An Urban KoBra

Neha Bhide

SYBA, 2021-2022

    I belong to the Brahmin caste, the Chitpavan community, also known as Konkanastha, owing to the origins in that region. ‘Chitpavan’ literally translates to those who are pure of mind. Furthermore, the Peshwas belonged to this sub-caste, causing great honour being linked to it. This subcaste considers themselves superior in facets of knowledge or even looks. A typical Konkanastha Brahmin is said to have certain prominent features like fair skin, light-coloured eyes, and protruding teeth. (Unfortunately, all I got through my genes was the last feature.)

   The origin of this community is a highly debated topic. There are several myths and theories surrounding it, however the usage of the word ‘Chitpavan’ could be traced back to the 1570s. One popular belief is that we were originally migrants, justifying the physical features of a sharp nose and jaw accompanied with grey eyes. Various hypotheses have been put forward, some suggesting our roots to be from Persia, others Greece. Some studies even trace our origins to the region of Kutch in Gujarat due to the similarities in the languages. For as long as we remember, we have been tilling the land of Konkan. My relatives in Konkan are still partaking in the farming of coconuts, betel nuts, and other products akin to these.

   Although my native place is in Konkan, I have spent all my life in urban spaces. Since city life permitted the privilege of being oblivious to the caste system and untouchability, I had no clue what purpose it served. Despite this, I was introduced to my caste as a child. I remember my grandmother once told me, roughly at the age of 7, that birth as a Brahmin means that we have done good karma in our previous lives, and being born as a Brahmin is a matter of great honour. She also told me that the souls of Brahmins do not take birth again, and are freed from the cycle of life and death. This was my first explicit interaction with my caste. Needless to say, I was majorly confused about the concepts she introduced me to, but I did not prod any further. Much later I realised that she meant more than what she had vocalised.

   The ‘Bhides’ being Chitpavan Brahmins are traditionally known for being teachers. The main job of a Brahmin was to gain knowledge and impart it. The stereotype is highlighted in the popular serial ‘Taarak Mehta ka Oolta Chashma’ where the character ‘Bhide' is a teacher. When my father was young, he had a neighbour who would address him as ‘Bhide Master’, notwithstanding that we have no connection with the teaching profession. The middle-aged man would often say that every Bhide he had met in his life was a teacher and that my grandfather, being a doctor, had chosen the wrong profession. And rightly so, as Chitpavans rarely became ritual priests but are known to be teachers and Sanskrit scholars. Some of the best known Brahman scholars in the sacred city of Varanasi were Chitpavan migrants. (Zelliot, 1992, 69)

   Being a part of a migrated nuclear family in a super urban setting of Mumbai, we don’t explicitly mention caste in our daily lives. But it does spring up in small gatherings where only Brahmins are present. There is also this small practice where the caste of an individual who we newly meet is guessed according to their surname. The anonymity that city life offers poses a challenge to recognize the caste of an individual and here comes the latent caste practice played out through surnames. (Parmar, 2020, p. 2) I was definitely disgusted by this practice but soon realised that it wasn’t something performed exclusively by my family. When I started commuting by a local train and found a regular train; another woman who also regularly travelled by it asked my friends and I our surnames. Unlike my childhood where I did not realise why people took extra interest in my surname, I quickly recognized the real intentions this time around. 

   Even though most people in the cities deny its existence, the complexities of the caste system are at play everywhere. Maybe it is even ingrained in me so much that I am not cognizant of certain biases myself. As much as I hope for my outlook to be casteless, owing to my upbringing, certain notions do trickle down in many everyday instances. I have grown up often listening to phrases like ‘एका  ब्राह्मणाची मुलगी असून सुद्धा...’ (Despite being the daughter of a Brahmin...) or ‘एका ब्राह्मणाच्या घरात...’ (In the house of a Brahmin..) These phrases have in some manner instilled in me a behaviour, a thought process that is particular to that of a Brahmin.

   Being Brahmins, there exists a social construct where one must be aware of certain religious shlokas or mantras. But since I have never been exposed to an environment where I was forced to learn them by heart, I have very little knowledge about these so-called necessities of being a Brahmin. My mother often tells me that she regrets not teaching me all these things in my childhood and feels ashamed at family gatherings where kids half my age recite hymns with proper diction and dedication. Not being exactly religious, I have hardly any qualms about it.

   The play of caste hegemony is clearly visible in the language that is spoken by us. Being Brahmins, our language is supposed to be the purest of them all. So not being able to speak Marathi accurately or not pronouncing words correctly is frowned upon as it is a marker of somebody belonging to other castes. Paralleling other Indian languages, even Marathi has different dialects depending upon the castes. I have often heard that a true way to distinguish between Marathi Brahmins and Non-Brahmins is to listen to the way they say ‘and’ or ‘water’ in Marathi. People who pronounce it as ‘आनि - पानि’ instead of the grammatically correct ‘आणि - पाणि’ belong to other castes. These linguistic differences provide a potential means for definition and recognition of social situations. (Bright, 1960, p. 424) This has always made me uncomfortable since I fail to understand how and why we are using language as a means to differentiate among castes. And also due to the fact that now, unconsciously my attention is drawn to this little detail when people speak and my mind digresses in directions I do not wish. 

  Another detail (that I had hardly questioned as a child, but now know how problematic it is) is the phrase ‘खाईन तर तुपाशी, नाही तर उपाशी’. It literally translates to, if I eat it, I shall eat it with ghee, or I’d rather stay hungry. As a child, I was rather fascinated by this phrase. Ghee being a childhood favourite, I loosely wielded this line at my mother and grandmother to get that extra spoon of ghee to go with my rice or modak or even puran poli. As I now reflect, I understand how wrong this phrase is. Being upper castes, access to ghee comes naturally as we have most often owned cows and consequently dairy products. Neither being cattle owners nor being rich enough to afford milk, the lower castes have always been deprived of an ingredient I have never thought twice before consuming. I had zero knowledge of my privileges back then, and now that I do, I understand that the availability of abundant ghee is one of the highest privileges I could possibly enjoy.  

