporas, however, and the concomitant rise of the idea of a global Hindu community have come to problematize a simple identification of Hindu nationalism with a parochial movement for Hindu supremacy in India. This ideology has evolved since the term Hindutva was coined by Savarkar. Some scholars even speak of a ‘Neo-Hindutva’, a ‘Hindu nationalist ideology which is evolving and shifting in new, surprising, and significant ways, requiring a reassessment and reframing of prevailing understandings’ (Anderson and Longkumer 2021: i). One can say, that to the extent that Hindutva does draw upon Hindu thought, the universalism of Hindu modern thinkers such as Swami Vivekananda stands in tension with a right-wing emphasis on ‘blood and soil’. In fact, even Savarkar seems to be aware of this fact, as he concludes his pamphlet Hindutva with a statement of Hindu universalism:

A Hindu is most intensely so when he ceases to be a Hindu and with a Shankar claims the whole earth for a Benares…or with a Tukaram exclaims…‘My country!’ Oh brothers, the limits of the Universe—there the frontiers of my country lie! (Savarkar 1923: 141)

As scholar Parvathy Appaiah notes, the resilience and adaptability of Hindutva nationalist ideology makes it difficult

to thrust it into a definite identity framework of the past. Moreover, the framework tends to grow bigger and global mainly due to its close connection to Hindu identity, which in turn indicates pluralism and catholicity [a reference to Hindu pluralism as found in a wide variety of sources, traditional and modern]. Naturally Hindutva appears to be a global ideology being everything to everyone, superseding territorial limits. (Appaiah 2003: xi–xii)

The ‘pluralism and catholicity’ to which Appaiah refers are attributes frequently affirmed of Hinduism as a tradition which teaches pluralism and acceptance of many traditions—attitudes sharply opposed to at least most expressions of Hindu nationalism, and certainly opposed to its more extreme formulations as fomenting violence toward religious minorities in India. It is this very juxtaposition that has led authors such as Tharoor to posit a sharp disjuncture between Hindutva and Hinduism. In terms of ‘being everything to everyone’, one can see this in the bewildering array of definitions which have been given to this ideology in popular discourse.

Again, Appaiah sees Hindu nationalism, precisely to the extent that it is a Hindu movement, as possessing an impulse toward universality. Due, however, to its rootedness in a particular vision of both Hinduism and India, it ‘simultaneously appears to be exclusively national, bound by culture and tradition of its own’ (Appaiah 2003: xii). Ultimately, Appaiah suggests, the idea of Hindutva is as amorphous as the idea of democracy itself, evoking a specific ethos, and yet also proving adaptable to a variety of contexts: ‘Like democracy, Hindutva was also interpreted as a way of life and built around moral or ethical principles. Universality and human relevance [were] also attached to the same so it could not be confined to a community or a region but enlarge itself into a global ideology’ (Appaiah 2003: xii).

In short, we can say that HindutvaHN, or Hindu nationalism, is an ethnonationalist political movement, not identical to Hinduism, but appealing to many Hindus who share a sense of being threatened by other belief systems, and who therefore seek to establish a securely Hindu state. It is not part of Hinduism per se, but it emerges from historical Hindu social and political concerns. At the same time, one can see an impulse towards the transformation of Hindu nationalism into a more global ideology, given the emergence of the Hindu diasporas and recent phenomena such as the adoption of a Hindu religious identity by non-Indians in countries such as the United States.

Shifting Our Focus: From India to the Hindu Diasporas

To return to Appaiah’s analysis, if we define Hindu nationalism as we have, then it would appear to be a highly localized matter: a political movement emerging from the anxieties of Hindus in India. Yet Hindutva is increasingly emerging as a global movement, following the spread of the Hindu community itself beyond India to countries such as the United States and the nations of the British Commonwealth, and to many other countries as well. How is Hindutva related to this global context?

This question is as controversial and complex as our initial question, ‘What is Hindutva?’ Indeed, the potential for controversy around the topic of Hindutva is heightened when one brings it into conversation with the topic of Hindu organizations in the Hindu diasporas. Because there are many who object deeply to Hindutva ideology, given its associations with majoritarianism and violence, to claim that a particular Hindu organization is promoting this ideology can be seen as a way of trying to demonize and discredit that organization. Indeed, as of this writing, one prominent Hindu organization in the United States—the Hindu American Foundation—has filed a lawsuit for defamation against other organizations and individuals who have made this very allegation against it (Hindu American Foundation 2021a). It is clearly the case that one needs to exercise care when making claims in this regard.

Less controversial questions, though, are ‘What are the Hindu diasporas?’ and ‘What are the various organizations that have emerged within them?’ We shall now turn to these questions, and then come back to the issue of how Hindutva is related to the Hindu diasporas and their organizations.

The Hindu Diasporas

The vast majority of the world’s Hindus—93.2 per cent—live in India, making up about 79.8 per cent of the population, according to the 2011 census of India (Office of the Registrar General & Census Commissioner of India 2021). Many Hindus—roughly 40 per cent of those living outside of India—are concentrated in South or South East Asia. Nepal is home to 2 per cent of the world’s Hindus (roughly 23 million), while 0.6 per cent of Hindus live in Bangladesh (roughly 13.5 million), 0.1 per cent live in Indonesia (or roughly 4 million), and 0.3 per cent and 0.2 per cent (3.6 and 2.6 million) live in Pakistan and Sri Lanka, respectively. In all these countries except for Nepal, which is 81.3 per cent Hindu, Hindus are a minority (Central Intelligence Agency 2021).

Looking beyond Asia, roughly 4 per cent of Hindus—about 60 per cent of those living outside of India—do not live in India or in any of the countries of either South or South East Asia that have had Hindu populations for centuries. These remaining Hindus—those who are scattered around the world—are often referred to as the Hindu diasporas (though this term is sometimes mistakenly used to refer to all Hindus residing outside India, including South Asia). The term ‘diaspora’ has its origins in the history of Judaism, where it originally referred to the scattering of the Jewish people beyond their ancestral homeland. ‘Diaspora’ has since come to refer more broadly, in the words of Steven Vertovec to ‘a generalized context outside of a place of origin’ (Vertovec 2000: 141). Aspects of this term’s origins, however, continue to shape how it is used in practice, as it has come to refer increasingly to the possibility of constructing or maintaining some form of unified identity over large distances. As Vertovec further elaborates:

‘The Diaspora’ was at one time a concept referring almost exclusively to the experiences of Jews, invoking their traumatic exile from a historical homeland and dispersal through many lands. With this experience as reference, connotations of a ‘diaspora’ situation were usually rather negative as they were associated with forced displacement, victimisation, alienation, loss. Along with this archetype went a dream of return. (Vertovec 2000: 141)

These negative connotations of ‘diaspora’ both do and do not apply to the Hindu diasporas. Portions of the Hindu diasporas, like those Hindus whose ancestors were transported by the British to the Caribbean region as indentured labourers, have experienced a ‘traumatic exile’ from India that is in many ways comparable to the Jewish experience. Other portions of the Hindu diasporas, though, have had quite a different experience, such as those Hindus who have left India voluntarily in order to pursue educational and economic opportunities. This latter group makes up the vast majority of Hindus in the United States, though recent Hindu refugees from Bhutan are a significant exception to this norm.

Amongst diasporic Hindus, the vast majority—possibly as much as 90 per cent—live in countries with large English-speaking populations which were once part of the British Empire—as were India, Bangladesh, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka. The dispersal of Hindus across the globe is part of the legacy of colonialism. As such, consideration of the Hindu diasporas is inseparable from consideration of colonialism and its impact upon colonized peoples. The descendants of those Hindus who were forced to labour in various parts of the Empire, as mentioned, can be found mostly in the Caribbean countries, as well as in parts of Africa (mainly South Africa). Others emigrated to other nations of the Commonwealth that was formed after the Empire was formally dissolved.⁴

The United States, however, has the largest Hindu population of any country outside either South or South East Asia, larger even than that of the United Kingdom, though Hindus make up a slightly larger percentage of the United Kingdom’s population—1.3 per cent, compared with the 0.7 per cent of the US population that is constituted by Hindus. The Hindu population of the United Kingdom was approximately 850 thousand according to the 2011 census.

Increasingly, the Hindu population of the United States and other Western nations includes persons who are not immigrants or descendants of immigrants from South Asia, but have, rather, become Hindu by adopting a Hindu religious identity. The American Hindu community largely remains an ethnically based one, made up of immigrants and descendants of immigrants from South Asia. Hindus who self-identify ethnically as Asian make up roughly 91 per cent of the 2.23 million Hindus in the US. But while this is clearly a majority, it is not 100 per cent: 2 per cent of American Hindus identify themselves ethnically as being of a mixed heritage, 4 per cent of American Hindus self-identify as ‘White’ (European American), 2 per cent as African American, and 1 per cent as Hispanic. This means there are roughly 89,000 White American Hindus, 45,000 African American Hindus, and 22,000 Hispanic American Hindus (Pew Research Center 2015).

How well have Hindus fitted into North American society and culture? Despite stereotypical associations of Hinduism with poverty, American Hindus make up one of the wealthiest religious communities in the United States, second only to the Jewish community (Pew Research Center 2016). American Hindus are also one of the best educated communities in the US, with roughly 48 per cent holding postgraduate degrees (Pew Research Center 2015). American Hindus are also increasingly assuming leadership roles in both the political and cultural spheres. Three Hindus currently serve in the United States House of Representatives, with one, Pramila Jayapal, of the state of Washington, serving as the head of the House Progressive Caucus. Vivek Murthy currently serves as the Surgeon General of the United States. Hindus are also a growing presence on American television, often serving as experts on medicine (such as Dr Sanjay Gupta and Dr Kavita Patel) or as political commentators (such as Neera Tanden).

Yet Hindus in the West continue to struggle with stereotypes and negative or exoticizing claims about Hinduism, or with what has come increasingly to be referred to as Hinduphobia (a concept that is analogous to xenophobia, homophobia, and Islamophobia, and anti-Semitism). As scholar Marianne Keppens narrates:

Consider some typical observations of Indians living in either the US or Europe: [many Europeans and Americans] they encounter will at some point initiate a conversation which starts from certain questions: ‘What is your religion? Are you a Hindu? Do you believe in rebirth and karma? Do you follow the caste system? What is your caste? Are you from a higher or lower caste? Do you really treat some people as impure and inferior untouchables?’ Individuals who have read or heard more about India sometimes go into specifics: ‘Your skin is much lighter than that of some of your colleagues; is this because you belong to a caste descending from the Aryan invaders? Do you really think that your current deeds will affect how you are born in your next life? You are so open-minded and free-spirited; you must be the daughter of a liberal upper-caste family.’ (Keppens 2020: 6–7)

At the same time, as a generally affluent and successful community, Hindu Americans also contend with the issue of being labelled a ‘model minority’, and the stereotypes and pressures that this also entails (Prashad 2000).

A Historical Overview of Organizations in the Hindu Diasporas

The vast majority of the Hindu organizations that have emerged in the diasporas over the course of its history are of a religious nature and are largely apolitical. Indeed, Hindu involvement in politics in countries such as the US and the UK is a relatively recent phenomenon, with earlier generations of Hindus being focused more upon assimilation, social acceptance, and economic success than on what might be called ‘Hindu issues’, such as combating stereotypes and prejudices against Hindus in the West.

The oldest Hindu organization in the West is the Vedanta Society, established by Swami Vivekananda in New York in 1894. This organization had considerable influence on the larger culture of the US through attracting influential thinkers—authors and scholars such as Christopher Isherwood, Aldous Huxley, J.D. Salinger, Joseph Campbell, and Huston Smith—to its ranks. The Vedanta Society was soon followed by the Self-Realization Fellowship, which was established by Paramahansa Yogananda in 1920. ‘Until 1965 when significant numbers of immigrants from India began to arrive, this movement was the largest and most extensive Hindu organization in the U.S.’ (Pluralism Project 1991) Before 1965, the majority of the members of both the Vedanta Society and the Self-Realization Fellowship consisted of Westerners: non-Indians who were drawn to the teachings and practices promoted by Vivekananda, Yogananda, and other Hindu leaders who came to the West.

In 1924, racist backlash against Indians as well as Chinese and Japanese people in the US led to the passage of the Asian Exclusion Act. This act of Congress banned most immigration from Asian countries, greatly reducing the number of Hindu teachers coming to the West to share Hindu ideas and practices with Western audiences. When this legislation was overturned in 1965, in the wake of the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, Indians again began to migrate to the United States. Many of these immigrants were highly qualified professionals, often working in fields like the sciences, in university contexts, or as engineers, in various parts of American industry. They also included many businesspeople who established themselves in fields such as hospitality and convenience stores. This stream of immigration has continued to the present day. Finally, they also included Hindu spiritual teachers who established organizations and movements that included both Indian and Western adherents. Some of the better-known figures include the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, founder of the Transcendental Meditation (or TM) movement, A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, the founder of the International Society for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON), and Swami Muktananda, the founder of Siddha Yoga in the United States. The Vedanta Society and Self-Realization Fellowship have also continued to thrive up to the present. As Indian immigration has increased, many of these organizations, which began with primarily non-Indian memberships, have come to take on a more Indian following. This has led to tensions, as these organizations have struggled with how best to present themselves to prospective audiences.⁵

Finally, the arrival of larger numbers of Hindus in the West has led to the emergence of Hindu temple communities. Most Hindu temples in the United States are independent entities, run by elected steering committees and boards of trustees. There are also, however, a growing number of temples associated with specific Hindu movements based in India, such as the Svāminārāyaṇa movement, the Puṣṭhimārg, and temples associated with devotion to the guru Sai Baba of Shirdi. Today, there are dozens of Hindu temples across the United States.

Hindutva and Hindu Organizations in the United States

Going beyond purely religious organizations and into the realm of politics, several Hindu organizations have developed whose missions focus on what is broadly conceived as advocacy for Hindus in the United States.

The two oldest Hindu political organizations in the United States have clear and strong ties to Hindutva organizations in India, and essentially serve as their American branch. The first is the Vishwa Hindu Parishad of America (VHPA), which was established in 1970.

The VHPA is basically the American branch of the Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP) of India. The VHP in India has focused its attention chiefly on the controversy over the city of Ayodhya, the traditional birthplace of the Hindu deity Rāma, or Rām. A mosque believed by many Hindus to have been built on the ruins of a temple to Rāma was destroyed by Hindu nationalist activists in 1992. Under the administration of Narendra Modi, a Rāma temple is currently being built upon the site, the ownership of which was contested in the Indian legal system for many years. VHPA has been a source of fundraising in the Hindu diasporas for the VHP: specifically, for its efforts to build the Rāma temple. Within the American context, however, VHPA has not focused on Indian issues so much as on raising the profile of Hinduism in the United States. Most recently, it has advocated for the declarations given by a variety of states in 2021 to designate October as Hindu Heritage Month. October was selected because many major Hindu holidays, especially Dīvālī, typically fall within October.

Similarly, there is the Hindu Swayamsevak Sangh (HSS), an organization which first began among Hindus in Kenya in 1940. Its American branch was incorporated in 1989. Like VHPA, the HSS is affiliated with a Hindutva organization in India: in this case, the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh, or RSS. The RSS has been a major home for Hindu nationalist activity, with its membership including Savarkar himself. Unlike the RSS, the HSS is not a paramilitary style organization, but a cultural organization focused on raising awareness about Hinduism internationally. It has also served, however, as a source of fundraising for its parent organization.

Indeed, support for Hindu nationalist organizations by members of the Hindu diasporas has been a topic of some controversy for a number of years. Particularly given the affluence of the US Hindu community, its ability to influence Indian politics through donations has been seen by the critics of Hindu nationalism as an aggravating element in the relationships amongst the religious communities of India, as well as the relationships amongst castes (Sud 2008: 50–65). Of potential relevance to the question of support from Hindus in the US for Hindu nationalist organizations in India is the fact that ‘[a]ccording to 2003 figures from [the] University of Pennsylvania, an estimated 90 percent of the 2.84 million Indian-born people in the US are from upper castes’ (Sarkar 2021).

Probably the best known—and most controversial—Hindu organization in the United States is the Hindu American Foundation, or HAF. HAF was established in 2003 in Fremont, California. The vision of this organization, as expressed on its website, is ‘to sustain a leading institution of Hindu American advocacy for the promotion of dignity, mutual respect, and pluralism.’ According to its mission statement:

The Hindu American Foundation (HAF) is an advocacy organization for the Hindu American community. The Foundation educates the public about Hinduism, speaks out about issues affecting Hindus worldwide, and builds bridges with institutions and individuals whose work aligns with HAF’s objectives. HAF focuses on human and civil rights, public policy, media, academia, and interfaith relations. Through its advocacy efforts, HAF seeks to cultivate leaders and empower future generations of Hindu Americans. (Hindu American Foundation 2021b)

The organization does not align with any specific Hindu group, but presents itself as being at the service of all American Hindus:

The Hindu American Foundation is not affiliated with any religious or political organizations or entities. HAF seeks to serve Hindu Americans across all sampradayas (Hindu religious traditions) regardless of race, colour, national origin, citizenship, caste, gender, sexual orientation, age and/or disability. (Hindu American Foundation 2021b)

The activism of HAF has been directed at a variety of issues that the organization takes to be of central concern to Hindus. These have included the representation of Hinduism in school textbooks and human rights abuses that have been suffered by Hindus globally, domestic American issues related to the separation of church and state (such as attempts to erect displays of the Ten Commandments on public property, or anti-Hindu comments made by persons running for office), abuses related to casteism in India, and the representation of yoga as an exercise routine with no relation to Hinduism or Hindu spirituality (controversially called the ‘Take Back Yoga’ campaign).

The issues on which the HAF has taken a stand cut across the political spectrum, in both the Indian and American contexts. In its advocacy for revisions of school textbooks that present Hinduism in a negative light (while maintaining a fairly positive image in their representations of other religions), as well as in its ‘Take Back Yoga’ campaign, the interests of HAF and what could be called a conservative or Hindutva approach to Hinduism coincide quite closely.

