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Indian Express
16 hours ago
- Indian Express
Whose temple is it? The forgotten history of Dalit priesthood in Rajasthan
By Neeraj Bunkar On August 14, a mob allegedly stormed into the Khakul Dev Ji temple in Barana village, Bhilwara, Rajasthan and beat up Vishnu Balai, a Dalit priest from the Meghwal community. The mob also allegedly stopped him from conducting rituals, merely over the placement of a donation box, according to reports. Though the details of the incident and motives are yet to be known, the refusal of 'upper castes' to accept Dalits as equal claimants to sacred spaces across India has been well documented. However, what makes this attack more disturbing is that the Dalit priesthood in Rajasthan is neither new nor a result of government intervention. It is an old tradition — born from the region's own religious landscape of lok-devtas, folk deities whose worship was shaped by local communities, not Brahmanical orthodoxy. Rajasthan's villages are dotted with shrines of figures like Pabuji, the Rathore hero venerated through painted scrolls by Bhil singers; Gogaji, the snake-god revered equally by Hindus and Muslims; and Ramdevji, seen as a protector of the marginalised. Worship at these shrines was never about Sanskrit mantras or Brahmanical gatekeeping. It was about accessible devotion, where ritual authority often lay with non-Brahmins — sometimes Dalits. The Chamunda Mata temple in Suliya, Bhilwara, is a case in point. For generations, one Dalit priest from the Salvi/Meghwal community and one 'upper caste' priest jointly performed rituals at the shrine. It was a fragile but real tradition of shared priesthood. Yet in 2006, 'upper caste' resentment led to a Dalit priest being thrown out, sparking the Suliya Mandir Pravesh Andolan, where more than 800 Dalits entered a temple of goddess Chavanda at Suliya village, Bhilwara district. At Suliya, Dalit priests had long survived on meagre offerings in a modest, underfunded temple. As long as the shrine remained marginal, their presence was tolerated. However, when visibility, resources, and prestige came into play, caste society reasserted itself. What had been a quiet coexistence for decades suddenly became intolerable. This is why the Barana incident feels less like a dispute over a donation box and more like a recurring pattern. Who controls the temple's resources? Who decides legitimacy? And who gets to define what counts as 'tradition'? In 1930, B R Ambedkar led the Kalaram Mandir Pravesh Andolan in Nashik, where thousands of Dalits demanded entry into a temple of Lord Rama. Brutally resisted, Ambedkar reframed the issue: Temple entry was not about piety, but dignity. If Dalits were barred from worship, it was because caste society refused to see them as equals. That lesson echoed in Bhilwara's Suliya Mandir Pravesh Andolan in 2006. What began as a symbolic fight for temple entry quickly grew into a larger movement, with Dalits rallying under the ideals of Buddha, Kabir, Phule, and Ambedkar. For three months, Suliya became a site of assertion, reminding Rajasthan — and India — that equality inside temples is inseparable from equality in society. The Rajasthan government has, in recent years, appointed Dalits and women as priests in some state-run temples. Predictably, these moves faced protests from Brahmin priest associations. But the irony is stark: In folk shrines across the state, Dalits have already been priests for centuries. It is not reform that 'upper castes' resist — it is recognition. This resistance reveals the deeper contradiction of Indian society. On paper, the Constitution guarantees equality. On the ground, caste ensures that even long-standing traditions like Dalit priesthood can be snatched away when they threaten entrenched hierarchies. What the Barana incident tells us is that the question is no longer whether Dalits can be priests. The real question is whether the caste society will allow it to stand uncontested. Each act of resistance — Ambedkar's march in Nashik, the three-month protest at Suliya in 2006, or the quiet persistence of priests who continue to serve in neglected shrines — pushes the boundary a little further. They remind us that Dalits are not seeking favours; they are reclaiming what has always been theirs. The mob that beat Vishnu Balai wanted to send a message: Stay in your place. But history offers another message, carved through struggle and persistence: Temples, like society, cannot remain fortresses of caste forever. Until Dalit priests can conduct rituals without fear, until lok-devtas can be worshipped without caste gatekeepers, India's democracy will remain unfinished business. The sharper question is what Ambedkar himself posed: Whether emancipation lies in entering temples, or in building schools; whether salvation comes from deities who exclude us, or from knowledge that frees us. The writer is a UK-based researcher specialising in caste and cinema
