2 days ago
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