At the same time, in its extensive critique of casteism, HAF found itself running afoul of many of those same Hindus who had cheered its activism in the textbook cases. Its advocacy for separation of church and state in the US places it firmly on the side of political progressives who consistently challenge attempts to transform the US into a ‘Christian nation’. The reality of HAF is clearly a complex one, not reducible to a single factor or ideological orientation.

Nevertheless, popular media sources often label HAF a ‘right wing’ or ‘Hindu nationalist’ organization. As mentioned previously, HAF has resisted these claims, launching a lawsuit for defamation against persons and organizations that have made this allegation.

Finally, there have been Hindu organizations that have formed explicitly to oppose Hindu nationalism and to ensure that a politically progressive Hindu voice becomes part of the discourse of Hinduism. The two most prominent organizations that have taken up this mantle are the Sadhana Coalition and Hindus for Human Rights.

Sadhana—named after the Sanskrit term for spiritual practice—is dedicated to promoting progressive political causes from a Hindu perspective. Its mission and vision are rooted in the idea that Hindu values are inherently progressive:

Since, 2011, Sadhana has been building a progressive Hindu movement. We practice our sadhana, or faith in action, by advocating for those social justice principles we believe are at the heart of Hinduism. (Sadhana Coalition 2021)

The Hindu values on which Sadhana’s vision is based are listed on its website as:

ekatva: Oneness of all.

ahimsa: Nonviolence.

seva: Service. (Sadhana Coalition 2021)

Similarly, Hindus for Human Rights is an organization opposed to both casteism and Hindu nationalism. According to its mission statement:

We advocate for pluralism, civil and human rights in South Asia and North America, rooted in the values of our faith: shanti (peace), nyaya (justice) and satya (truth). We provide a Hindu voice of resistance to caste, Hindutva (Hindu nationalism), racism, and all forms of bigotry and oppression.

Our vision is a world defined by lokasangraha (the universal common good)— where there is peace among all people, and our planet is honored and protected. (Hindus for Human Rights, 2021)

Conclusion

Clearly, Hindus who have left India and their descendants have carried their Hindu values with them into new contexts, as well as adapting to those contexts. The Hindu diasporas are themselves as polarized and politically divided as the Hindu community in India. Hindutva is prominent in both spaces: the diasporas and India. At the same time, it is not uncontested, nor is there even unanimity amongst those who adhere to it about what, precisely, it entails. This is a debate that will no doubt continue to unfold in the course of the twenty-first century, with as yet unknown implications for Hindus and religious minorities in India, for Hindus in the diasporas, and for the overall character of the Hindu tradition. One can hope that the most humane values of the tradition will prevail and be realized both in India and beyond in the diasporas.

References

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Hindu American Foundation. 2021a. ‘Hindus for Human Rights and Indian American Muslim Council Leaders, Rutgers Professor Audrey Truschke Sued for Defamation and Conspiracy against HAF.’ 7 May. URL: https://www.hinduamerican.org/press/haf-defamation-lawsuit-iamc-hfhr-truschke/, accessed 30 December 2021.

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Jaffrelot, Christophe. 2021. Modi’s India: Hindu Nationalism and the Rise of Ethnic Democracy. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press.

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Jeffery D. Long, Hindutva, Hindu Organizations, and the Hindu Diasporas In: Hindu Diasporas. Edited by: Knut A. Jacobsen, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198867692.003.0016

¹ See Smith 1982 and Inden 1990 for the details of Smith’s and Inden’s respective critiques of essentialism.

² This differentiates scientific claims from metaphysical and religious claims, the whole point of which is often to express a truth that is beyond the access of conventional empirical methodologies.

³ This is widely referred to in philosophy as the ‘No True Scotsman’ fallacy.

⁴ The Commonwealth of Nations is described by Encyclopedia Britannica as ‘a free association of sovereign states comprising the United Kingdom and a number of its former dependencies who have chosen to maintain ties of friendship and practical cooperation and who acknowledge the British monarch as symbolic head of their association’ (https://www.britannica.com/topic/Commonwealth-association-of-states, accessed 30 December 2021).

⁵ For one example, see Karapanagiotis 2021 for an overview of how such tensions have played out in one particular Hindu-based movement (ISKCON).

16

Persistent Fictions

Race and the Global Gurus of the Long Twentieth Century

Amanda Lucia

The twentieth century ushered in an unprecedented centripetal movement of gurus from India spreading their messages throughout the globe.¹ Swami Vivekananda’s physical presence in the United States interrupted a swirling network of yogis, wonder-workers, and exoticized fables of Indian magic and spiritual mystery (Deslippe 2014). But his vision for the Vedanta Society initiated a new pattern of Indian gurus establishing global organizations, which greatly expanded to include dozens of guru-led organizations by the second half of the twentieth century. These globally oriented twentieth-century gurus espoused new forms of Hindu religiosity that were characterized by innovation (Lucia 2014) and represented unprecedented missionizing efforts (Brekke 1999). Many scholars have observed the ways in which neo-Vedanta seems to thematically unify several of the most famous global guru movements (Goldberg 2010, Jackson 1994). Lola Williamson has noted that several of these movements focused particularly on meditation, and in response characterizes them as Hindu-Inspired Meditation Movements (HIMMs) (2010). Srinivas Aravamudan has assessed how these global gurus used tactics such as ecumenism, universalism, and what he named as ‘Guru English’, a distinctive cosmopolitan theo-linguistic register that aimed to appeal to global audiences (2005). In a recent article, Rajeev Dubey reveals how these gurus transformed Hindu ideals and practices, and having become celebrities in the West, then imported a ‘westernised form of eastern spirituality’ to India where they gained popularity among urban middle-class Hindus (2015: 167). Not only have these movements popularized the guru as a figure of religious authority, but they have recreated contemporary understandings and practices of global Hinduism.

Predictably, as these global gurus expanded their reach outside of India, they were noticed, discussed, and developed followings among non-Indians. This chapter investigates the reception of twentieth-century gurus in the West, and focuses particularly on how Orientalist cultural and racial stereotypes of India and the West embedded within the organizations that these global gurus established. In respect of limitations of space and time, and in obeisance to my own expertise, I focus primarily on Hindu gurus who developed organizations and devotional followings in the United States—though many of these same gurus spent considerable time and developed sizeable followings in Canada and Europe, and increasingly in the last several decades of the twentieth century, in South America, Asia, Africa, Australia, and the Soviet Union (now Russia, Ukraine, and the Baltic States).²

Taking a wide-view that analyses the most predominant guru movements active in the United States in the long twentieth century, I assess the nuances of inter-racial communal relations in these burgeoning global guru movements. In the first section, I argue that the first ambassador gurus operated within Orientalist divisions between India and the West and mobilized cultural stereotypes represented therein to justify their proselytizing missions. In the second section, I show that those divisions—though largely fictitious—continue to influence global guru movements in the present. To do so, I rely on the archive of print media sources to access the ways in which these proselyting gurus were perceived and received by Western audiences. I also unearth the relatively understudied literary genre of the devotional memoir. Despite the genre’s visible attempts to celebrate (à la hagiography) or condemn (à la exposé) a particular guru, these published devotee accounts reveal how guru communities operated. In their detailed descriptions of the minutiae of daily operations, the authors disclose the inevitable conflicts of communal life, but also the devotional community’s unique cosmopolitanism and fraternité that brought unlike people together in common devotion.

Part One: The First Half of the Twentieth Century

Gurus travelling to the West as emissaries for Hindu thought in the twentieth century was a result of, and a reaction to, the colonial context in India. Leading intellectuals like Rammohan Roy had given rise to a range of Hindu apologists who sought to defend Hinduism against British Protestant critique and to find parity with British Protestant ideals in Hindu scriptures. This collaborative restructuring of Hindu ideas and practices into shapes that more closely resembled Protestant monotheism resulted in publications, organizations, scholarship, and political activism. New Hindu organizations, like the Brahmo Samaj and the Arya Samaj, were established to advocate for distinctively modernist forms of Hinduism, and the public sphere erupted with debates over controversial Hindu practices, such as satī and caste (Pennington 2005). This period tends to be interpreted as a new and distinctive period of Hindu thought, a ‘Bengali Renaissance’ (or less salutary, simply ‘Hindu reform’) marked by innovations that attempted to ‘modernize’ by refashioning Hindu ideas and practices in dialogue with colonial influences, Protestantism, and newly fashioned ‘bourgeois’ sensibilities (Hatcher 2008, Scott 2016).³ The first global gurus emerged from this milieu and were not only in dialogue with colonialist, Orientalist, and Protestant missionary understandings of India, but they sought to combat them directly through confrontation, apologetics, and compromise.

The first gurus who travelled to the West sculpted new forms of Hinduism that could travel globally, but amended them with attention to the theological norms and valences of Protestant Christianity. Their audiences had also been primed in the previous decades by Rammohan Roy’s publications in England and the United States that celebrated Vedantic monism as a form of Unitarianism (a controversial position that had Hindu traditionalists viewing him as an apologist and ‘colonial toadie’ (Aravamudan 2005: 38)). They might have also been exposed to the writings of popular American intellectuals of the mid-nineteenth century, like Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, and Walt Whitman, each of whom had celebrated Hindu ideas and scriptures (Aravamudan 2005: 156). By the time the gurus arrived in the United States at the Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893—and its associated World’s Parliament of Religions—many educated elites among liberal Protestant audiences were excited by the Indian swamis who espoused the unity of religions, and the singularity of God.

Swami Vivekananda, but also the other representatives of Asian religions (including Pratap Chandra Mazumdar representing the Brahmo Samaj, A. Dharmapala representing Sri Lankan [Ceylonese] Theravada Buddhism, and Shaku Soyen representing Zen Buddhism) were simultaneously intellectual interlocutors and cultural spectacles as they spoke at the Columbian Exposition in Chicago.⁴ Despite their presence, for the most part the Columbian Exposition was a ‘White city’ both in popular nomenclature and in its demographics. African Americans, just 30 years after emancipation, worked service industry jobs at the Fair, but were barred from taking on significant leadership roles; only a few African Americans spoke at the World’s Congress Auxiliary. In general, the Columbian Exposition was notorious for its racial stereotypes and its propagation of evolutionary race theory that largely understood non-whites as ‘primitives’. In protest against the blockade against African American participation, leading Black activists such as Ida B. Wells, Frederick Douglass, Irvine Garland Penn, and Ferdinand Lee Barnett wrote a protest pamphlet entitled, The Reason Why the Colored American Is Not in the World’s Columbian Exposition. The pamphlet aimed to inform international visitors of both the successes of Blacks since emancipation and the trials they endured under American racism. Ida B. Wells explained, ‘The pamphlet is intended as a calm, dignified statement of the Afro-American’s side of the story, from the beginning to the present; a recital of the obstacles which have hampered him; a sketch of what he has done in the twenty-five years with all his persecution, and a statement of the fruitless efforts he made for representation at the world’s fair’ (Reed 2000: xii). In response, the organizers of the Exposition declared 25 August 1893 ‘Colored American Day’. On that day, when an audience member heckled Fredrick Douglass during his speech, shouting about the ‘Negro problem’, Douglass presciently reframed the issue of post-emancipation Black advancement instead as a ‘national problem’.

This same period was rife with anti-Asian public sentiment and accompanying anti-Asian legislation in US courts. As early as 1882, the US Congress had passed the Chinese Exclusion Act, which was extended in 1892 and made permanent in 1902. This was the first time in US history that an ethnic group was legally prohibited from entering the country. In 1910, Angel Island in San Francisco, which was already known for being harsher than Ellis Island in New York, established an immigrant detention centre on the premises. Between 1913 and 1920, 11 US states passed ‘alien land laws’, which prevented non-citizens (at a time when Asians were prohibited from becoming citizens) from owning land. In California, this directly impacted the sizeable population of Punjabi and Japanese farmers, who were forced to contract land-lease agreements or to move to urban areas. In 1917, the US Congress passed a law excluding immigrants from the ‘Asiatic Barred Zone’, and demanding literacy tests for others. In 1916, a US district court denied Takao Ozawa’s appeal against a ruling that denied his application for US citizenship, and in 1923 a similar ruling denied Bhagat Singh Thind’s appeal for citizenship; both denials were justified on the grounds that the petitioners were not white. With the National Origins Act of 1924 and the Tydings-McDuffie Act of 1934, US legislators expanded and concretized anti-Asian public sentiment and effectively prohibited immigration from Asia (and Southern and Eastern Europe). At the time of signing, President Calvin Coolidge remarked, ‘America must remain American’, by which he likely meant both Christian and white. During this period known as the Exclusion Era (1882–1944), key figures like Swami Vivekananda and Paramahansa Yogananda, but also the silent guru Meher Baba, who first came to the United States in 1931, and many other travelling yogis made lasting impressions and developed sizeable followings.⁵

The fetishization of the Indian swami as an alluring figure existed simultaneously and in contradistinction to both the popular sentiment of animosity toward Asians—particularly Asian labourers—and the juridical negotiations designed to control a racialized labour pool. In this generalized context of anti-Asian sentiment, it was largely the Romantic Orientalism of the educated elites that ensured that the Hindu emissaries of the early twentieth century were celebrated for their ideas and invited to speak to wealthy Anglo-European audiences. For many of these cosmopolitans, the swami from India became one such curiosity, a figure whose very presence signified the social capital of the hosts of any given swarée. Global cosmopolitanism—and its performance—was a commodity derived from and driven by the colonial project. It was the imperialism of empire that brought cultures into proximity, and enabled Anglo-European audiences to come into contact with foreign ideas and practices, and it operated in tandem with the notion of global progressivism in industry and science. Vivekananda’s astute ‘scientific’ philosophy (Harris 2022), articulated in English at the Parliament, stood in contrast to the claims of evolutionary race science, evidenced by the tribal villages famously transported to the Midway.⁶ In the context of the racialized progressivism of the Gilded Age, the spectacle of the ‘primitive’ and the ‘swami’ operated in contradistinction and in symbiosis, two sides of the same Orientalist coin.

In his speeches, Swami Vivekananda justified his presence and his teachings with the need for Indian spiritual ambassadors in the West. To do so, he repurposed the Orientalist trope of the ‘spiritual East’ and the ‘materialistic West’. He explained,

To the Oriental, the world of spirit is as real as to the Occidental is the world of senses. In the spiritual, the Oriental finds everything he wants or hopes for; in it he finds all that makes life real to him. To the Occidental he is a dreamer; to the Oriental the Occidental is a dreamer playing with ephemeral toys, and he laughs to think that grown-up men and women should make so much of a handful of matter which they will have to leave sooner or later. Each calls the other a dreamer…. Therefore it is fitting that, whenever there is a spiritual adjustment, it should come from the Orient. It is also fitting that when the Oriental wants to learn about machine-making, he should sit at the feet of the Occidental and learn from him. When the Occident wants to learn about the spirit, about God, about the soul, about the meaning and the mystery of this universe, he must sit at the feet of the Orient to learn. (Vivekananda 1988: 3)

After the Columbian Exposition, Vivekananda was sponsored and invited to speak by an assortment of liberal Protestants, many of whom were educated elites with the disposable income to support an Indian swami and the cosmopolitan sensibility to be intrigued by philosophical ideas of the East. In addition to spreading his message, Vivekananda also sought funds for social uplift campaigns at home in India, so it behooved him to circulate in high society. By 1894, he had founded the Vedanta Society in New York. He was celebrated by liberal Protestants and Orientalists in the United States, and was invited as well to speak widely in the United Kingdom (where in 1895 he met Margaret Elizabeth Noble, who would become Sister Nivedita, and in 1896 he met Max Müller, noted Indologist positioned at Oxford University). That same year he published his famous treatise on yoga, Raja Yoga. Back in the United States, he was offered academic positions at both Harvard University and Columbia University, which he declined in order to focus deliberately on his writing and lectures. He consorted with philosophers, lawyers, philanthropists, inventors, futurists, scholars, and celebrated poets, actors, and opera singers. During his travels in Europe and Egypt 1899–1901, his entourage consisted of the famed opera singer Emma Calvé, along with Miss Josephine MacLeod, Sir Francis Jules Bois and his wife, and Sarah Bernhard.

Like Vivekananda, his disciples at the helm of the Vedanta Society also attracted a preponderance of white women, many of whom were from similarly affluent and elite backgrounds. At the Ananda Ashram, the ashram founded outside of Los Angeles in 1923 by Swami Paramananda as an extension of the Vedanta Center in Boston, nearly all of the ‘pioneers’ were Caucasian women, many from elite families.⁷ Of the sisters, Georgina Francis Jones Walton (Sister Daya) was the daughter of a US Senator, Mae Gladwell (Seva) was a former Mormon, and Alice Affspring (Vimala) was a musician.⁸ Laura Franklin Glenn (later known as Devamata) was a Vassar College graduate from a prominent family, and a descendent of Benjamin Franklin on her maternal side. One of the most striking features of the historical record is the length of service that these women committed to the Vedanta Society—with an average of 40 years of commitment to the Vedanta mission. Clearly these women were more than infatuated with the allure of an Oriental mystic; instead, they became life-long monastics, ‘sisters’ in a new faith. Under Paramananda’s leadership, the Ananda Ashram advocated for women’s equality, including education for women and ordained women, an act for which it was subsequently excommunicated by the Ramakrishna Mission in India.