Indian Express
12-06-2025
- Politics
- Indian Express
Beed caste atrocity shows we are still far away from achieving caste equality
Written by Neeraj Bunkar On June 4, a chilling incident in Beed district, Maharashtra, again laid bare the persistent scourge of caste-based violence in India. Vaibhav Khandagale, a Dalit man, was brutally assaulted by a mob of 10–12 'upper caste' Maratha men, some of whom were his classmates and supposedly friends. The attack, driven by casteist hatred, was not just an assault on Vaibhav's body, but also an affront to the principles of equality enshrined in our Constitution. The SC/ST (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, enacted on September 11, 1989, was designed to protect marginalised communities from caste-based discrimination and violence. It defines atrocities as 'offences' committed against Scheduled Castes (SCs) and Scheduled Tribes (STs) by non-SC/ST individuals, including acts like physical assault, humiliation, and the denial of rights. Section 3(1)(r) of the Act, cited in the FIR registered by Vaibhav in Beed, addresses intentional insults or intimidation meant to humiliate SC/ST members in public view, punishable with imprisonment from six months to five years and a fine. Section 3(1)(s) covers abuses using casteist slurs, while Section 3(2) (va) enhances penalties for offences under the Indian Penal Code (now Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita (BNS), 2023). The FIR, registered under multiple sections of the BNS, 2023 (Section 119(1) for causing hurt, Section 333 for cheating, and Section 351(2) for criminal force), alongside SC/ST Act provisions, reflects the gravity of the incident. However, the response from local authorities raises serious concerns about the Act's enforcement. Vaibhav's brother, Dhananjay, according to reports, alleges that the police delayed registering the FIR, forcing the family to wait hours at the Shirur Kasar police station. Even after persistent pressure, the police initially resisted including critical BNS sections related to attempted murder. Shockingly, a counter-complaint was reportedly filed by the wife of the main accused, falsely alleging theft and threats by Vaibhav's family. This case mirrors broader trends documented by the National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB). In 2022, India recorded 57,582 cases of atrocities against SCs, up from 50,291 in 2020. Maharashtra alone reported 2,743 cases in 2022, a steady rise from 2,569 in 2020. Uttar Pradesh topped the list with 15,368 cases, followed by Rajasthan (8,752) and Madhya Pradesh (7,733). In Maharashtra, however, the conviction rates for these crimes remain alarmingly low, undermining the Act's purpose. For SCs, the conviction rate was a mere 8.8 per cent in 2018, dipping to 7.2 per cent in 2019, rising slightly to 11.8 per cent in 2020, then falling again to 10.7 per cent in 2021 and 8.9 per cent in 2022. For STs, the rates were similarly dismal: 11.3 per cent in 2018, 11.9 per cent in 2019, 12.5 per cent in 2020, 11.8 per cent in 2021, and 12.8 per cent in 2022. By the end of 2022, 14,504 cases involving crimes against SCs and 4,149 against STs were still pending trial in Maharashtra, reflecting a backlog that delays justice for victims. The Act mandates robust mechanisms like Special Courts and Special Public Prosecutors to ensure speedy trials (Sections 14 and 15). It also prohibits anticipatory bail (Section 18) and mandates state governments to provide legal aid and rehabilitation (Section 21). Yet, Dhananjay's account of delayed police response, insensitive officers, and hospital negligence in initiating a medico-legal case highlights a gap between the law's intent and its execution. The Beed incident also exposes the social and political pressures that undermine justice. The Act's provisions for externment (Section 10) and forfeiture of property (Section 7) could deter such intimidation, but their application remains rare. The collective silence of 200 villagers during the assault further illustrates the social boycott faced by Dalit families. The SC/ST Act remains a vital shield for India's marginalised, but its effectiveness hinges on impartial enforcement and societal change. Without systemic reforms — stronger police accountability, proactive legal aid, and widespread awareness — the Act risks remaining a paper promise, leaving countless Vaibhavs vulnerable to the enduring shadow of caste. The writer is a research scholar at Nottingham Trent University, Nottingham, United Kingdom
