Phantoms of Wasted Warriors— Being an Invisible Nair

Anoushka M B

SYBA

The moment of jubilation at the success of  Chandrayaan-3 was not left idle. The masses needed something greater for discourse and caste was the perfect escapade for an Indian. Whatsapp messages had started circulating in my family group that claimed the caste identity of the ISRO Chairman, Shri S Somanath, as a Nair. The tonality of the foot-long message in Malayalam vehemently stated how certain ‘shameless hooligans' were circulating rumours about the Chairman belonging to their caste instead, erasing the pristine, four-lettered ‘Nair’. Fascinating was how these ‘knowledge’ circulators gathered this information. An apparent digging of files of the Nair Service Society (NSS) was done without informed consent and the self-acclaimed caste detectives had tracked down the Karayogam (literally translated, a village assembly, the base tier of the NSS) Shri S Somanath’s father belonged to as ‘Panicker’, one of the Nair subcastes. This, I believe,  is a perfect starting point to delve into my caste and caste position.

My name is Anoushka M B, not Anoushka Nair. The reason for this is a conscious choice my parents made to ensure that caste— a system tarnished with decades of tribulations and violence— was not a significant part of my identity that I had to spell out every time something required my name. My initials had been a bother to my younger self when I struggled to explain to people that it was indeed, a valid surname whenever the age-old comment of “but that’s not a real surname unless it’s your caste,” was made. 

The most hassling instance was the procedure for my passport creation. The officers and the police verification process, at the sight of my initials, blatantly told my parents: “ye aapka naam nahi hai, beti ka surname badal do,” or to take away the casual audacity of the Hindi sentence, being told that my surname was not valid and that my parents better change it for the sake of easing through the process. How does one react to being told that their identity isn’t ‘real’ unless a certain four-lettered word is ascribed next to their name? Despite not having my caste identity scribbled next to my first name, it has never been difficult to find out what it is, owing to situations similar to the aforementioned. The older I’ve become, the more debatable my parents’ choice of sheltering me from my caste seems. The invasive thought occasionally irks me that having their initials instead of my caste as my surname has only drawn more attention to it than diverted it. The older I’ve become, the more I contemplate whether not having ‘Nair’ written next to my name is a choice— or a privilege.

Necessitating answers were effortless, considering the abundance of literature and empirical data available about the Nair community of Kerala. My father had no qualms with discussing the origins of our caste and even provided me with works to refer to about the same. The varna system took its stems in Kerala with the advent of migrant Brahmins, who referred to the local population as ‘Nagans’. Although the line separating myth and factual data is blurred, the narrative insinuates tensions between the Brahmins and the Nagans, the former refusing to accept the latter as  Kshatriyas and reducing them to the status of Shudras in their eyes. A reason for this is traced back to tales of the Nagans being perceived as snake worshippers by the migrant Brahmins who coined the very name, casting the indigenous population with a lowly gaze for their ‘lesser’ worship, unlike the Vedas. This narrative concludes by stating that these Nagans were ancestral ‘Nayars’ and ‘Nayakans’ (literally translated, heroes).

Stepping away from the zoomed-in lens that makes it difficult to tell hearsay apart from facts, historical data about today’s Nairs reveals that they were martial art pioneers who practised it as an occupation, catching the eye of the Travancore royalty that sought warriors and foot-soldiers. The ‘Nayan’ was a prestigious status ascribed by rulers to them after an oath-taking ceremony, branding them as the rulers’ faithful warriors— a pedestal most ancestral Nairs coveted. Once the preparations for war began, the Nayans became ‘Nayars’.

Etymology aside, contemporary data available about Nairs shows that they had always been one of the dominant castes in Kerala, owing to their prowess as royal warriors and foot-soldiers. Although it is implicit that they are a Kshatriya caste, the status was assumed without debate. This was something I did not find enough resources to delve deeper into, to excavate the very notion of this indisputable assumption of Nair status in erstwhile Travancore— was the Kshatriya status accepted without opposition from the castes ‘lower’ than them? Or has that part of the narrative been carefully omitted to silence the voices of warriors who came from communities other than the Nair’s own, who presumably had no say in watching the self-acclaimed Kshatriyas climb higher up the varna hierarchy? 

It is also interesting to note that the Nair’s journey up the hierarchy from being seen as Shudras by migrant Brahmins stopped once they ascribed themselves the Kshatriya status. No Nair yearned to be a Veda-chanting Brahmin the way they pined to become a warrior ‘Nayan’. This, from my standpoint, reinforces the idea that the authority exhorted by the varna hierarchy is not always the linear, staple, pyramid chart that runs down with the Brahmin at the apex and the Shudra at the bottom. In Travancore, the warrior Kshatriyas commanded more respect than any other section, Brahmins included. The scenario is a direct parallel to the observation made by M N Srinivas that “a caste which is ritually high may be poor and lacking strength in numbers, while a populous caste may be poor and ritually low.” (Srinivas, 1959, p. 2). In Kerala’s case, the ritually ‘high’ Brahmins were virtually unparalleled in terms of numerical strength by the Nairs. An empirical study about landholding practices supports this argument, stating that both Brahmins and Nairs retained most of the landholdings in Travancore and that in Nair households, “the low average of holding is explained by a process of partition among the joint family members.” (Sivanandan, 1979) unlike the nuclear, scattered Brahmin families. 