Here too, it is evident that these Hindu reformers were in confrontation and dialogue with colonialism and Protestant Christianity. In the late nineteenth century, Christian Evangelical missionaries had the strong conviction that Western women had elevated status in comparison with their ‘heathen sisters’ around the globe. As a result of this belief, in a variety of missionary arenas, women’s uplift and women’s education became central themes of missionary investiture and engagement (Koshy 2004: 47). Echoing this, Hindu reformers, like Vivekananda (and his famed predecessor Rammohan Roy), championed women’s education and social uplift as a critical tool necessary to develop a modern progressivist society (Sarkar 2001: 107–34). In that vein, when Vivekananda, and later Yogananda, who ‘consciously emulated’ him (Neumann 2020: 9), established their ashrams and organizations in the United States, they and their disciples offered unconventional opportunities for female religious leadership and learning. For most of the long twentieth century, Yogananda’s Self-Realization Fellowship, was led by a female president, Daya Mata (born in Salt Lake City, Utah, as Faye Wright). She served as president for more than 55 years prior to her death in 2010, and Mrinalini Mata (born in Kansas as Merna Brown) served alongside her as vice president, and then succeeded her as president from 2011, building a legacy of 45 years of service prior to her passing in 2017.

Thus, while the trope of the nefarious Indian guru targeting wealthy white women is overwrought, there is truth to the fact that the early ambassador gurus—Vivekananda (and the Vedanta Society) and Paramahansa Yogananda (and the Self-Realization Fellowship) attracted a predominant majority of elite whites—many, if not most, of whom were women. Historian David Neumann writes, ‘Paramananda’s devotees included a number of women who fit a remarkably similar pattern, one not unlike Yogananda’s disciples. They were typically well off, from prominent families in major cities like Boston, well educated, and often single’ (Neumann 2020: 97). He explains that Yogananda was particularly skilled at ‘translating his yoga message to middle-class white Americans as he established a firm foundation for scientific religion in a nation that was deeply shaped by Protestant beliefs, ethics, and practices (Neumann 2020: 106)’. Yogananda also accorded with Vivekananda’s Orientalist view that the materialism and egoism of Westerners made them ready (and necessary) recipients of Indian spirituality. In his famed book, Autobiography of a Yogi, he writes that his guru, Yukteswar, warned him that ‘[y]ou will go to foreign lands, where blunt assaults on the ego are not appreciated. A teacher could not spread India’s message in the West without an ample fund of accommodative patience and forbearance’ (Yogananda 2001: 119–20).

But at this time of racial segregation, anti-miscegenation laws, and overt and legal racial discrimination, any man of colour was potentially endangered by his proximity to white women, particularly wealthy ones. According to the documentary film ‘Awake: The Life of Yogananda’, Yogananda dangerously transgressed anti-miscegenation legislation when he went so far as to marry an Indian man and a white American woman under his auspices as religious leader. The film also recounts that when Yogananda learned that only whites would be admitted to his lecture in Washington DC in 1927, he said, ‘I defied this and founded an Afro-American…center to teach my Negro brethren.’⁹ But such actions were of little controversy compared to when in 1929, outraged husbands in Miami, Florida threatened to lynch Yogananda because he was teaching unsupervised women inside of their homes. Miami police subsequently objected to Yogananda’s presence in the city citing the ‘strong public commitment against a coloured person acting in the capacity of teacher to white women’. They urged Yogananda to leave the city ‘for his own good’ (Neumann 2020: 147). Police armed with tear gas had to disperse an angry mob at the location of his cancelled lecture, and the British vice consul soon thereafter urged Yogananda not to speak publicly, with the warning that ‘his colour, while not negro, was such as might cause high feeling in the community’ (Neumann 2020: 147).

But far from being mere pawns in the battle between their white husbands and their Indian gurus, white women were actively engaged with Asian—and in this case Indian—ideas and practices. As the American history scholar Mari Yoshihara has shown, white women were significant consumers of Asian culture in general, and were active contributors to American Orientalism, which augmented their social status and through which they garnered social distinction. Although white women were often prohibited from the empire-related travel of their male counterparts, they were able to consume and collect Asian objects and people and they did so in order to proffer a similar ‘cultural, educational, and liberating experience’ (Yoshihara 2003: 18). The world’s fairs, exhibitions, museum culture, appropriations of ‘Asian’ art motifs, and advice literature on interior decoration—all of which white women had access to—became spheres of consumption that transformed ‘highly specialized, esoteric knowledge’ once only privy to male intellectuals into popular commodities purchased and used by upper—and also middle-class women (Yoshihara 2003: 17). As many scholars have noted, in these early decades of the twentieth century, postural yoga also became a popular practice among white women similarly attracted to Indian mystical knowledge and spiritualized physical movement (Aubrecht 2017, Foxen 2020, Goldberg 2015). In this way, Orientalism became popularized among white American women, and the ground was laid for the racial climate of the Age of Aquarius and the New Age, the ‘rush’ of post-1965 gurus, and the late twentieth-century explosion in the popularity of postural yoga.

Part Two: The Second Half of the Twentieth Century

The gurus who arrived in the second half of the twentieth century came to the US in a very different political climate. Although the US government had denied Indian American petitions to support the nationalist movement for Indian independence in the 1940s, it had recently begun to relax its anti-Asian immigration policy. The War Brides Act of 1945 and the 1946 Immigration Act revealed the demand for a new level of public acceptance of white–Asian miscegenation, and these laws permitted Asian spouses of US citizens (mostly the wives of men in military service) to immigrate to the US while bypassing restrictive quotas on Asian immigrants (Koshy 2004: 11). In 1952, race was formally removed as a possible reason for exclusion from the United States, and in 1965, the Immigration and Nationality Act removed all quotas on immigration. As immigration policy shifted and the population diversified ethnically as never before, American society began to self-identify as ‘a melting pot’ and cultural and ethnic diversity began to be seen—by many—as a strength of the nation.

The mid-1960s ushered in a distinctive confluence of events, drawing from relaxed immigration policy and a surging spiritual counterculture, both of which enabled Hindu gurus to build lasting organizations on American soil. In 1958, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi embarked on his first of many world tours to introduce his technique of Transcendental Meditation. In the late 1960s and early 1970s he and his technique became globally famous because of his contact with celebrities, such as the Beatles and the Beach Boys. In 1960 Amrit Desai (later known as Yogi Desai) came to the United States for art school, but later became one of the most significant purveyors of yoga in the United States with his yogic method of Kripalu Yoga, and the establishment of his Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health. In 1965, A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada arrived in New York City with the intention of founding the International Society for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON). In 1965, Swami Chinmayananda began his first global tour, during which he lectured and organized in 39 cities in 18 countries. In 1966, Swami Satchidananda, a disciple of Sivananda, came to the United States and famously led the opening mantra at Woodstock Music Festival in 1969. That same year, Swami Rama came to the United States and soon thereafter he established the Himalayan Institute in Pennsylvania dedicated to the practice of holistic health and yoga.

In 1970, Swami Muktananda came to the United States and launched the Siddha Yoga Dham Movement. In 1975, he founded his Siddha Yoga Ashram in Oakland, California, and then he founded another in 1979 in the Catskills Mountains, in proximity to New York City. In 1971, Guru Maharaj began sharing ‘knowledge’ with his followers in the West catapulting the meteoric rise and fall of the Divine Light Mission. By 1981, Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh (later known as Osho) had founded Rajneeshpuram, his intentional community in Wasco County, Oregon. In 1987, Mata Amritanandamayi began her first global tour and shortly thereafter established her ashram in San Ramon, California, becoming the first significant female guru presence abroad. She was followed by Nirmala Srivastava, founder of Sahaja Yoga in 1990, and in the 2000s, by Sri Karunamayi and Mother Meera, both South Indian women who are believed by their followers to be goddess incarnations.¹⁰

The gurus of the ‘guru rush’, particularly the decades of the 1960s and 1970s, entered into a national discourse that was embroiled in racial contestation and division. As is well known, the onset of multiculturalism and the birthing of the Civil Rights Era was a fraught and violent time period, during which claims for racial equality were met with significant white resistance. Hippies, many of whom were attracted spiritually to Indian gurus, were somewhat ambivalent in their contributions to the struggle for racial justice. Many emerged from middle-class white upbringings, and while some were at the front lines in protest of ‘the establishment’ (in a number of forms), a significant majority—and one might imagine that it was even a larger majority among the more spiritually committed—were depoliticized and encouraged to ‘drop out’ of society all together (Lemke-Santagelo 2009). Guru movements and ashram-style communal living flourished alongside the back-to-the-land movement and its accompanying communes and eco-villages (Binkley 2007). Guru communal living experiments demonstrated a similar radical potential to unite communities in common purpose and religious practice. In addition to their predominantly white and Indian devotees, some gurus attracted African American followers, many of whom were engaged in larger movements of Afro-futurism and ‘Black esoteric and metaphysical worldmaking’.¹¹ But despite their internal diversity, many of these movements found themselves embroiled in racialized divisions and fractures that stemmed from the inherited American racial consciousness of their new members.

What is particularly interesting is that racial divisions occurred in many of the aforementioned movements despite the fact that the majority of gurus and their disciples aimed to transcend the body, and philosophically, conceived of the social classifications of different bodies (race, class, gender) as ultimately transient and inconsequential. Ironically, it is likely because the body (and the classifications of different bodies) were often understood to be ultimately and theologically irrelevant that racial and other social divisions persisted, often unaddressed and festering. For example, Steven Rosen, in his biography of the African American Hare Krishna leader, Bhakti Tirtha Swami (John Favors, 1950–2005) writes:

Sometime during that same period [~1972], John had occasion to meet with Prabhupada again. This time he pointedly addressed the issue at hand: ‘Srila Prabhupada,’ he began, ‘there are prejudices in this movement.’ Prabhupada looked at him and said, ‘Ah. Someone is thinking you’re the body? That is their nonsense. And if you’re disturbed because they see you in this way, then you are also nonsense.’ That was his reaction—that the bodily platform is sheer foolishness, whether one identifies a person with their body, or if the person so identified graces the foolishness with a response. Both perspectives show inferior consciousness, said Prabhupada, and should be avoided. (Rosen 2007: 118, emphasis in original)

This perspective was not unique to ISKCON or Srila Prabhupada, but rather permeates through many global guru movements whose theologies destabilize the significance of the material world. Further, many global guru movements have been heavily influenced by neo-Vedantic philosophies, in which the material world and all of its components—including raced, classed, and sexed bodies—are māyā (illusion) that must be transcended in order to perceive the ultimate unity of the essence of self (ātman) and the essence of the cosmos (brahman). This distinction between a conventional reality, which has social and material qualities, and an ultimate reality, which does not, is common to many religions with South Asian origins, including Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, and Sikhism.

Even for socially concerned disciples, material matters, while important, were ultimately subordinated to both this metaphysics and their devotion to their guru. For example, Rosen narrates another time when a group of African American devotees had organized to obtain a meeting with Srila Prabhupada to object to racial discrimination in the Brooklyn temple and the transferring of leadership in the Harlem temple (a primarily African American neighbourhood) to a Caucasian devotee, Bhakti-jana Dasa. In Bhakti Thirta Swami’s words:

In the room were Markendra Rishi, Shyamaka, Lokamangala, Abhinanda, Balaka, and so on—really dedicated black devotees. And they were anxious to bring up the problem of racial hypocrisy to Srila Prabhupada. But when everyone was in the room, the black devotees felt that their concerns were somewhat trivial, and they melted away…facing Prabhupada, all of this seemed to lose meaning. Not that it wasn’t important—it was! It’s just that when one is in the presence of a pure devotee like Prabhupada, one can only think about serving Krishna purely. All problems become totally insignificant, and that’s what happened. (Rosen 2007: 116–7)

Here, the theological overlay of conventional versus ultimate reality effectively silences the racial and caste-based discrimination that was present in ISKCON, and in Srila Prabhupada’s own discourses.¹² This spiritual silencing of African American concerns about racial hypocrisy is evidence of spiritual gaslighting (Bailey 2020 and Sweet 2019). While some Neo-Vedantists have struggled mightily with India’s system of caste discrimination (Harris 2022); dalit and scheduled caste Hindus have often faced similar forms of gaslighting founded in the universalism of Neo-Vedantic reasoning, which became even more popular in New Age theologies, with maxims like: ‘We are all one.’ In diaspora, gurus followed long-standing patterns of indigenous social hierarchies when they deployed Neo-Vedantic theology to obfuscate and suppress social conflicts arising from the anti-Black racism and Orientalist social bifurcation (Indians v. Westerners) that came to characterize many guru-led movements.

No matter their internal theological commitments, the gurus and guru movements of this period were also perceived in the context of racialized divisions—usually through popular media accounts that reduced them to the status of stereotyped ‘Oriental monks’ (Iwamura 2011). In the 1950s, when Maharishi Mahesh Yogi was making his initial world tours, media outlets routinely referred to him as ‘a man from the Himalayas’ a ‘holy man’, and an ‘Indian mystic’. In the 1970s, when Swami Muktananda arrived in the United States, reporters chased him with the insistent query, ‘Where are you from?’. Ericka Huggins, famed Black Panther and Muktananda devotee, recounts how reporters ‘pounced’ on Muktananda at the San Francisco airport, questioning, ‘Why have you come here?’ ‘Where have you come from?’ and ‘What do you think about Jonestown?’, xenophobically insinuating that Muktananda was a foreigner with plans for a cult that would end in similar devastation (Huggins 2010: 96). The 1978 mass murder/suicide at Jonestown also loomed large over the Rajneeshees as they attempted to settle in the town of Antelope, Oregon, with their guru, Bhagwan Rajneesh (later known as Osho). Thwarted in their plans for a utopian community of hundreds of permanent residents by the restrictive residency zoning restrictions on their newly purchased 65,000-acre ranch, significant numbers of Rajneeshees found a solution by purchasing property in the nearby town of Antelope. However, their abrupt ‘takeover’ of the town ushered in a period of violent animosity with the local residents (the majority of whom were white retirees), repeated assaults in the media, and ultimately the dissolution of Rajneeshpuram, Sheela’s arrest (along with Ma Shanti Bhadra, aka Jane Stork, and several others),¹³ and Bhagwan’s relocation to India. As early as January 1982 (the ashram would not formally dissolve until 1988), the Rajneeshees were identified as a ‘cult’, and there were rumours in town that they were stealing children in order to sacrifice them (Urban 2016: 116). In the popular media and in mainstream American opinion, Indian gurus were commonly depicted as mysterious ‘Oriental monk’ figures whose foreign influence was dangerously un-Christian and potentially deadly.

But this somewhat conventional American xenophobia and nativism was also accompanied by media accounts of gurus as unusual purveyors of unity, who were building diverse communities within a very segregated society. In these accounts, their ability to attract diverse audiences served as evidence for the universality and attractiveness of their spiritual messages. For example, a reporter for the The Daily Colonist wrote the following description of the audience who had come to hear the Maharishi speak in 1963: ‘One hundred and fifty people from all parts of the world followed him here. They come from Japan, Hawaii, Germany, New York, Australia, Montreal, Los Angeles and Duncan and Regina. They are architects, geologists, housewives, students, actresses, health-faddists, millionaires and those of modest means. They are 18 to 88 years.’¹⁴ Many of the most popular gurus of this period were bringing together white devotees with Indian ones, but also creating ethnically diverse communities with a small minority of African Americans, Latino-Americans, and Asian-Americans. In fact, many new religious movements of the 1960s and 1970s focused on racial unity and harmony, while others developed new ‘religio-racial identities’ (Weisenfeld 2016); many of these groups were persecuted as deviant ‘cults’ by the xenophobic and White supremacist American mainstream and media.¹⁵ It is intriguing, in fact, to consider whether these two points are connected, and the anti-cult movement is not also another expression of American anti-miscegenation aggression.

But this acclaimed diversity also belied sharp fissures within guru communities, and produced ethnically charged divides between ‘Indians’ and ‘Westerners’, that had been previously inscribed Orientalist understandings of India and the West. For example, Susan Shumsky, a Caucasian devotee of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi writes, ‘Westerners generally can’t handle guru methods. Maharishi’s followers came and didn’t stay long. In India, masters who employ guru devices get praised. But in the USA they get sued and slandered, as Maharishi did—repeatedly’ (Shumsky 2018: 134). As guru movements re-enacted this popular conception of a division between Indian and Western people—in both rhetoric and practice—they not only reified ethnic divisions, but also often inadequately accounted for within-group variance. That is to say that the imagined category of ‘Indian’ often included extraordinary regional differences including spoken languages and cultural practices (for example, lumping together Punjabis, Gujaratis, Malayalees, and Bengalis) as did the category of Western, which did the same, but for French, Dutch, and/or Americans of any non-Indian ethnicity. These imagined categories—Indian and Western—persisted because they were inherited from an Orientalist epistemological understanding of the world that justified the guru’s mission to the West.

But in a practical sense, gurus were also aware that some of their teachings that were appealing for Western audiences would be scandalous among Indians. As a pre-emptive protectionist mechanism, several gurus altered their programmes and courses according to the cultural audiences to whom they were appealing. Oftentimes, however, this erected visible boundaries and exacerbated already extant social fissures between Indians and Westerners in their communities. For example, in the 1970s at his ashram in Pune, Bhagwan Rajneesh hosted ‘therapy groups’, for which the aim was to ‘help release the anger, hate, jealousy, sexual suppressions, and other taboos that one learns and carries through life’ (Sheela 2012: 155). These therapy groups were unconventional and often involved games and events that included violence, nudity, and group sexuality. By Ma Sheela’s account, sometimes they ‘were truly frightful. Occasional bone fractures and black eyes were normal’ (156), but ‘always, the participation was voluntary’ (155). Still, there was a communal understanding that these therapies while productive for ‘Westerners’, would be misunderstood by Indians. In recognition of this, Rajneesh went so far as to prohibit Indians from participating in them. Sheela explains, ‘Many questions were put to Him [Bhagwan] about this. Finally, He gave an official reason so that the negativity did not spread further. He said, “People from the West come from a very oppressive world. Their lifestyle is different from that of an Indian’s. Their mindset it different. They need active therapies. Indians need more passive, quiet meditations…” With this explanation the Indians thought they were more spiritually developed (156).’