   Ghee is considered divine and is a requirement in several Hindu rituals. The Vedas prescribe ghee to be offered to the sacred fire during havans, and ghee lamps are frequently lit during pujas. This makes me wonder what people who don’t have access to it do while performing pujas that require a ghee lamp to be lit. How does a religion dictate things that not all followers have access to? Is it the religion that prescribes constructs or the people in power aka the Brahmins? In that case, why are the modules not inclusive enough? Is religion practised within the monopoly of the Brahmins? If so, then how is it even a religion?

   The anti-Brahmin violence that took place after Nathuram Godse assassinated Mahatma Gandhi was an event of great importance to one side of my family. The news of the murder of the Mahatma almost plunged Maharashtra into a civil war. (Rothermund, 1971, p. 73) Mass execution of Brahmins took place throughout the nation, mostly in Maharashtra, by non-Brahmins. Godse being a Chitpavan Brahmin, the entire community had to bear the brunt of his deeds. This incident ignited the deep-seated hatred against the Brahmins, especially in the hearts of the Marathas. It will be too much to believe that riots took place because of the intense love towards Gandhiji on the part of the Marathas. (Sirsikar, 1999, p. 11) The riots became a convenient hate symbol in freely expressing the social tension between these two castes. 

   Vyankatesh Madgulkar’s novel वावटळ (The Winds of Fire) is a description of the unfolding of events right after Gandhiji's assassination. It shows the intensity of violence that spread even in small villages where communication was not as quick. The situation gravely affected my paternal grandmother’s maternal grandfather who had to incur serious losses. He was supposedly a wealthy merchant, with a huge house and seven young motherless daughters. After Godse’s actions, their entire house was burned to ashes along with all the wealth that they possessed. This man was thus left without a penny and girls of marriageable age. I have never personally heard this story from my great-grandmother who was directly affected by it, but my father recounts the terrible feeling that overcame him when he heard of it for the first time. 

   As we already know, there are several sub-castes that follow a strict hierarchy even inside one caste. The same is the case with Brahmins. The 3 main Brahmin communities that were present around the Konkan region were the Konkanasthas, Deshasthas, and Karhade. The Deshasthas being the traditional ritual priests of the Marathi-speaking area considered the Chitpavans to be ritually inferior. (Zelliot, 1992) Even after the Chitpavans rose to power in the court of Shahu Maharaj, the Deshasthas and Karhades continued to treat them in contempt and refused to inter-dine with them. However, the social position of the Konasthas improved with time as the Peshwas continued to gain more power. It may also be pointed out that marriages between the Deshastha and Kokanastha Brahmins have been very common (Paranjpe, 1970, p. 117)

 

   Case in point, my parents. My father’s side of the family is among the ‘Kokanastha Brahmins’ while my mother comes from the ‘Deshastha’ community. According to what I had heard all these years, the Kokanasthas held a higher position, but now that I have researched I can see that it was not always like that. There is friendly banter between my parents regarding certain habits of theirs that they attribute to their sub-castes. My mother often complains that the Chitpavans always have small family gatherings that do not involve a lot of people, which is contradictory to what she was used to since childhood. Research by Paranjpe (1970) claims that Chitpavans are an extremely close-knit community with strong in-group feelings. I, myself, have seen this in the family. We have our functions at a small, exclusive level and never really invite extended family or other acquaintances. They don’t even attend functions that are not of their close relatives. But when it comes to their blood-relations, they are ready to go above and beyond. 

   Living in an urban space, I was exposed to Deshastha traditions from my mother’s side, allowing me to observe the practises and view them with a critical insider perspective. Despite feeling a little disconnected from the entire culture, I still know certain aspects of it to find the ability to criticise it. In this article, I have tried to portray what caste means to me, an upper caste urban individual. Retracing my encounters with the concept and the confusion around certain stereotypes and other practises that I didn’t understand made me realise that caste is so much more than what can be put down as a social category. Being at a threshold of having stumbled upon the complex nuances of it, I look forward to continuing viewing it from an analytical lens.

References 

Bright, W. (1960). Social Dialect and Language History. Current Anthropology, 1, 424-425. doi.org/10.1086/200137

Kamat, V. V. (1996). Socio-Political and Religious Life in Goa (1900 to 1946) [Thesis for Doctor of Philosophy in History]. Goa University.

Kumar, R. (1968). Western India in the Nineteenth Century. Routledge.

Madgulkar, V. (1985). Vavtal [The winds of fire] (P. Kale, Ed.; 5th ed.). Mehta Publishing House.

Paranjpe, A. C. (1970). Caste, prejudice, and the individual. Lalvani Publication House.

Parmar, R. (2020). Transacting Caste in Modern Times: Changing Social Identity through Surnames in Urban Gujarat. Contemporary Voice of Dalit, 1 - 14. doi:10.1177/2455328x20922439

Rothermund, I. (1971). Gandhi and Maharashtra: Nationalism and the provincial. South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies, 1(1), 56 - 73. http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/00856407108730653

Sirsikar, V. M. (1999). Political Culture of Maharashtra. In A. R. Kulkarni & N. K. Wagle (Eds.), Religion, Nationality and Religion (pp. 5 - 17). Popular Prakashan Mumbai.

Zelliot, E. (1992). Encyclopaedia of World Cultures, South Asia (P. Hockings, Ed.; Vol. 3). G.K. Hall & Company.