Unsurprisingly, most of the narratives that I’ve grown up hearing about my caste lean heavily towards the valour and authority the community demanded in realms of governance, once appointed in ministerial roles by the rulers of Travancore. My parents have never endorsed me with such portrayals, but that has not stopped me from being exposed to them through relatives and grandparents. There is a gloating pride in a Nair’s depiction of their ancestry because they were comfortable (and arguably exploitative), with no history of violent subjugation and shame. Note that despite being low in the hierarchy of ‘ritual greatness’ of the varna system, the Nairs struck a strange balance with their numerical leverage, owing to the expertise of their martial background that commanded respect, in turn slowly leeching up the power hierarchy as feudal landlords with acres of landholdings both granted by rulers and acquired by familial interests. Endless horizons of landholdings despite which, the Nairs lived inches from destitution.

The advent of Europeans in Travancore had unforeseen consequences for the Nairs. Firearms introduced by the foreigners to appease rulers were quick to displace the martial ‘lords’ from their sole occupation of livelihood. The significance of hand-to-hand combat that the Nairs prided themselves in waned along with their stature in society, leaving behind mere shells of their erstwhile glory in the forms of land grants given to them by royalty during their days of glamour. But that did not restrain the Nair pride. Many of my distant relatives, contemporaries of my grandparents, were known to live unemployed, simply gloating in their former glory as warriors. Monetary aspects of their lives hit a standstill despite having acres of land under possession. Liquidity was an issue they grappled with, some even resorting to selling off their Tharavadu (a Nair, joint family mansion). Alcoholism and pompous spendthriftiness were two other reasons that led to the downfall of Nair prestige, topics that surface-level information about the caste conveniently omits from oral and written narratives.

Centuries have passed since the Nairs faded into the background from their glorious lives as self-acclaimed Kshatriyas. Yet, even in the twenty-first century, the instinctual need to prove the former splendour of these ‘wasted warriors’ bleeds through— as seen in the recent discourse about the ISRO Chairman’s caste identity. Modernization remains “an upward movement from one stage of progress to another, but this does not mean the end of ‘tradition’.” (Pankaj, 2007) and this remains true for the ‘progress’ Nairs have made, incessantly clutching onto remnants of a power-hungry past. I can never introduce myself as a ‘Nair’, not just because I cannot resonate with any of the pains and hungers of my ancestors, but also because I find it difficult to call the caste mine— a caste that has often been on the providing end of caste-based humiliation. One rarely hears the oppressor’s unfiltered voice.

In stark contrast to the celebration of the debated caste of Shri S Somanath, the very same Keralites (mostly Nairs) were the ones to subvert and discomfit former Indian President, K R Narayan, for belonging to the Parava caste by claiming that the first Dalit President would instinctually climb up the flag post instead of the hoisting it, owing to his caste-based occupation of coconut tree climbing. A mere tip of the iceberg of the vehement manner in which Nairs keep asserting their caste superiority and hegemony. I’m perfectly aware of the privilege I’m endowed with to be able to make the choice of not having my caste as my surname and live without the fears of its binding consequences. If I belonged to one of the long-oppressed and abused castes or was an untouchable who refused to use my caste identity, the reaction I would get from society would not be a comment on how “progressive” my family is. Truth stands that despite not explicitly having ‘Nair’ written next to my name, those who want to see me as one will always see me as a Nair. Despite not labelling myself under the identity of a caste, I will always be haunted by the ghosts of its past swirling about my name. Caste is a phantom that follows every Indian on its haunches, injecting them with its deep-rooted, invasive essence regardless of whether one wants it or not— whether one is caste-ridden or casteless.

References.

K, S. (Director). (2007, April 14). India Untouched: Stories of a People Apart [Video]. YouTube. https://youtu.be/fvke6ycgkL4?si=PjqPBzpzZ6kK3RnM

Nair, K., & Nair, V. (2023, March). Nair: Charitradrushtiyiloote (1st ed.) [Print]. D C Books.

Pankaj, K. (2007). Engaging with Discourse on Caste, Class and Politics in India. South Asia Research, 27(3). https://doi.org/10.1177/026272800702700305

Sivanandan, P. (1979). Caste, Class and Economic Opportunity in Kerala: An Empirical Analysis. Economic and Political Weekly, 14(7/8), 475–480. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4367366

Srinivas, M. N. (1959). The Dominant Caste in Rampura. American Anthropologist, 61(1), 1–16. http://www.jstor.org/stable/666209