In 2005, Amma stopped performing her famed Devī Bhāvas¹⁶ in India, though she continues to host them during her global tours (Lucia 2014a: 81). When questioned about this, devotees explained in various ways, some with the notion that as Amma became older, it would seem odd to Indian audiences for her to embody the goddess and others with the notion that once Amma was established as a guru, she no longer needed the Devī Bhāva theatre in India. It is also likely, however, that there is a cultural distinction between devotees (both Indian and Western) for whom the guru is God, and the general Indian populace for whom the guru is revered as merely an ācārya or teacher. For example, Satya Bharti Franklin, a Caucasian American devotee, writes of an airplane conversation with her Indian seat-neighbour during her first trip to Mumbai to see her guru, Bhagwan Rajneesh:

‘Hmmm, Rajneesh,’ a middle aged Indian man in a brown tweed jacket and v-neck sweater said as he watched me stuff my orange coat, sweater, and shoulder bag into the overhead rack.…‘You’re going to see Rajneesh?’ the man asked, pointing to the picture on my mala. I nodded, pleased that he’d recognized the picture.…‘Do you know Bhagwan?’ I asked. ‘We people do not call him Bhagwan,’ the man huffed irritably. ‘To us he is an acharya, a teacher, nothing more…It’s for you westerners to call him Bhagwan. You don’t know what the word means to us. To us, he’s just a great acharya, a very wise man.’ (Franklin 1992: 22–3)

Certainly, there are many Indian devotees who also see the guru as God, and in fact, the very idea of the guru as God emerged from an Indian devotional context (i.e. as expressed in the Hindu text, the Guru Gītā and in Sikhism). But there are also numerous scriptures and folktales in India that also warn of guru charlatans, and this is one reason that some global gurus sometimes downplay their assumptions of divinity there.¹⁷

These ‘Indian’ versus ‘Western’ divisions in course offerings and the presentation of the guru are also echoed in numerous institutional ways in the minutiae of everyday living in many guru communities, where there are Indian canteens and Western canteens, Indian snack shops and Western snack shops, Indian dormitories and Western dormitories, Indian-style toilets and Western-style toilets, and so on. As I have written elsewhere (Lucia 2014a: 182–226), in Mata Amritanandamayi’s movement, while most large-scale darśan programmes with the guru brought everyone together, often the smaller devotional gatherings would become de facto congregations of ‘Indian’ satsaṅgs and ‘Western’ satsaṅgs. Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s communities of Transcendental Meditation followed a similar pattern, creating sharp divisions between Indian and Western devotees, especially in American residential communities (Hoffman 2017).

In many ways, ISKCON has been the most successful in cultivating a multiply diverse community of devotees that includes mixed congregations of ‘Indians’ and ‘Westerners’ (see Chapter 17 by Valpey in this volume). This is in large part due to its widespread success among South Asians living in diaspora and its effective revitalization of Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇavism in India. Also, although all of the aforementioned guru movements have established global networks, ISKCON’s are the most multi-sited and heavily traversed; ISKCON devotees from all over the world travel and network in common cause. As they are transplanted to different locations across ISKCON’s networks, disciples’ national and ethnic identities become subordinate to their identity within Krishna Consciousness (DiCara 2016, Rosen 2007). In the early 1990s there were even organizational aspirations that entire nations would become Krishna Conscious, and that Krishna Consciousness could prevent wars and build international relations, supplanting even the idea of nationalism with global devotion to Krishna (Muster 1997: 101–3).

But even still, while globalized cosmopolitanism defines the movement, there are also significant initiatives that have aimed to strip the theology of its Indian cultural foundations, belying the importance of latent distinctions between Indian and Western here too. Most famously, Swami Bhaktipada (aka Kirtanananda Swami) initiated controversial experiments with Western and Christian reforms at New Vrindavan, which he called the ‘de-Indianization of Krishna Consciousness.’¹⁸ More recently, several factions have mobilized with the aim to ‘rebrand’ Krishna Consciousness by de-ethnicizing it and with the intention of making it more accessible to ‘Westerners’, such as Krishna West (Karapanagiotis 2021: 174–209). In sum, de facto ethnic divisions into ‘Indians’ and ‘Westerners’ are often unacknowledged, but they are also sometimes overtly systematized into separate courses, kitchens, cafeterias, services, offices, and even factional organizations.

Conclusion

In conclusion, I suggest that the global guru movements of the twentieth century reproduced the racial and caste hierarchies that dominated the societies from which they emerged. The divisions of ‘Indians’ and ‘Westerners’ are a sort of mutually performed xenophobia—on the one side based in race (with whites discriminating against people of colour) and on the other side based in caste (with Indians discriminating against their presumed caste-inferiors and non-Indians as sources of caste pollution). On the one hand, memoir accounts of ex-devotees, the majority of whom are ‘Western’, exude the prejudices, racism, and cultural stereotypes embedded in the psyches of their authors, even when they were ardent devotees of their Indian guru and spent decades living among Indians or in India. Susan Shumsky recounts being initially appalled by what she understood as ‘idol worship’ (2018: 12) and describes the Indian dhotī of her guru, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, as ‘an oversized cotton diaper (33). Despite her multiple accounts of the loving intermingling of Germans, Indians, Australians, and Italians at Bhagwan Rajneesh’s ashrams, Ma Satya Bharti writes of Ma Sheela’s brother Bipen as a ‘caricature of an American tough guy and a greedy-for-the-best-of-everything Indian’ (Franklin 1992: 84). Numerous Western authors unreflexively enact racialized stereotypes as they decry the ‘filth’ and ‘poverty’ of the external streets and cities of India, and contrast it to the peace, beauty, and calm of their guru’s ashram grounds.

On the other hand, few global guru ashrams enforce overt caste practices any more.¹⁹ But, there are social and institutional structures within many ashram communities that provide evidence for the continued concern with caste pollution among some Indian devotees (which would justify Indian-only canteens, toilets, and so on). For example, when Ma Shanti Bhadra first arrived at Bhagwan Rajneesh’s Pune ashram she was assigned to toilet cleaning duty (Stork 2009: 87), a job that few caste-observing Indian Hindu devotees would have been willing to do. Ma Satya Bharti recounts how Ma Sheela intentionally punished Indian devotees at Rajneeshpuram by assigning them to laundry duty. In her account, Laxmi, Bhagwan’s Indian female secretary who had been replaced by Sheela, explained as follows (speaking of herself in the third person):

Do you know why Deeksha [an Indian woman] left?…Sheela treated her like dirt. Scum…Putting her in the laundry room. Laxmi, too, she put into the laundry…. For the sparrow [Ma Satya Bharti’s nickname] it’s just a job. For Laxmi it was a deliberate attempt to degrade. Not even the servants Lakxmi used to give the underpants to. Not even when Laxmi was a child. These unconscious women here! Sheela knows! They leave blood on the underpants and sheets. And Sheela knows what this means to an Indian woman. The Indians won’t come, mark Laxmi’s words. (Franklin 1992: 187)

Instead of overt caste practice, there are regulations that many of the ashrams abide by that enable caste-conscious Indian devotees to worry less about potential sources of pollution.²⁰ In practical terms, divisions between ‘Indian’ and ‘Western’ are often also purported to accommodate devotees and to offer the comforts of home, as in ashram offerings of European foods and Western-style toilets, in addition to Indian options.

The global gurus of the twentieth century were savvy at positioning themselves attractively to global audiences, even if that meant furthering the racism and casteism that defined the era. Following Vivekananda’s lead, many global gurus saw the West as overly materialistic and in need of Indian spirituality. In applying this justification for their missionizing, they repurposed Orientalist divisions between Indians and Westerners for their own objectives and aspirations. They also repurposed Christian missionary critiques of the supposedly subordinated position of women in India by advocating for women’s uplift, education, and even ordination. This, combined with white women’s propensities for consuming and constructing Orientalism, led to their attracting considerable communities of elite and educated white women.

In the second half of the century, global gurus increasingly attracted unusually diverse followings bolstered by the relaxation of US immigration policy, the advent of American multiculturalism, and the ascendant religious exoticism of the Age of Aquarius and New Age movements (Lucia 2020: 34–63). They created communities that resisted the broader context of racial segregation in the United States by defying the cultural convention of ethnically homogenous religious congregations (Emerson 2006). In contrast, they fostered unusual spaces of interethnic connectivity unified by a communal commitment of guru devotion and multi-ethnic collaboration in everyday practices. In recognizing the multiple preferences and desires of their diverse communities, they created courses, materials, and organizational structures (dormitories, cafeterias, and toilets) that aimed to make their diverse communities of devotees—both Indians and Westerners—feel at home. However, in so doing, they also reified those same distinctions, and enlivened antiquated Orientalist stereotypes that, although largely false in their increasingly hybrid and cosmopolitan communities, continue as persistent fictions.

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¹ I am grateful to Matthew Harris for his thoughtful reading of an early draft of this chapter.

² For readers interested in gurus’ devotional followings in other regions around the globe, there are a growing number of sources addressing other geographical contexts. See for example, Waghorne 2020 on guru spirituality in Singapore, Broo 2020 on Hindu gurus in Europe, Terje Toomistu 2017 on Hindu gurus (and other gurus) in Soviet Estonia, and Rosen 2007 on International Society for Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON) proselytizing and outreach in Africa.

³ Recently, Richard Weiss has challenged this view by noting the many ways in which Hinduism has existed in and confronted modernity without being dependent on or reactive to the centres of British colonial India or, in fact, all that interested the West in general (Weiss 2019).

⁴ For the theological impact and controversies surrounding the Buddhist delegates, see Fader 1982.

⁵ See Deslippe 2018.

⁶ Exhibits of racially otherized peoples were popular in many of the World’s Fairs in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, both in Europe and in the United States. For a thorough treatment of the impetus and impacts of these exhibits, with particular attention to the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition, see Parezo and Fowler 2007.

⁷ See http://www.anandaashrama.org/gallery-pioneer-sisters-brothers.htm, accessed 11 July 2021.

⁸ See also Levinsky 1984: 21–2.

⁹ di Florio 2015, Sexton 2014.

¹⁰ Importantly, in contact with these global gurus and other gurus still living in India, a significant number of non-Indians also adopted the persona of guru in the 1960s and 1970s, and 1980s, such as Ram Dass (born Richard Alpert), Bhagwan Das (born Kermit Michael Riggs), Swami Rudrananda (born Albert Rudolph), Adi Da (born Franklin Albert Jones), and Ma Jaya Sati Bhagavati (born Joyce Green), among others. There are many other non-Indian gurus who might be added to this list, for more see Gleig and Williamson 2013 and Versluis 2014.

¹¹ See Harris and Roane 2022.

¹² For example, on his blog, Alex Charles Diblasi has published a collection of racist and casteist statements attributed to Srila Prabhupada. For example, he is quoted saying, ‘Sudra is to be controlled. They are never given freedom. Just like in America, the blacks were slaves, were under control, and since you have given them equal rights, they are disturbed, most disturbed, always creating a fearful situation, uncultured, and drunkards. What training they have got? They have got equal rights. They are best to keep them under control as slaves. But, give them sufficient food, sufficient clothes, not more than that. Then they will be controlled.’ (Mayapur lecture, 2/14/77), https://alexcharlesdiblasi.medium.com/spitting-out-poison-d39e2485d53e/, accessed 7 July 2021.

¹³ For more on the story of Ma Shanti Bhadra (Jane Stork), see Stork 2009.

¹⁴ ‘Indian Mystic Passes on Wisdom of the Ages’, The Daily Colonist, Canada, BC. 20 September 1963, in Ishwar Ashram Trust, n.d.

¹⁵ See Clark and Stoddard 2019.

¹⁶ Devī Bhāvas are public darshan programs during which Amma dresses as the goddess and devotees believe she reveals herself in her true form as such.

¹⁷ This is such a well-worn cultural trope that examples abound, but one might invoke the event in the Hindu epic, the Rāmāyaṇa, when the demon Rāvaṇa tricks Sītā by dressing in the garb of a religious mendicant, or the Dattātreyayogaśāstra, verses 47–8, which reads: ‘(47) It is a well known fact that men who wear religious garb but undertake no religious practices deceive people by talking of yoga for purposes of lust and gluttony. (48) Crafty men try various deceits; declaring “we are yogins” they are fools, intent on nothing but their own satisfaction.’ Unpublished translation by James Mallinson, available online: https://www.academia.edu/3773137, accessed 18 January 2023. I am grateful to Ruth Westoby for suggesting the aforementioned reference. See also Burchett 2019 and White 2009.

¹⁸ Doktorski 2021, Rochford 2011: 281–2.

¹⁹ Anandamayi Ma had an ambivalent relationship to caste during her lifetime (1896–1982), but her ashrams did, at one time, keep foreigners separately and feed them on disposable plates due to caste restrictions (Hallstrom 1999).

²⁰ Importantly, the division between ‘Indian’ and ‘Western’ alone cannot enforce caste restrictions among Indians, for which there would need to be additional internal hierarchies put into place.

17

ISKCON and Diaspora Hindus in a Shared Cultural Atmosphere

Kenneth Valpey

The global spread of Hindu-related ideas and practices among persons not of Indian origin in modern times may be conveniently traced to the publication of Charles Wilkins’ English translation of the Bhagavadgītā in 1785. A gradual seepage of broadly Indian religious ideas into pockets of European and American intellectual culture followed over the better part of two centuries. Then came a burst of popular cultural appetite for Indian ideas in the 1960s that would be quickly catered to with what Philip Goldberg (2010: 9) has called ‘India’s leading export’.¹ This export would be delivered in a variety of forms, including translations and commentaries of classical Indian sacred texts, teachers of postural yoga with their various practices, and, most striking for novelty-hungry mass-media, several swamis and gurus, each with their own teachings and mantras, their own lifestyles, and their own ways of communicating how to experience spirituality, transcendence, or just a more satisfying middle-class way of life.² One especially remarkable guru to appear in America from India was the elderly, traditionally dressed Vaiṣṇava saṃnyāsin, A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami (1896–1977), later to be known by the honorific Prabhupada (or Srila Prabhupada, as affectionately addressed by his followers). Arriving in New York in late 1965, within a year, 70-year-old Prabhupada and his half dozen followers would legally incorporate his fledgling mission as the International Society for Krishna Consciousness (iskcon). Prabhupada would make Kṛṣṇa’s teachings in the Bhagavadgītā the cornerstone of his mission, publishing his own English translation and commentary, which he titled Bhagavad-gītā As It Is. While almost constantly travelling worldwide during the remaining 11 years of his life, he would translate and comment on dozens more volumes of Sanskrit literature elaborating the Gītā’s teachings. By the time of Prabhupada’s passing, ISKCON would have a worldwide presence, several of his books would be translated and published in more than a dozen languages, and the trademark Hare Kṛṣṇa mantra would become a common household expression.³

As ISKCON missionaries opened modest storefront centres and then gradually established Kṛṣṇa temples in various locations, if diaspora Hindus were living in those locations, sooner or later they were sure to meet ISKCON members. In varied ways and degrees Hindus might engage with or become deeply involved in their local ISKCON communities. That the great majority of the communities’ early members were not of Indian background was, for the diaspora Hindus, certainly striking, possibly strange, or cause for suspicion; but for some, Western involvement was a positive indicator of trans-cultural legitimacy. Over the last several decades, with inevitable changes, considerable expansion in some locations, some troubles and setbacks, and a general maturation, what Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada intended for his fledgling Society is arguably continuing and—particularly in India—proving to be a permanent presence in the cultural landscape. To what extent and how this is because of—or despite—diaspora Hindu involvement is a question that has received attention both among ISKCON members and outside observers.

What follows is a sketch of some interactional contours between the Hindu diaspora and ISKCON. To single out ISKCON from among any number of global or semi-global missions with roots in Hindu India might seem arbitrary. Yet, as I hope to show in this chapter, there are significant reasons for this choice as a point of departure for considering Hindu diaspora religiosity in relation to representations of Hindu traditions that are variously concerned to minister both to people of Indian origin and to non-Indians. In particular, my attention will be on how a ‘shared atmosphere’ of culture (Oswell 2006: 78) has been created by ISKCON that has come to be occupied by both diaspora Hindus and non-Indians, accommodating differing needs and expectations of these two groups. This pneumatic image of a shared atmosphere suggests a broadly positive spirit of mutual benefit. While this is the generally prevailing ambience in ISKCON and ISKCON-related communities with significant numbers of diaspora Hindus, points of tension and contention have also emerged to varying degrees and in various locations. As I aim to suggest, these may be best viewed as points of creative tension that, it is hoped, play out in ways beneficial for all involved.⁴

For heuristic purposes, I will borrow Barbara Holdrege’s twofold typology of religious identity, namely, ‘embodied community’ and ‘missionizing tradition’ (Holdrege 2003: 120),⁵ whereby the former term will serve to typify relevant aspects of diaspora Hindu identity and concerns, and the latter will serve to typify relevant features of ISKCON and its non-Indian members’ identity and concerns.⁶ As we will see, time’s passage to new generations tends to blur these distinctions; still, they provide a helpful starting-point for this survey.⁷ Also, in the interest of manageability, I will concentrate on one quite significant locus of ISKCON and Hindu diaspora’s shared cultural atmosphere, namely, Bhaktivedanta Manor, the large ISKCON establishment located on the outskirts of north-west London. From this vantage point of a particular community, we can then consider ISKCON’s wider presence in the numerous places worldwide with concentrations of diaspora Hindus.

Embodied Community Meets Missionizing Tradition

In September 1968 three Caucasian, American-born married couples in their twenties left the United States for London to establish a branch of the ISKCON mission in London on the request of their guru, Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada. Armed with the teachings and adventuresome spirit they had imbibed from Prabhupada, with next to no resources but with a good measure of enthusiasm, within twelve months they would attract wide public attention by their street performances of saṃkīrtana—congregational chanting or singing of the Hare Kṛṣṇa mantra. Soon they would win far wider attention and popularity by befriending the celebrated pop-music group, the Beatles, recording with them the same mantra in a song that would become a hit in the pop music scene. By 1973 the ‘Hare Krishnas’, as Prabhupada’s followers became popularly known, had some one-hundred dedicated full-time British members and were in possession of a handsome mock-Tudor manor estate north-west of London. While on a world tour, in July of that year, Prabhupada was pleased to visit this estate.⁸ By then, increasing numbers of diaspora Hindus living in Britain had taken notice of ISKCON, and Western ISKCON members were tentatively reaching out to Hindus. London, as the seat of the former British Empire and the British Indian Raj, would now, ironically, become the arena for a new sort of East–West relationship, with Kṛṣṇa and his teachings on the spiritual reordering of life in the foreground.

In a conversation with a few Indian guests during his stay at the Manor, days after Prabhupada’s followers had staged a large Jagannātha Rathayātrā procession and festival in central London, Prabhupada said, ‘Our Ratha-yātrā is rival to Nelson.⁹ Actually world religion. There is no doubt about it. Krishna is for everyone. And we have no restriction. They, so long they, our so-called Hindus, they restricted. But now this is open’ (Bhaktivedanta 2019; 730714R1.LON—Room Conversation with Guests—14 July 1973).

Prabhupada’s assertion that ‘Krishna is for everyone’ was a driving principle for ISKCON members, a principle they sought to imbibe and to realize through their missionizing efforts. Prabhupada here alludes to restrictions of ‘non-Hindus’ from entry into some temples in India. ‘But now this is open’: now that his mission is established outside India, Kṛṣṇa—manifest in his names, in temple images (mūrtis or ‘deities’), and in his teachings in the Bhagavadgītā and other books—had become accessible to all.

Indeed, the notion that ‘Krishna is for everyone’ would go hand in hand with the theological understanding that it is Kṛṣṇa who is the supreme divinity. He was not to be compared with any other major or minor divinities in the Hindu pantheon and, indeed, not to be regarded as a Hindu god, but rather, as God himself. Seeing himself as a representative of his guru in a line of gurus from the Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇava tradition (sampradāya), Prabhupada would stress this point in his formal and informal talks. God is known by many names throughout the world, and in India he is particularly celebrated as Kṛṣṇa. And to drive home the practical implication of this understanding, he would often quote Kṛṣṇa’s famous words near the end of the Bhagavadgītā, ‘Abandon all varieties of religion and just surrender unto Me. I shall deliver you from all sinful reaction. Do not fear’ (Bhaktivedanta 1983: 850; Bhagavadgītā 18.66). For a steadily growing number of young Western followers, this was a call to abandon any plans for gaining material well-being and to become full-time āśram residents. To do so would entail strictly following four ‘regulative principles’ stipulated by Prabhupada: to keep a daily regimen of meditational practice centred in softly chanting in repetition the Hare Kṛṣṇa mantra, and to dedicate the rest of the day to missionary activities, especially public singing and distributing Prabhupada’s literature.¹⁰

Counterbalancing the demands of austere sacerdotal life habits were tangible attractions for young Western followers. From almost the very beginning of his mission in New York, for example, Swami Prabhupada had instituted a weekly Sunday ‘love feast’, an Indian-style, highly appreciated prasādam meal—sanctified vegetarian cuisine to which any and all were invited, free of charge. The same programme would be quickly instituted at other ISKCON centres as soon as they were opened, including the newly acquired mansion that was soon named Bhaktivedanta Manor. The combination of prasādam, lively congregational singing in kīrtan—especially of the Hare Kṛṣṇa mantra—and scripturally supported exhortations that ‘self-realization begins with the tongue’ (by intoning the Kṛṣṇa mantra and by tasting Kṛṣṇa-prasādam) would prove to be an attractive formula for drawing Western people to take up the mission.

It would not be long before increasing numbers of diaspora Hindus would join the Western residents and guests in these celebratory gatherings. The numbers of Indian visitors to Bhaktivedanta Manor surged during major annual festival celebrations, especially on Kṛṣṇajanmāṣṭami, the late-summer day observed as Kṛṣṇa’s ‘birthday’. Soon enough, with increasing numbers of visitors came increasing concern and indeed alarm to the local Letchmore Heath village residents, disturbed by traffic congestion, noise, and what they perceived as a threat of gradual takeover by Kṛṣṇa people through property acquisition.

We need not linger over details of the ensuing 10-year drama of political and legal struggles that ended with a surprisingly amicable conclusion in 1996.¹¹ What is important to note is the extent to which the Hindu Indian community of Britain was mobilized in support of what became known as the Manor campaign. The extent of Hindu support was made dramatically evident on two occasions, in March and May of 1994, when demonstrations of 36,000 and 10,000 respectively of mainly Hindu Indian participants took place in London.¹² And what is of particular note is that crucial to the success of this mobilization was the involvement of Hindu youth.

Second and Third Generation Diaspora Hindus and ISKCON

Navin Krishna Das, a second-generation child of a diaspora Hindu family and one of the founding members of the Manor’s youth group that would eventually be named ‘Pandava Sena’ (the Pandava army),¹³ recalls how the youth involvement in the Manor campaign began:

[We were] a bunch of young people, mostly under-twenties, [who] embarked upon a public facing ‘Save the Temple’ campaign that mobilized masses. Much of our campaign was staged away from the temple in the streets and public forums. The campaign spanned over two-and-a-half years, from January ’94 to May ’96, when the permission was eventually granted for the temple to remain open indefinitely.¹⁴ (Interview by author, 24 April 2020)

What began as a loose association of Hindu youth had from the beginning a missionizing spirit, albeit one that emboldened these young people to nurture their sensed need to publicly assert a collective identity that was broadly Hindu. Yet as the Manor campaign concluded, the temple had by then become prominent in the British Hindu landscape. The Pandava Sena youth refocused, shifting their attention to serving the temple as a spiritual mission. At that time, in what Navin Krishna identifies as a second phase of Pandava Sena development, ‘as followers of Kṛṣṇa consciousness, the young people were becoming more engaged with philosophical inquiry and spiritual practices of Kṛṣṇa consciousness’. A significant change took place as young diaspora Hindus identified themselves more distinctly as part of ISKCON’s mission to spread ‘Kṛṣṇa consciousness’—a favourite term of Swami Prabhupada for the committed practice of Kṛṣṇa-bhakti, devotion to Kṛṣṇa.¹⁵ As ISKCON’s missionaries, these young people now had a growing interest in becoming qualified as proper representatives of the mission, meaning they would need to learn the teachings and follow the regular devotional practices.

A driving force for this enthusiasm is the youths’ experience of lively congregational kīrtan—devotional singing. Even youth who were less committed to ISKCON’s mission and theological tenets could relate to the celebratory spirit of kīrtan. As Kripamoya Das, a British disciple of Prabhupada put it,

[The third generation], unlike their parents,…are active missionaries, going out…taking this [mission] to the next generation. This has an effect on other young Hindus who say [while observing an ISKCON kīrtan event] ‘This is cool, it’s Hinduism but not boring.’ They see handsome young Hindu men and attractive young Hindu girls, and they think ‘I’m in the right place here!’. (interview by author, 27 October 2020)

The cultural atmosphere created by joyous kīrtan events in which young people are encouraged to participate or take leading roles has, in recent years, been a powerful attractor for both Western and Indian-origin Hindus.¹⁶ And despite there being likely ‘worldly’ social motivations as a factor drawing participation, arguably an atmosphere of devotion to Kṛṣṇa and the chanting of Kṛṣṇa’s names dominates these events. This atmosphere functions powerfully to create an immediate sense of community (Cooke 2009: 210) that is accepting of utterly new participants along with seasoned and committed seniors and elders of the tradition, whatever their racial identity.

‘ISKCONization’ of Diaspora Hindus

There are broadly two ways of considering ISKCON’s influence in relation to the Hindu diaspora. One is the public presence of ISKCON in relation to Hindu organizations outside India, and the other is with respect to the private sphere of individual diaspora Hindus and their families. Here I focus on the latter perspective, noting with regard to the former only that ISKCON’s influence on organizational British Hinduism has been particularly strong, especially in the formative stages of those organizations in the 1990s.¹⁷

How individual diaspora Hindus become influenced by ISKCON may be seen in part by looking at how and to what extent they may become involved in ISKCON. This in turn calls for awareness of the specific religious parameters of ISKCON that may attract Hindus. These parameters—specific tenets emphasizing Kṛṣṇa’s supremacy and the bhakti-based imperative that active service is foundational to spiritual well-being and meaningful life—give order and orientation to diaspora Hindus as they become involved in an ISKCON community. In ISKCON in Britain, seven broadly defined stages or degrees of involvement in the mission among diaspora Hindus are discernible. Each stage shows an increasing awareness and commitment to the tenets and practices of Vaiṣṇava culture represented by ISKCON. One can see a pattern of lesser to greater involvement, either of a given individual or family over time, or of different people maintaining the same degree of involvement. We might refer to this pattern as broadly one of ‘intentional entry into the cultural atmosphere of ISKCON’. In terms that highlight what could be called external markers, these stages are (1) casual or occasional visiting an ISKCON temple or ISKCON-related function; (2) giving financial contributions (more or less regularly, of smaller or greater amounts);¹⁸ (3) offering practical volunteer service (such as assisting in crowd management during major festivals at Bhaktivedanta Manor); (4) making a practice of reading ISKCON-approved literature (especially the books of Swami Prabhupada) and beginning to take up the tradition’s standard devotional practices; (5) establishing a simple shrine at home, initially with photos of the Manor temple images (‘deities’) of Kṛṣṇa and his associates; (6) engagement in missionary activity; and (7) formal initiation by a guru who is authorized as such by the institution.¹⁹

The diaspora Hindus in the seventh category are the least in number and the most committed to the social ethos, culture, lifestyle, and teachings that ISKCON represents. This group generally consists of second and third-generation Hindus who are likely to be considerably less concerned with ethnic or caste identity than the previous generation. Being committed to keeping lifetime vows regarding diet and so forth (as described previously), these persons are inclined to identify themselves most strongly with ISKCON, and they may consider themselves more as devotees of Kṛṣṇa than as Hindus or members of a specific ethnic Indian community.

A yet smaller number of diaspora Hindus who commit to the vows of initiation are what in ISKCON are sometimes called ‘full-time devotees’, and among these a yet smaller number live in the temple brahmacāri āśram as celibate monks. These men may be engaged directly in missionary activities (like street book distribution or holding house programmes), or they might serve within the temple as cooks, as pujārīs (priests), in temple management, or by receiving temple visitors. Some āśram residents focus on teaching courses in the sacred texts of the tradition such as the Bhagavadgītā or Śrīmadbhāgavatam for congregation members and temple residents. One Indian-background brahmacāri at Bhaktivedanta Manor, S. B. Keshava Swami, is a striking example of a second-generation British Indian who identifies himself quite thoroughly with the ISKCON mission. Appreciated by the Manor’s management for his talent in articulating tenets of Vaiṣṇava thought and practice in a contemporary style, he is encouraged to write and publish study guidebooks to assist in learning the sacred texts. He also writes an online blog, thus reaching a wider audience of seekers with his insightful personal reflections in light of the Kṛṣṇa-bhakti perspective.²⁰

Those diaspora Hindus who commit themselves to initiation while maintaining a profession or business and living as householders may also have regular temple services such as cooking or management. Some become members of Bhaktivedanta Manor’s patron board, thus assuming responsibility for the institution’s local governance. Indian-background initiated members naturally bring their ISKCON-inspired commitments and convictions into their families (and it is likely that other family members will also adopt the same commitments and take formal initiation vows).²¹ Some initiated diaspora Hindus have become particularly influential in their Hindu diaspora communities in shaping understanding of Hinduism in ways that may draw some members of those communities more or less into ISKCON’s cultural atmosphere.

A Shared Cultural Atmosphere

Let us recall that we are particularly interested in the shared atmosphere of culture created by ISKCON, an atmosphere that, I argue, is being ‘breathed’ by both diaspora Hindus and non-Indians. Certain specific features of this atmosphere are notable.

Books and art: From the beginning of his mission, Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada placed foremost emphasis on the propagation of his teachings through his books. In numerous talks he called attention to his books, urging everyone to read them, and expressing satisfaction that they were being widely distributed by his followers. Significantly, Prabhupada was particularly keen to have each of his books richly illustrated with full-colour paintings. As soon as one of his early students, Jadurani Dasi, informed him of her art abilities, Prabhupada immediately engaged her in painting specific subjects for inclusion in the books. Soon more followers with artistic talent were similarly engaged. For us to note is the extent and speed with which these young artists’ ‘realistic’ style of painting caught the imagination of Hindus worldwide, including those in India.²²

Music: We have already discussed kīrtan briefly, but more can be said in relation to the shared atmosphere theme. Vrindapati Das, a British-born Panjabi who was active in ISKCON’s mission mainly in earlier years, notes that for him and others of Indian background, the experience of kīrtan at Bhaktivedanta Manor brought an incomparable sense of festive joy. ‘It was a whole new sensory experience’ that moved him to feel ‘connected to Kṛṣṇa’ and to feel that ‘you could let go’.²³ An important component, from early on, of the sharing function of ISKCON-based music has been electronic recording media. By 1975 there were a handful of long-play record albums of kīrtan, including a double album of Swami Prabhupada’s singing of traditional Bengali devotional songs. Within the next ten years, Prabhupada’s followers would introduce modern Western instrumentation and music styles. Soon the change of sound replication technology to cassette tape and then to Compact Disc carried these recordings to India where, as Vrindapati notes, ‘[Y]ou could find them in music stalls in Haridwar—more expensive than local recordings, because they were from ISKCON’.

Temple deities and rituals: During his 1973 visit to Bhaktivedanta Manor, Prabhupada presided over the formal consecration, or ‘installation’, of marble figures of Śrī Kṛṣṇa and his consort Śrī Rādhā, giving them the names Rādhā-Gokulānanda (‘Rādhā and the Bliss of Gokula [Vrindavan]’). This ceremony was the beginning of a daily regimen of early-morning to late-evening service following scriptural injunctions for arcana—the formal worship of the divinity in physical form. ISKCON has become known for its high standards of temple worship, and Bhaktivedanta Manor has come to be regarded as high on the list of preferred destinations among diaspora Hindus in Britain for ‘taking darśan’—devotional viewing of a temple deity. Again paraphrasing Vrindapati Das, ISKCON brought a new appreciation of possibility—a sense that Kṛṣṇa’s divine presence really could be felt because the attentive service of temple residents was so outstanding, the decoration of the deities so elaborate (including daily fresh flower garlands), the consecrated food (prasādam) so rich (quantities of prasādam were generous), and the entire premises kept immaculately clean. That some of the priests are Western devotees was initially surprising, but their obvious dedication and expertise dispelled Indian temple-goers’ doubts.²⁴

Cows: Bhaktivedanta Manor owns several acres of pastureland and maintains a gośāla, a cow shelter where the animals—both female and male bovines—are maintained throughout their natural lives. This practice is a particular attraction for diaspora Hindus, who are inclined to regard the practice of ‘cow protection’ (gorakṣa) as an emblematic feature of Hinduism broadly conceived.²⁵ The Manor residents encourage all guests to visit the gośāla, feed snacks to the cows and brush them, in this way performing gosevā—service to the cows. Some diaspora Hindus give regular donations for maintaining the cows, a practice that is particularly praised in the sacred texts as a form of pious devotion.

Hinduization of ISKCON in Its Missionizing Context

Within the shared cultural atmosphere of ISKCON, diaspora Hindus who are attracted to the cultural features just mentioned naturally bring with them their own self-understanding. Some elements of such self-understanding may be features of what we are here characterizing with the term ‘embodied communities’. Much can be found in other chapters of this volume that would contribute specifics to the notion of Hindu diaspora communities as embodied communities. This is to say that such communities may identify themselves strongly—but possibly less strongly with succeeding generations—with particular ethnicity, language, geographical origins, and caste designations, all of which can have considerable relevance to the members of these communities as they encounter and engage with ISKCON. Of course, there is a host of variation in degree, kind, and configuration of such identifications, all of which are changing with time as later generations are born in countries outside India.²⁶ But whatever the variables, broadly relevant to the notion of embodied communities in our present context may be Pierre Bourdieu’s term ‘cultural capital’ to appreciate the difference between diaspora Hindu and Western ways of being in a shared cultural atmosphere. As diaspora Hindus find a ready supply of familiar cultural elements being sustained in ISKCON temples and communities, they can easily draw on these elements as a means of confirming their Hindu identity.

The opposite holds for potential Western ISKCON members, who may feel challenged to learn and adopt several features of an essentially foreign culture. Edith Best (Urmila Devi Dasi), a senior ISKCON member and scholar, notes, ‘[F]or the non-Indians their own cultural capital becomes essentially useless, and they have to learn everything anew, including learning a new vocabulary, a whole new set of scriptural and historical personalities, new scriptures, and new ways of behaving’ (Best, in Dwyer and Cole 2013: 128). As diaspora Hindus have increased presence and involvement in ISKCON, an inverse trend with respect to Western presence and involvement in some Western ISKCON temples and their communities has been noticeable. Doubtless this is a complex phenomenon, not reducible only to Indian presence (Andrews 2007). Nevertheless, some Western ISKCON members have expressed growing concern that the missionary aim of inclusiveness has, at least in some locations, been hindered. Prospective Western ‘converts’ may be discouraged from involvement by the perceived predominance of Indians and the presence of cultural signifiers of Indian ethnicity, especially in the more easily noticeable signifiers such as styles of dress, music, and food.²⁷

In recent years some Western ISKCON members have launched programmes aiming to revive what they regard as Prabhupada’s original inclusive approach to missionizing. One initiative with this revivalist spirit is Krishna West, which Hridayananda Das Goswami (Howard Resnick) founded in 2013 as a ‘mission within the mission’. As a senior disciple of Prabhupada and one of the original members of ISKCON’s governing board (GBC), H.D. Goswami has been particularly vocal about his concern over ISKCON’s perceived Hinduization trend. Some Western devotees have taken up the call by organizing small, informal groups to pursue this vision. Krishna West pursues the idea that anyone and everyone can accept the theology and practices of Kṛṣṇa devotion without adopting what are considered culturally non-essential Indian features. Following a brief mission statement, namely, ‘To promote Krishna Consciousness in the Western world’, Krishna West’s website offers this Vision: ‘We teach the practice of bhakti-yoga, a non-sectarian, joyful spiritual science that delivers accessible and impactful spiritual knowledge and growth to the sincere practitioner. The bhakti-yoga community thus aims to contribute to the respiritualizing of our planet, naturally contributing to social, economic, political, and environmental justice.’²⁸ Presenting bhaktiyoga as a ‘non-sectarian, joyful spiritual science’, while aiming away from Indian ethnic associations, is arguably well in line with Swami Prabhupada’s vision for ISKCON. Yet reactions to Krishna West in the wider ISKCON community have been mixed, ranging from welcome appreciation and encouragement to lukewarm acceptance, to sharp, even exasperated criticism. Taking a moderate, reflective approach, a senior (American, non-Indian) disciple of Prabhupada, Dhanurdhara Swami, expresses mild reservation towards the Krishna West initiative, offering this analysis:

The problem with ISKCON temples that have predominantly Indian-born congregations is not that they are exclusively projecting Indian culture and values, but that there’s a lack of diversity in the community, and that has made Westerners uncomfortable. Also, those temples, if their objective is to indeed create a diverse congregation, seem to lack some understanding of how and when to present the elements of Indian culture and tradition that Srila Prabhupāda introduced. This holds equally true for temples in the West whose members are not predominantly Indian and are also unsuccessful in expanding their Western-born base. (Swami 2020)

Here the suggestion is that, more than every other factor, the main issue may be one of skill, or lack of skill, in presentation of Kṛṣṇa bhakti culture, with the undesirable result that ISKCON temple communities may fail to attract persons from diverse backgrounds. Rather, a path of least resistance in cultural presentation results in a predominance of diaspora Hindu presence in areas where many of them have settled.

Another ISKCON spin-off effort to reach a wider public beyond but still inclusive of the Indian diaspora is the International Institute for Applied Spiritual Technology (InterIFAST). This initiative, which is an expansion into international scope from what had been an American project of Bhakti Tirtha Swami (1950–2005), goes back to 1989. Similar to Krishna West, InterIFAST’s Facebook page suggests an inclusive ethos, as ‘a non-denominational, socially-focused, not for profit organization focused on bringing cultural, humanitarian and Spiritual [sic] change to this world’.²⁹ Of particular note about this initiative is its appeal to African Americans, due especially to Bhakti Tirtha Swami’s own African American identity and his concern to bring Kṛṣṇa consciousness beyond the American race barrier.³⁰ Also noteworthy is that, unlike Krishna West, InterIFAST has not encountered any rhetoric of resistance from among ISKCON members.

Broadly speaking, we may view these and other innovative missionizing efforts as attempts to create variations on ISKCON’s cultural atmosphere in order to enable easier ‘inhalation’ of what are considered core values and theological principles.³¹ Yet with each such effort invariably come complex questions of how to distinguish between non-negotiable principles of the tradition and adjustable details. ISKCON members, especially those who have been with the mission since Prabhupada’s time in the 1970s, see themselves as representing a mission meant to faithfully carry the teachings of the Vaiṣṇava sampradāya that Swami Prabhupada represents, going back to the tradition’s sixteenth-century founder, Śrī Kṛṣṇa Caitanya. This process of transmission necessarily involves a constant balancing act of preservation and innovation, and the strong presence of diaspora Hindus in many ISKCON communities, themselves in processes of change (often because of their involvement in ISKCON), makes the challenge to find balance particularly acute.

Concluding Reflections: Blurring and Preserving Distinctions

Regarding the ‘Hinduization’ of ISKCON, Edith Best, who has visited ISKCON centres worldwide over several years, observes,

Some [ISKCON] centres really have become Hinduised, where the deities we are worshiping, where the songs that we are singing, where the festivals that we are observing are just not what Srila Prabhupada established. That is, they are part of broader Hinduism. So here our cultural behaviour and our superstitions become clearly Hinduised. (Best 2013: 129)

However, the ‘ISKCONization’ of diaspora Hindus is also strikingly present, as Best further notes: ‘Yet I have been in some [ISKCON] centres where the Indians form the vast majority of the congregation and I have seen that they have become ISKCONised. Here their way of thinking, their culture, and their behaviour have changed to being practically the same as that of the Western devotees’ (Best 2013: 129).

To speak of Hinduization and ISKCONization is helpful to some extent in making sense of shifting cultural trends in ISKCON communities. Yet caution is necessary to not over-simplify complex dynamics of cultural interaction in these communities. The negative valorization of diaspora Hindu presence by some Western members tends to ignore, for example, the positive benefits that ISKCON has thereby gained. Substantial—often essential—financial support and public legitimation as an established religious tradition has, in many locations, come largely by virtue of being seen as Hindu. Furthermore, social stability has come with Hindu family values, as young Western converts unable to fully imbibe the renunciant values of the Vaiṣṇava tradition have benefited from models for stabile family life to emulate. As Michael Gressett notes in the context of ISKCON in the United States, ‘In its wholehearted acceptance of ordinary love, the Hindu group provides a model of stability necessary for the spirituality of dwelling’ (Gressett 2009: 224).³²

Conversely, a simple positive valorization of diaspora Hindu ISKCONization could lead to not seeing a tendency towards collective complacency—an attitude of middle-class status-quo comfortable religion that loses the missionary edge of critique against the multiple ills of a spiritually impoverished world. Such pointed, outspoken critique exercised by Swami Prabhupada was arguably a major factor in attracting young Western followers to his movement. This critique combined with the positive alternative of Kṛṣṇa conscious ways of living are largely constitutive of the mission.

What can we expect to see as the future for ISKCON in relation to diaspora Hindus? Broadly speaking, we may see a continuing partnership with common interests, common values, and cultural commonalities. Gressett (2009: 237) writes, ‘[T]he partnership [of ISKCON with diaspora Hindus] has weathered a tentative beginning and remains a strong, though still somewhat awkward, social bond.’ Yet we also see diaspora Hindus of second and third generations learning to find their own ways of ‘spiritual dwelling’, not necessarily directly with ISKCON’s help. As Kripamoya Das notes, speaking of Hindus in Britain, ‘[T]his next generation of Hindus do not need nor want some English people speaking on behalf of Hinduism, something ISKCON used to do for some decades. They want to do it themselves…they no longer look to us for community leadership’ (interview with the author, 27 October 2020).

However directly or indirectly partnership between ISKCON and diaspora Hindus may proceed, there is reason to hope that the relationship continues to mature in ways that are nurturing for both. With the presence of diaspora Hindus who identify with ISKCON as a mission and at the same time maintain their values of family stability, ISKCON is aided in becoming a ‘church’—a community that is well integrated in wider social and economic landscapes. At the same time—and very much in line with traditional Hindu social organization—ISKCON can provide spiritual direction by fostering a culture of well-trained renunciant or semi-renunciant teachers (gurus) that maintain the missionary energy of ISKCON by creatively attracting a diverse membership to be actively engaged in the devotional practices dedicated to the service of Kṛṣṇa for the upliftment of all.

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Goldberg, Philip. 2010. American Veda: From Emerson and the Beatles to Yoga and Meditation—How Indian Spirituality Changed the West. New York: Harmony Books.

Greene, Joshua M. 2016. Swami in a Strange Land: How Krishna Came to the West. San Rafael, CA: Mandala.

Gressett, Michael James. 2009. ‘From Krishna Cult to American Church: The Dialectical Quest for Spiritual Dwelling in the Modern Krishna Movement in the West.’ Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Florida.

Holdrege, Barbara A. 2003. ‘From the Religious Marketplace to the Academy: Negotiating the Politics of Identity.’ Journal of Vaiṣṇava Studies 11 (2): 113–42.

Jacobsen, Knut A. and Ferdinando Sardella, eds. 2020. Handbook of Hinduism in Europe, Volume 1. Leiden: Brill.

Knott, Kim. 1998. ‘Insider and Outsider Perceptions of Prabhupāda.’ Journal of Vaiṣṇava Studies 6 (2): 73–91.

Lestar, Tamas. 2018. ‘Conviviality? Eating Together with Hare Krishna Believers.’ Food Studies: An Interdisciplinary Journal 8 (3): 15–26.

Masla, Robert. 1997. Windows to The Spiritual World: Spirit Realism and the Art of Puṣkar. Alachua, FL (USA): Transcendental Art Associates.

Nye, Malory. 2001. Multiculturalism and Minority Religions in Britain: Krishna Consciousness, Religious Freedom, and the Politics of Location. Richmond, Surrey: Curzon.

Oliver, Paul. 2014. Hinduism and the 1960s: The Rise of a Counter-Culture. London: Bloomsbury Academic.

Oswell, David. 2006. Culture and Society: An Introduction to Cultural Studies. London: SAGE Publications.

Prime, Ranchor. 2009. When the Sun Shines: The Dawn of Hare Krishna in Britain. Watford, UK: Bhaktivedanta Book Trust.

Rosen, Steven J. 2007. Black Lotus: The Spiritual Journey of an Urban Mystic. Washington, DC: Hari-Nama Press.

Shinn, Larry. 2004. ‘Foreword.’ In The Hare Krishna Movement: The Postcharismatic Fate of a Religious Transplant, edited by Edwin F. Bryant and Maria L. Ekstrand, xv–xix. New York: Columbia University Press.

Swami, Dhanurdhara. 2020. ‘Monday Morning Greetings 2020 #40—Krishna West, Krishna Best, or Krishna Jest.’ URL: https://wavesofdevotion.com/2020/10/05/krishna-west-krishna-best-or-krishna-jest/ (accessed 25 March 2021).

Valpey, Kenneth. 2011. ‘Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇavism.’ In Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism, edited by Knut. A. Jacobsen, Helene Basu, Angelika Malinar, and Vasudha Narayanan, Volume 3, 312–28. Leiden: Brill.

Valpey, Kenneth. 2013. ‘ISKCON (International Society for Krishna Consciousness).’ Oxford Bibliographies. URL: https://www.oxfordbibliographies.com/view/document/obo-9780195399318/obo-9780195399318-0130.xml/.

Valpey, Kenneth R. 2020. Cow Care in Hindu Animal Ethics. Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan.

Valpey, Kenneth R. 2021. ‘Keeping Cows in the Center: Cow Care in ISKCON.’ ISKCON Communications Journal 12: 57–74.

Vertovec, Steven. 2000. The Hindu Diaspora: Comparative Patterns. London: Routledge.

Wilke, Annette. 2020. ‘Temple Hinduism in Europe.’ In Handbook of Hinduism in Europe, edited by Knut A. Jacobsen and Ferdinando Sardella, Vol. 1, 215–348. Leiden: Brill.

Wuthnow, Robert. 1998. After Heaven: Spirituality in America since the 1950s. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

Kenneth Valpey, ISKCON and Diaspora Hindus in a Shared Cultural Atmosphere In: Hindu Diasporas. Edited by: Knut A. Jacobsen, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198867692.003.0018

¹ For another broad overview of Hinduism’s sudden popularity in the West, see Oliver 2014.

² Relevant to our discussion of Hindu diaspora in relation to ISKCON, Goldberg suggests that of five functions that religion serves, namely, transmission, translation, transaction, transformation, and transcendence, organized religions in the West ‘have emphasized the first three functions and paid far less attention to the last two’ (Goldberg 2010: 14).

³ For an annotated bibliography of scholarship on ISKCON, see Valpey 2013.

⁴ Larry Shinn (2004) also identifies three sorts of tension that ISKCON has encountered with (largely Western) host cultures: on a general level, the broadly Indic assumptions about time, space, and material existence rub against those of the West; similarly, Hindu cultural assumptions regarding submission to a guru, and the notion of liberation from repeated death and rebirth are markedly foreign to Western culture; and most specifically, ISKCON’s insistence on exclusive devotion to Kṛṣṇa and adherence to all the practices connected with Kṛṣṇa-bhakti has been a source of tension not only with wider society but also within the ISKCON community.

⁵ Holdrege writes, ‘Embodied communities include religious traditions such as Hindu and Jewish traditions that define their tradition-identities primarily in terms of ethnic, linguistic, geographic, and cultural categories tied to a particular people, language, land, and sociocultural system. Missionizing traditions, on the other hand, include traditions such as Christian and Buddhist traditions that construct their tradition-identities primarily in terms of purportedly universal teachings that are intended for potentially all peoples and cultures’ (Holdrege 2003: 120).

⁶ See Valpey (2011) for an overview of Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇavism, the tradition of affiliation in which ISKCON is rooted. For an overview of ISKCON’s early history in the West and various internal social and theological issues it has dealt with, see Bryant and Ekstrand 2004.

⁷ Awareness of this tendency toward blurred distinction may help address Vertovec’s call to ‘change from constantly measuring socio-cultural transformation among diaspora communities against some presumed archetype (usually associated with a homeland), to analysing and accounting for the dynamics of cultural reproduction, innovation and change in situ’ (2000: 2). See also Wilke 2020: 220n7.

⁸ The Bhaktivedanta Manor property was donated by George Harrison, member of the famed pop music group the Beatles. Significantly, George and the other members had visited India in the late 1960s to dabble in Indian spirituality. For a devotional-historical account of ISKCON in Britain up to 1977, see Prime 2009. For an account of Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, see Greene 2016.

⁹ Prabhupada here alludes to Nelson’s Column, a monument in Trafalgar Square, London, where the Ratha-yātrā festival was observed following a procession. A photograph published in a major newspaper showed the Ratha (chariot) positioned next to Nelson’s Column, with a caption indicating that the chariot ‘rivalled’ the Column. Prabhupada had been very pleased when shown the news item.

¹⁰ The four ‘regulative principles’ are based on stipulations for self-control indicated in the Śrīmadbhāgavatapurāṇa, namely, dietary restrictions (permanent abstention from meat, fish, and eggs); abstention from all intoxicants (including coffee and tea); abstention from gambling; and sexual continence—abstention from ‘illicit’ sex (sex outside of marriage).

¹¹ For a detailed account of this struggle, see Nye 2001. The amicable conclusion came when ISKCON was permitted to purchase additional land that enabled the institution to construct an access road and parking area, effectively diverting all traffic away from the Letchmore Heath village.

¹² Personal communication of Akhandadi Das, Manor Temple President at that time. He regards the campaign’s favourable conclusion for the Manor to have been largely of a political nature. Political parties recognized the voting power of the Hindu Indian population.

¹³ The name alludes to the five brothers, sons of Paṇḍu, collectively known as the Pāṇḍavas, heroes of the Indian Sanskrit epic, the Mahābhārata.

¹⁴ One quite effective technique to publicize their cause was for the Hindu youth to gather in the town square of Letchmore Heath, the local village of Bhaktivedanta Manor, where they would stage an open-air Hindu worship event to highlight the lack of a proper place to worship if the Manor were closed to public worship. (Interview with Pradyumna Das, October 4, 2020).

¹⁵ ‘The Krishna consciousness movement’ was Prabhupada’s English translation of kṛṣṇa-bhāvanāmṛta-saṅgha, which he once elaborated as meaning ‘the association of persons who are simply satisfied in thoughts of Krishna’ (Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam 9.9.45 Purport, Bhaktivedanta 2003).

¹⁶ In addition to daily scheduled kīrtans in ISKCON temples, since recent years, regular or occasional ‘kīrtan retreats’ have been organized. These may be one-day or several-day events, in which schedules of kīrtan leaders are prepared in advance. In Britain an annual kīrtan retreat in Birmingham is particularly popular, drawing several hundred devotees of all ages together. The broader popularity of kīrtan beyond ISKCON auspices is to be noted, while it may be argued that ISKCON has been an important, possibly primary force in its popularization (see Cooke 2009 for an analysis of kīrtan’s popularity in the West).

¹⁷ See articles in Jacobsen and Sardella (2020). In particular, on ISKCON’s organizational influence in continental Europe, see Zavos, ‘Hinduism and Public Space in Europe’ (Vol. 1, Ch. 22). Zavos notes that ISKCON is distinct from other transnational Hindu organizations in Europe in that its reach is far more extensive than others, with presence in ‘no less than’ thirty-four countries. It also has ‘a specifically European history of engagement in broader public spheres; engagement which has led to major developments in its profile and status.’ Citing Malory Nye, he notes that both the National Council of Hindu Temples and the Hindu Council in Britain ‘were strongly supported by ISKCON in their early years’ (Vol. 1, p. 676). ‘In more recent years ISKCON and the HFB [Hindu Forum of Britain] have collaborated in the production of educational materials for use in British schools (pp. 676–7). ‘ISKCON’s position in the HFE [Hindu Forum of Europe] is central’, in which the secretary general is Mahaprabhu dasa of ISKCON (p. 677). See also notes on p. 677, including information on Avanti Schools in Britain. Further: The HFE ‘continues to be dominated by the organisational resources and social capital provided by ISKCON and the HFB’. Summing up (p. 683), the ‘tried and trusted combination of ISKCON and British umbrella organisations’ is the HFE’s ‘principal source of social capital’ but ‘the constituency it claims to represent is more fragmented than this alliance can represent’. See also Sardella, ‘Hindu Umbrella Organisations in Europe’ (Vol. 1 Ch. 23). Also relevant are Andrew, ‘Hinduism and Education in Europe’ (Vol. 1 Ch. 24) and De Backer, ‘The Hare Krishna Movement in Europe’ (Vol. 1, Ch. 16).

¹⁸ In the early 1970s Swami Prabhupada instituted a ‘Life Membership’ programme as a way to attract Indians (initially specifically in India) to support ISKCON financially. Two specific attractions were offered in reciprocation for a set one-time fee: members would receive ISKCON publications, and—of particular interest to Indians regularly travelling for business—three days of free accommodation in any ISKCON temple.

¹⁹ Interview with Sutapa Das (now S. B. Keshava Swami), 3 April 2020; See Rochford, in Dwyer and Cole 2013: 23–8 for more specific information and (somewhat dated) statistics from a survey assessing diaspora Hindu involvement and acceptance of ISKCON. Regarding those who take formal initiation from an ISKCON guru, it is noteworthy that significant numbers of diaspora Hindus (as well as Hindus in India) have chosen one or another Western-born disciple of Swami Prabhupada as their guru.

²⁰ https://keshavaswami.com/.

²¹ On ‘reproduction’ of cultural transmission within diaspora Hindu families, see Vertovec 2000: 94–5.

²² See https://krishna.com/paintings for selected samples of paintings done by ISKCON artists. For an in-depth focus on the work of one American ISKCON artist, Pushkar Das, see Masla 1997.

Bhaktivedanta Book Trust International, the publishing wing of ISKCON, has made efforts to make charges against copyright infringements for unauthorized use of their artwork in a wide variety of ways. My hunch is that this effort has had only limited success. Indeed, it may be argued that the wide and unrestrained use of certain BBT images serves the mission better than attempts to keep control over their use.

²³ Interview by the author on 14 February 2021.

²⁴ Regarding Hindu rituals other than those specific to temples, Bhaktivedanta Manor has become one of the most preferred venues for Hindu weddings in Britain, such that they must be booked several months in advance. The wedding priests are often Western devotees. British-born Kripamoya Das, who has conducted hundreds of wedding ceremonies at the Manor, has a ready response for the Hindu families when he sees their surprise that he is a Westerner. With a smile he says to them, ‘Don’t worry. I have been eating Gujarati food since decades, so although I am white on the outside, I am Gujarati on the inside.’ At this reassuring quip they are, he says, invariably put at ease.

²⁵ For a survey and assessment of ISKCON’s cow protection efforts worldwide, see Valpey 2021. More in-depth discussion can be found in Chapters 4 and 6 of Valpey 2020.

²⁶ See Vertovec (2000: 21–3) for a convenient overview of factors or variables that could be seen as impacting the particular configuration of a Hindu diaspora ‘embodied community’ or of individual diaspora Hindus’ self-perceptions in terms of such community belonging.

²⁷ See Lestar (2018) for a discussion of food practices in ISKCON-London, including reference to Indian style of cooking and its reception.

²⁸ https://krishnawest.com/?page_id=123 (accessed on 17 January 2023). How Krishna West has been cautiously acknowledged and accepted by ISKCON’s Governing Body Commission (GBC) is indicated in an official GBC statement, posted on the same website under ‘Media’.

²⁹ https://www.facebook.com/InterIFAST/ (accessed 17 January 2023).

³⁰ By the early 1970s a few African Americans had joined ISKCON, and after some time, in New York, they were having negative experiences of racial prejudice among the Caucasian devotees. In his biography of Bhakti Tirtha Swami, Steven Rosen relates how Swami Prabhupada responded to Bhakti Tirtha Swami’s direct complaint: ‘“Srila Prabhupāda”, he began, “there are prejudices in this movement”. Prabhupāda looked at him and said, “Ah. Someone is thinking you’re the body? That is their nonsense. And if you’re disturbed because they see you in this way, then that is your nonsense”’ (Rosen 2007: 118).

³¹ With the explosion of Internet activity in recent years, one could elaborate considerably on the sorts of ISKCON-related initiatives on offer in the digital marketplace. There are any number of personal websites of ISKCON members, as well as official or semi-official ISKCON websites; there are YouTube channels, Facebook pages, podcasts, and so on. One podcast, ‘Wisdom of the Sages’, by Raghunath Cappo and Kaustubha Das, is particularly striking for its fusion of daily scriptural reading (of Swami Prabhupada’s Śrīmad Bhāgavatam) and upbeat, often current-events-related, discussions. In this case, the appeal is mainly to young seekers who may gravitate towards yoga-related ideas or the more general category of ‘Spiritual But Not Religious’. Among such initiatives are also those of young diaspora Indians, some of whom are making names for themselves as quite successful motivational speakers, such as Jay Shetty and Gaur Gopal Das (the latter always dressing in his traditional saffron garb as a brahmacāri, with Vaiṣṇava tilaka marking on his forehead).

³² Gressett uses Robert Wuthnow’s phrase ‘spirituality of dwelling’, which the latter characterizes as emphasizing habitation over negotiation, which characterizes a ‘spirituality of seeking’. The first privileges a sense of sacred place, of permanence and security, whereas the spirituality of seeking privileges the fleeting sacred moment of affirming divine existence. See Wuthnow 1998: 3–4.

Index

For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages.

Abraham, Itty  4–6

Aczel, Amir  36

Adi Dravida movement  62–63

Adhiparasakthi  287–288

Adimanggala, Kyai Adipati Sura  55–56

advocacy groups  203–204

Africa  13, 125–143

Āgamic Śaivasiddhānta  315–316

āgamic temples  61, 254

alaku  254–255, 316–317

Alexander the Great  213–214

American racism  377–378

ammaṉ  288–289

ammaṉ temples  288–289

Amrit Desai  383

Ananda Acharya  216

Ananda Ashram  380

advocated for women’s equality  380

Angkor  46

Angkor Wat  23, 41–44

Angkorian priests  38–39

animal sacrifices  61–63, 101, 254, 272, 298, 308

anti-Asian legislation in US courts  378

Aotearoa, see New Zealand

Aotearoa New Zealand Federation of Tamil Sangham  170–171

Appaiah, Parvathy  362–364

araṅgetram  203

architecture  199, 223–224, 304, 311

art  405

Arumugam, Indira  290–291

Aravamudan, Srinivas  375

Arya Pratinidhi Sabha (APS)  109

Arya Samaj  63–64, 107–108, 118, 121–122, 133, 152, 304–305

Asian Exclusion Act  367–368

Asian Indenture Labour trade  93, see also indentured labour

Australia  13–14, 156–165, 311, 343

Autobiography of a Yogi  381

autoethnography  180–181

Ayyappan  259–260

Bali  54, 60, 68–69

Banerji, Arnab  292

Bapat, Jayant Bhalchandra  13–14

BAPS Swaminarayan Sanstha  138–139, 172–173, 273–274, 304, 306, 312–313, 322, see also Bochasanwasi Akshar Purushottam Swaminarayan Sanstha

Basa, Kishore K.  27

Batu Caves  337–340

Baumann, Martin  16, 209–212, 286–287, 294–295, 347

Bengali and Bangladeshi Hindu immigrants  292

Bengali community  163, 170

Bengali Hindu identity  292

Bengali pride  292

‘Bengali Renaissance’  58–59, 377

Belgium  224

Besant, Annie  159

Best, Edith  407, 409–410

Bhagavadgītā  171, 396–397, 399–400

Bhagavad-gītā As It Is  396–397

Bhāgavatapurāṇa  105–106

Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh  383–384

bhajan  315

bhakti  272, 274–275, 315

Bhakti Tirtha Swami  384–385

Bhaktivedanta Manor  398, 404–406

Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, A. C.  383–386, 396–397, 405–406

Bharadvaj, Ramaa  202–203

Bhardwaj, Surinder  340–342

bharatanāṭyam  192, 199, 200, 201–203

Bharatiya Mandir, Auckland  169–170

bhūts  277, see also ghosts

Bilimoria, Purushottama  13–14

Bochasanwasi Akshar Purushottam Swaminarayan Sanstha (BAPS)  210–211, see also BAPS

Boedi Oetomo  60

Booth, Alison  13–14

Bose, Subash Chandra  64

brahmakṣatra  43

Brahmanization  119–120, 122–123, 131–132, 254, 319–320

Brahmans  28–29, 54–55, 61, 96–97, 119, 122, 198–199, 253–254, 320

Brahmapurāṇa  332–333

Brahmo Samaj  59

brahmotsava  340, 343

Brettell, Caroline B.  292–293

Britain  210–11, 216–218, 310–311, 343–346, 396–411

British Malaya  61

Brubaker, Rogers  244, 246–248

Buddhism  25, 53–54, 356–357, 377–378

conversion to  63, 69

Burma  56, 64–65

Cambodia in first millennium CE  11, 24–26

origin stories of Indians in  24–25

names  36–39

sacred geography in  41–42

script  35–36

Canada  181, 223, 242–243, 245–246, 259–260, 313, 315, 318–319, 340–342, 375–376

Caribbean, the  12, 92

caste  43, 56–57, 59, 61, 94, 96–97, 119, 137–138, 194–195, 203–204, 240–241, 253–254, 271–272, 369, 385–386, 390–391

Chandrasekhar, Lalitha  183–186

Chandrasekhar, Subrahmanyar  183–186

charismatic individuals  323–324

Cheuk, Ka-Kin  12

Chettiyars  61

Chinese Kālī Temple in Kolkata  80–82

Chinmaya Mission  312–313, 322

Chinamayananda, Swami  383

Chitkara, M. G.  356

Chitty Malaka Peranakan Indians  61

churning of the ocean of milk  23, 44

circulation of people between Europe and India  215–216

Claveyrolas, Mathieu  126–127

Clothey, Fred  246–247, 291, 338–340

Coedès, George  24–25, 28, 30–31, 52

colonization theories  27–29

commercial networks  29

Concord Murugan Temple Yatra  343–344

congregational style  315, 318–319, 398–400, 402

consecration rituals  40

‘Consolatrix Afflictorum’  347

controversies  203–204, 312

Coolie Woman  95–96

‘coolies’  136, 239

coronation rituals  40

Council of Hindu Temples of North America  332–333

COVID-19 pandemic  309–310

cows  406

Crawfurd, John  54

crossing of the Indian Ocean  270

dance  192–193, 249, 291–292, 295–296, 316–317

dance classes  163, 192–193

darśan/darśana  304–305, 316–317, 389, 405–406

Das, Kripamoya  402, 410–411

Das, Navin Krishna  401

Das, Sonia  244–245

Das, Vrindapati  405–406

Dasi, Jadurani  405

David, Ann R.  287–288, 291–292, 322–323

de Casparis, J. G.  32

demographics  243–244

Dempsey, Corinne  287

Denmark  345–346

Desai, Rashmi  216–217, 222–223

devarāja  40

Dharma Hindu Bali  54

Dharmaśāstra  56, 59–60

diaspora, the term  1, 4–7, 244, 251, 261, 364–365

Diesel, Alleyn  298–299

‘Dismantling Global Hindutva’  359

‘display’ temples  212–213, 223–225

Dīvālī  110, 292–293

as second generation identity construction  292–293

domestic rituals  295

Douglass, Fredrick  377–378

Draupadiyammaṉ  254–255

Dravidian Movement  249–250

Dravidization of Hinduism  249–250

dreams, gods/goddesses appearing in  33, 293–294, 307–308, 332–333, 338–339

Drewal, Henry  140–141

Duara, Praenjit  78–79

Dubey, Rajeev  375

Durgā  292

Durgā pūjā  292

Durgāsvāmin  37–38

Dwyer, Rachel  272

Early Cambodian encounters with India, theories about  26–28

East Africa  138–139

East African Gujaratis  270

East Asia  12, 78–88

East Asian diasporic nodes  79

Eck, Diana  287–288, 291, 317

Eelam Tamils, see Īḻam Tamils

EIC (East India Company)  55

encounter of India and Europe  213–215

Erndl, Kathleen  296

Esel, Kwesi  141–142

essentialism  356–358

Estève, Julia  39

Europe  14, 209–226, 375–376

diversity in  219–222

centrality of temples in  222–224

sacralization of sites in  224–225

predominance of Īḻam Tamils in  225–226

evil eye  276–277, see also najar

Facebook  173, 249–250

Falcone, Jessica Mariya  291–292

festivals  110–111, 156, 162–163, 254–255, 291, 316–317

goddess  291–295

Fiji  13–14, 148–153, 166, 271, 333–334

Fiji Sevashram Sangh  155

fire walking ceremony  152–153, see also timīti, and ritual firewalking

food  105–106, 191, 278, 306

four ‘regulative principles’  399–400

Franklin, Satya Bharti  388–389

free migration  241

Funan  16, 24–25

Ganapati, Anuradha  202

Gandhi, Mahatma  63–64, 132, 215–216

Gaṅgā  16, 40–42, 109–110, 120–121, 127–128, 225, 278, 330–332, 334–336, 348

Ganga Talao  334–337

garbā dance  163, 291–292

Garuḍa  333–334

Gaudes, Rüdiger  33–34

Geaves, Ron  225–226, 345–346

generational transfer  292, 320–322

Germany  343

Ghana  140–143

ghosts  277

Gladstone experiment  93

‘global Hindu Tamil diaspora’  237–238, 244–252

global cosmopolitanism  379

Goldberg, Philip  396–397

gōpuram  254–255

Gossagne, Pandit Jhummon Giri  335–336

Goswami, H. D.  407–408

‘Greater India’  8–9, 28

‘Greater India’ movement  57–60

Greater India Society  28, 59

Gressett, Michael  410

Guanyin  84

Gujarati Hindu diasporas  14–15, 269–281, 291–292

Gujarati Hindu traditions  210–211

regionally rooted vernacular practices  275–278

Gujarati Hindus in East Africa  217–218, 270

Gujarati merchants  136–138

Gujaratis  269–281

Guru Maharaj  383–384

guru movements  17–18, 375–392

ethnic divides between ‘Indians’ and ‘Western’ within  387–389

fissures within  387–388

influenced by neo-Vedantic philosophies  385–386

racial division in  384–387

reproducing dominant racial and caste hierarchies  390–391

gurus  160–161

amabassador  376

as God  389

globally oriented  375–392

media accounts of  387

Guyana  93

Hall, Stuart  247–248

Handbook of Hinduism in Europe  209n.1, 218–219

Hanumān  336

Hare Krishna, see ISKCON

Harihara  39–40

Harilela family  83–84

Hawley, John S.  286

healers  298–299

Hindu, the term  2–3, 52–53, 186–187, 189–190

Hindu American Foundation  369–370

Hindu American Religious Institute (HARI)  311

Hindu burials, use of local rivers for  225

Hindu Council of Australia  343

Hindu Council of New Zealand (HCNZ)  170–171

Hindu Dharma Sabha, Britain  217–218

Hindu Forum of Europe  220–221, 402n.17

Hindu geography  287

Hindu heritage classes  322

Hindu Mandir Network  220–221

Hindu ‘missionaries’  181

Hindu names  39

Hindu nationalism  312–313

and Hinduism  361–363

Hindu Organizations, Temples and Associations (HOTA)  170–171

Hindu Rāṣṭra  359

Hindu resurgence  133–134

Hindu Rights Action Force (Hindraf)  67

Hindu sacred sites  328–348

global phenomenon  330–332

Hindu Swayamsevak Sangh (HSS)  164, 369

Hindu temples  16, 41, 61–62, 101, 127, 132–134, 162, 172, 193, 254–255, 273–274, 276, 288–289, 304–324

adaptive innovations  310–311

affluent  305

architecture  199, 223–224, 304, 311

‘authentic’  195–198, 311–312, 330–332

Birla  199

building outside of South Asia  310

centrality of  222–224

competition between  340–342

destruction of  66–67

economy of  309–310

ecumenical  317

evolution of the Caribbean  92

financial resourses of  309

four organizational models in  307–308

generalist  271–272

Hindu goddess  287–291

importance of in diaspora  256–257

in Europe  222–224

in Portugal  276

inclusive  132–133

ISKCON  405–406

monumental  340–344

new social functions of  318–319

organizational structure  306–313

pan-Indian  317

pilgrimage sites  224–225

‘prestige’  179, 193, 196–197

‘real’  304, 311–312

replicas of  259–260, 259n.26, 330–332

rituals in  306, 313–314

sampradāya based  318

separate temples of North and South Indians  340–342

source of pride and recognition  222

spaces  195–199

traditionally constructed  304–305

transnational Tamil  256–261

Trinidadian  108

universal  317–318

use of for promoting Hindu culture  220–222

Hindu youth  66

Hinduism, the term  2–3, 54, 94

Hinduization  143

of ISKCON  406–410

Hinduphobia  204, 366

Hindus for Human Rights  371

Hindutva: Exploring the Idea of Hindu Nationalism  361

Hindutva movement  16–17, 354–371

and Hindu organizations in the diasporas  358

and Hindu organizations in United States  368–371

as Hindu nationalism  358–363

definitions of  354–355

Hindutva Parivar  356

Hindutva: Who is a Hindu?  358

Ho, Engseng  78–80

Holdrege, Barbara  398

homeland-orientation, Tamil  248–251

Hong Kong  83–86

Hughes, Philip  13–14

Hun-tian  33

iconography  43–45

ijjat  119

Īḻam Tamil Hindus  52, 225–226, 242, 248–251, 294–295, 305–306, 315–316, 346–347, see also Jaffna Tamils, Sri Lankan Tamils

Ilaiah, Kanchan  356

Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965  178–179, 382–383

Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1990  194

Inden, Ronald J.  356–357

indentured labour  9–10, 98–99, 126, 132, 239–241, 269

and gender  95–96

quota of women recruits  93–94

indentureship trade  92–93

India and the West

cultural and racial stereotypes of  375–376

Orientalist division between  376

India-Mauritius connections  128

Indian Army (INA)  63–64

Indian Arrival Day  111

Indianization  24–26, 28–33, 59, 238–239

Indonesia, Hinduism in postcolonial  67–70

Indonesian Ministry of Religious Affairs (MoRA)  68–69

International Institute for Applied Spiritual Technology (InterIFast)  408–409

Internet activity  321, 409n.31

‘Inter-Asian Hinduism’  78–79

Inter–Asian trading nodes  80–82

Intisari Hindu Dharma  68–69

ISKCON (International Society for Krishna Consciousness)  17–18, 70, 139, 142–143, 154–155, 169–170, 306, 312–313, 323–324, 385, 389–390, 396–411

and second and third generation diaspora  401–402

interactional contours between the Hindu diaspora and ISKCON  397–411

ISKCON mission. London  398–399

ISKCON missionaries  397

Iskconization of diaspora Hindus  402–404, 410–411

and full time devotees  404

shared cultural atmosphere of culture  405–406

stages of  403

Islamization  70

Jackson, Robert  320–321

Jacobsen, Knut A.  14, 16, 294

Jacobsen, Trudy  33–34

Jaffna Tamils  237, see also Īḻam Tamils

Jaffrelot, Christophe  361–362

Jalārām Bāpā  275–276

Java  54–58, 60

Javanese nationalism  58

‘Javanese renaissance’  58

jhaṇḍīs  102–103

Jhūle Lāl  84

Johnson, Henry  292–293

jyotirliṅga  6–7, 7n.7, 56, 336,

the thirteenth  336

kālāpāni  97–98, 149, 257–258, 332n7

Kālī  84, 100–103, 297–298

Kālī Mā  101

Kālī Pūjā  100–101, 298–299

Kālī Yātrā festival  102

Kalimpong  82

Kalīya Nāg  333–334

Kambu  34

Kambuja  24–25, 34

kangani system  9–10, 240–241

Kapila  348

Kapila Araṇya  348

Karaiyars  246

Karumāriammaṉ  289

Kashi Vishwanath Temple, Mauritius  336

kauṇḍinya  33–34, 36

kāvaṭi  62, 65, 254–255, 294–295, 316–317, 339, 344

Keppens, Marianne  366

Keqiao  86–88

Keshava Swami, S. B.  404

Kevelaer Madonna  347

Khmer Empire  38, 42

kīrtan  296, 400, 402, 405

kīrtan retreats  402n.16

Knott, Kim  222–223, 295, 319–320

Kolkata  80–82

koutia  107–108

kōvil/Kovil  126–127, 247, 253–254, see also kōyil

kōyil  253–256, see also kōvil

Krishna Valley  224–225

Krishna West  407–408

Krishnamurti, Jiddu  159

Kṛṣṇa  274, 399–400, 405–406

Kṛṣṇajanmāṣṭami  400

kṣatriya theory/kṣatriya model  28–29, 52

Kuala Lumpur  338–339

kul varppu  293–294

Kulke, H.  26

Kumar, G. Krishna  290

Kumar, Pratap  287–288

La Réunion  128–132, 238–239

Labour migration  61

landscape, see sacred landscape

Lang, Natalie  131

lascars  215–216

Laurence, K. O.  96–97

Lee, Risha  79–80

Leidig, Eviane  361–362

life-cycle rituals  320

liṅga  40, 342

linguistic affiliation  168

Liu-ye  33

locative processes of Hinduism  333–334, 347–348

Long, Jeffery  16–17

Lourenço, Inès  15, 322–323

Luchesi, Brigitte  223–224, 294

Lucia, Amanda  17, 297

Ma Sheela  391

Mabbet, I. W.  32

McCrindle, J. W.  27

McDermott, Rachel  292

Mackenzie, Colonel Colin  54

McNeal, Keith  99–101, 298

Mahābhārata  35, 348

Maharaj, Ravindranath  109–110

Mahādevī  286

Maharishi Mahesh Yogi  383

māvīrar nāl (Martyr’s Day)  248–249

Majumdar, R. C.  27–28, 30–31, 52

Malaya  61–62, 65–67

Malayan Hindu Sangham  65

Manguin, Pierre-Yves  30–31

maistry system  240–241

Malaysia  244–245, 249, 290–291, 293–294, 337

Mami Wata  140–141

mandir/mandira  106, 126–127, 162–163, 169n.23, 173, 221–222, 221n.14, 255–256, 304, 311–312, 317–318

Manor campaign, the  400–401

Maraj, Bhadase Sagan  109

Māriammaṉ  100–102, 131n.8, 288–289, 338–339

Mariamman Kovil Devastanam  338–339

Māriammaṉ temples  62–63, 69, 100–101, 134, 293

Marian shrines  346–348

Maria–Küsters, Sandhya  320–321

mātā  296

Mātā Amritanandamayi  296–297, 383–384, 388–389

Mātā Caukī group  296

Mathura  95

Mauritius  6–7, 9–10, 126–128, 238–239, 246, 249, 255–256, 334–337

Mauritiuseswarnath liṅga  336

Mauritiuseswarnath Mandir  336

Mazumdar, Sanjoy  295

Mazumdar, Shampa  295

MC Yan  85–86

Middle East  10

migrant Brahman priests  257–260

Montreal  256–257

‘Monument Viṣṇuite’  44–45, see also Viṣṇus

Mother Mary (as Fatima)  279

Mother Meera  383–384

Mozambique  270

Mruthinti, Harshita  295–296

Muktananda, Swami  383–384

Mukund, Kanakalatha  15

Muneeswaran  330–332, 330n.5

Murukaṉ  254–255, 307–308, 329, 337–340

six sacred centers of in Tamil Nadu  339–340

Murukaṉ temple of Nallur  259

Music  187–188, 192, 249, 405

Muslim Malay nationalism  65–67

Muththumāriammaṉ  288–289

Naag Mandir, Vanua Levu  151–152, 334

Nāga  34–35

Nagarakertagama  53–54

Nagoumila  101–102

Naidu, James  101

Nainativu  259

najar  276–278, see also evil eye

Narayanan, Vasudha  11, 14, 97–98, 286–287, 321–322, 340–342

Nargoulan  131

Nattukottai Chettiars  241

Navarātri  141–142, 291–292, 346–347

‘Neo-Hindutva’  362

Nesbitt, Eleanor  320–321

Netherlands  123, 218

Neumann, David  381

‘new Hindu diaspora’  9–10

New Zealand  13–14, 165–173

religious affiliation of Indians in  169

Nibbs, Faith  292–293

Nirmala Srivastava  383–384

North Sumatra  62–63

‘NRI temple’  260

numbers  194

Nye, Malory  315

Oceania  13–14

Oddie, Geoffrey A.  53–54

‘old Hindu diasporas’  9–10

Om Sakthi movement  287–288

Oonk, Gijsbert  269

‘Overseas Indians’  4–6

Palani  337, 344

Pañcarātra texts  43, 45

paṇḍits  97–98, 102, 105–106, 119–120

Pandava Sena  401

Paramananda  380

Parashakthi Temple in Pontiac, Michigan  289–290

Parisada Hindu Dharma Indonesia (PHDI)  69–70

Parmar, Maya  291–292

Pārvatī  335

‘passenger Indians’  132, 136–137

Patel  271

Patil, Reshma  87–88

Penumala, Pratap Kumar  13

performing arts  192–193, 199–203

Periyāchī  290–291

Persaud, Prea  12

Persian Gulf countriers  243

pews in temples  120

Phagwah  110–111

Philippines  65

Pichakaree  110–111

pilgrimage  259–260, 279, 329

and diaspora  332

and establishing a diasporic relationship to an ancestral homeland  336–337

padayātrā (walking pilgrimage)  343

pilgrimage festivals  332

importance for overcoming invisibility  329

pilgrimage sites  16, 224–225, 315–316, 323–324

attributes of in the United States  340–342

classification of  332–333

connected to gurus or other sacred persons  344–346

connected to monumental temples  340–344

connected to special natural features  333–340

establishment of  332–333

in Fiji  334

in Mauritius  334–337

Marian shrines  346–348

Pillai, K. Thambusamy  338–339

Pillay, Kumaraswami  69

Pintchman, Tracy  15–16

Plantation labour  61

plants as goddesses  295

Pocock, David Francis  274

Portugal  218, 270, 273, 276

Prasad, Leela  299–300

Prasad, Rajendra  13–14

‘prestige’ temples  24

priests  198–199, 256, 323–324

charismatic  308

female  287–288, 322–323

president of the temple committee  307

patron-  307–308

procession  254–255, 293–294, 316–317, 329, 334–335, 337, 339

brahmotsava  340, 343

festival  340

road  342

votive dimension of  294–295

Prorok, Carolyn  106–108, 337n.11

pūjā  80–82, 86–87, 105, 120, 127–128, 189, 198, 292–293, 295, 297–299, 306, 314

pujārī  97–98, 287, 340–342

Puṣṭimārg  271–272, 274

Quanzhou  79–80

Hindu temple in  79–80

race  13, 17, 56, 117, 375, 408–409

Radjiman, Dr.  60

Raffles, Thomas Stamford  54–55

Rām Līlā/Rāmlīlā  104–105, 151

Ramakrishna Mission  360

Ramaṇaka Dvīpa  333–334

Rāmāyaṇa  35, 41, 44, 149–151, 186

Rāmāyaṇa Mandalis  150–151

Rāmcaritmānas  95–96, 103–106, 119–120

Rampersad, Indrani  109

Ramstedt, Martin  11–12

Ranggawarsita, Raden Ngabehi  55–56

Rao, Madhusudana  340–342

rathotsava  316–317, see also tēr

Réunion, see La Réunion

regional networks  312–313

research literature on Hinduism and migration  7–8, 26

revival  65–66

ritual firewalking  99–100

Romani people  214–215

Romantic Orientalism  379

Rosen, Steven  384

Roy, Rammohun  215–216

Sachchidananda, Swami Ganapathy  108–109

sacralizing the landscape  286–287

sacred geography  16, 120–121, 127–128, 224–225, 249–250, 328

of India  330–332

reduplication of  314

sacred landscape  108–110, 120–121, 314

modelled on Indian original  342

sacred sites, see Hindu sacred sites

Sadhana Coalition and Hindus for Human Rights  370–371

Śaiva traditions  275

Śaiva Siddhānta  250n.10

Śaiva Siddhānta Church  312–313

Śaivism  253–254

Śākta traditions  15–16, 100–103, 210–211, 286

śakti  346

Salomon, Richard  39

saṃkīrtana  398–399

Samudrayātrā  59–60

Sanātan Dharam Pratinidhi Sabha  151–152

Santātan Dharm  304–305

Sanatan Dharma Maha Sabha (SDMS)  109

Sanderson, Alexis  41–42

Sanskritic cultural process  134

Sanskritization  135–136

Sarvadarśanasaṃgraha  53–54

Sastri, Nilakantha  27

Sastri, Srinivasa  159

Satchidananda, Swami  383

Sathya Sai Baba Movement  65–66, 70, 139

satsaṅg  105, 273, 280, 389

Saunders, Jennifer B.  296

Savarkar, Vinayak Damodar  358, 362

Self-Realization  367–368, 381, 400

Self-Respect movement  62

Shah, Tushar  273

Sharma, Jyotirmaya  361

Shastri, Narendra Dev pandit  68–69

Shiva Family  65–66

Shri Sanatan Dharm MahaSaba Suriname  121–122

Shri Venkateswara (Balaji) Temple, Tivdale  342–343

Shridharani, Krishnalal  182

Shukla, I. K.  359

Shumsky, Susan  390–391

Sikhs  153, 166, 168

Sindhi Hindus

in Australia  158–159

in Hong Kong  83–84

in Jakarta  69

in Spain  215–216

Singapore  63–64, 290–291

Singh, Shery-Ann  104–105

Sinha, Vineeta  293–294, 330n.5, 337n.12

Sipari Mai/Sipari ke Mai  346–347

Śiva  40, 335

Śivācārya  256–257, 259, 307, 319–320

śivaliṅga/Śiva liṅga  40, 197, see also liṅga, and jyotirliṅga

Sivananda, Swami  65–66

śivarātri  127–128, 334–336

Sivasubramaniyar, Alayam, Oslo  329

Skanda Vale  224–225, 323–324, 344–345

slavery  61, 92–93, 116–117, 148, 239

prohibition of  9–10

Smith, Jonathan Z.  356–357

Smith, Monica  46

socio-religious ethnicization  255–256

South Africa  132–133, 298–299

South East Asia  12, 23–47, 52–71

spiritual gaslighting  385–386

Spiro, Alison  277–278

Sri Alagappan  195–196

Srī Apirāmi Ammaṉ Temple in Brande, Denmark  308

Sri Kamadchi Ampal Temple in Hamm, Germany  309, 343

Śrī Kāmākṣī in Hamm  294

Sri Karunamayi  383–384

Sri Lanka  237–238

civil war in  242

Sri Lanka Up-country Tamils  242

Sri Lankan Tamils  252

Sri Mariamman Temple in Medan  62–63, 69

Sri Paskaran  323–324

Śrī Rājarājeśwarī Pīṭham in Rush, New York  287, 314

Śrī Vaiṣṇavas  253

Śrī Veṅkaṭeśvara  139

Sri Venkateswara Temple in Penn Hills  196, 305–306, 313–314, 340, 342

Śrī Vidyā  287

Śrīnāth  274

Srinivas, Tulasi  291

Sripalan, Lalitha  308, 346

standardization of Hindu beliefs and practices  109, 319–320

Strange, Stuart Earle  13

SubhaRow, Yeallapragada  181–182

Subramaniyam  323–324, 344–345

Sunday schools and classes  321–322

Suparee Mai  100

Suriname  16–17, 116–123, 332

Hindu practice in  119–121

history of  116–118

Sanatan Dharm in  119–122

suvarṇabhūmi  37–38

svāmi/swami

fetishization of the Indian  379

Svāminārāyaṇa movement  138–139, 271–273

Svāminārāyaṇa temples  162, 172–173, 194–195, 272–274

svayambhū  333–334, 337, 345–346

Swami, Bhakti Tirtha  408–409

Swami, Dhanurdhara  407–408

Swami Rama  383

Tagore, Rabindranath  59–60, 62

taipūcam  62–63, 67, 254–255, 329, 337–339, 343–344

Tamil diaspora  237–262

size of  243

Tamil Hinduism, transnationalization of  256–261

Tamil Hindus  14–15, 220–221, 225–226, 237–262

diversity  244–248

shared religious practices of  252–253

three categories among overseas  246

Tamil Eelam  248

Tamil Nadu  237, 248

Tamil revival  249–250

Tamil Virtual University  250–251

Tarkavacaspati, Pandit Tarnatha  59–60

Temple architecture  42–43

temple culture  179

temple mountain  41–42

temples, see Hindu temples

templeization  254, 321–322

tēr  316–317

Thailand  65

Thampi, Parvathi  190–192

Tharoor, Shashi  356

Thass, Jyothee  63

The Hindu Monastery of Africa  141–142

The Hindu Sea-Voyage Movement in Bengal  59–60

The Reason Why the Colored American Is Not in the World’s Columbian Exhibition  377–378

timīti  62, 254–255, see also ritual firewalking, and fire walking ceremony

tīrtha  16, 41, 121

Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanam  309, 312–313

tiruvīlā  254–255

Tonga  146–147

Toronto  242–243, 256, 259

trader theory  29–30

translations of Hindu texts  214–215

transnational linkages  238, 252–253

transnational networks  312–313

transnational pilgrimages  259–260

transnational sampradāyas  306

transnationalization of Tamil solidarity  248–251

Trinidad  297–298, 346–347

Trouillet, Pierre-Yves  14–15, 312–313, 319–320

Tulasī/Tulsī  295

twice migrants  242, 269–270

umbrella organizations  312–313

United States  14, 178–206, 271, 273–274, 287, 290, 292, 311, 340–342, 365–366, 368–371, 375–392

‘unity in diversity’  164

universalist ethnic religion  116

universalization efforts in Indinesia  69–70

Vaikuṇṭha Perumāl Temple  43

Vaiṣṇava  119–120, 269, 272, 274

Vaiṣṇavism  275

Vajpayee, Atal Bihari  336

Valpey, Kenneth  17–18

Vallabhācārya, followers of  274

Van der Veer, Peter  88

Van Leur, Jacob Cornelis  31, 52

varman  36–37

Vāyu  335

Vedanta Society  367, 380

Vedānta-based modern traditions  133, 160–161, 305

vēl  337–339

Vellalar/Veḷḷāḷar caste  246, 307–308

Veṅkaṭeśvara temples  197, 304, 311–312, 317, 330–332, 340–342

duplicates of Tirumala Tirupati temple  16, 314, 330–332, 342

vernacular Hinduism, interacting with representative Hinduism  277–278

Vertovec, Steven  26, 99, 218, 276, 288, 298, 346–347

vinayaka caturthī  254–255, see also gaṇeśa caturthī

viśakhayūpa/stambha  45

Vishva/Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP)  155, 170–171, 220–221, 312–313

Vishwa Hindu Parishad of America (VHPA)  368–369

visibilization  310–311

Viṣṇu  41, 119, 274

eight–armed  43–44

Viṣṇus

1,020 plus four  44–45, see also ‘Monument Viṣṇuite’

Vivekananda  377–381

vratas  293, see also vows

vows  294–295, see also vratas

Waghorne, Joanne  287–289

Walcott, Derek  104–105

Watumull, Jhamandas  182–183

Watumull family  182–183

Wellington Indian Association  169–170

Wells, Ida B.  377–378

West Africa  140–143

Wheatley, Paul  31–32

Why I am a Hindu  356

Why I Am Not a Hindu  356

Wilke, Annette  16, 287–288, 343

Williams, Raymond Brady  273, 319–320

Williamson, Lola  375

women  322–323

and Vedanta Society  380

as living ancarnations of the Goddess  296–297

healers  298–299

Hindu Gujarati in Natal  280

Hindu Gujarati in Portugal  277, 279–280

Hindu Gujarati in Sidney  280

in Śākta traditions  287–288

migrants  163–164

new ritual spaces for  322–323

performers of domestic rituals  295

procession of  297–299

women’s organizations  170

Wood, Martin  275–278

World Tamil Conferences  250–251

Wuaku, Albert Kafu  140–141

yagnas (yajñas)  105–106

Yiwu  86–88

yoga  47, 67–68, 135, 160–161, 204, 382

marginal importance of  199–200

Yogananda, Paramahansa  381–382

Yoshihara, Mari  382

Younger, Paul  100–101

youth  320–324

Yukteswar  381

Zavos, John  402n.17

zero, concept of  36

Zhenla  24–25