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Conversion Historiography in
South Asia: Alternative Indian
Christian Counter-histories in
Eighteenth Century Goa
Ines G. upanov∗
Conversion as a historical process is discussed in South Asian postindependence
historiography mostly following the demands of the political
present. In the present article, I first try to trace a fragmentary and incomplete
history of what I will call conversion historiography in and about
South Asia, referring mostly to conversion to Christianity from the sixteenth
to eighteenth centuries. Then, I discuss a particular case of religious and
cultural conversion, in which the descendants of the early converts to
Christianity in Goa re-appropriated conversion histories as an analytical
and historiographical tool in order to reconfigure their relation with the
past and the present and thus, shore up their cultural authority. In the
process, they created their own communal history and historiography that
fed directly into Portuguese and Catholic Orientalism. This particular
historical example should help us see to what extent the act of conversion
is a self-transforming work in progress, a communicational project without
teleological guarantees, capable of empowering alternative historical
readings.
Conversion is one of the perennially vilified or, on the contrary, extolled
religious and cultural experiences, which cuts across periods and resurfaces
occasionally as a historical and historiographical problem. In historical
∗CNRS/CEIAS, 54 Boulevard Raspail, Paris, France. E-mail: zupanov@ehess.fr
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The Medieval History Journal, 12, 2 (2009): 303–325
SAGE Publications J Los Angeles/London/New Delhi/Singapore/Washington DC
DOI: 10.1177/097194580901200206
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archives and narratives, it is recorded as a dramatic and disruptive event
responsible for either bringing civilisational loss or for enhancing
heavenly or cultural gain. In a word, it is emplotted in tragic or comedic
mode, to paraphrase freely Hayden White.1
There are historical archives
that tell yet another story about conversion and its aftermath. Against
the background of a pluralised and politically volatile world in which
cultural encounters stimulate migration of ideas, beliefs and social practices,
assuming a new and seemingly clear-cut self-identification provokes
mistrust. Hence, accusations of apostasy, duplicity, hypocrisy and treason
are hurled at converts from all sides. Under the professional rewriting of
an inquisitor or a colonial official, a historical narrative of a dubious or
spurious conversion may therefore turn into farce.
The ideological and rhetorical burden under which conversion historiography
constructed its objects of study and its field of competence
is obviously heavy, varied and unflattering. Partisan historians most often
than not over-invest in positivistic scholarship, surreptitiously or openly,
geared at celebrating or denigrating particular historical religious movements,
while secular historians tend to assume positions ranging from
ironic distance to an attitude of downright aversion. From missionary
hagiographies or jeremiads to sociological and anthropological studies
of today, narratives of religious conversion in South Asia inhabit some
of the lowest circles of academic hell.
In South Asian post-independence historiography, conversion as a
historical process is mostly discussed, following the demands of the political
present, as conversion to Islam and Christianity with underlying
politically charged dissatisfactions and lamentations, although these two
religious formations came to play a prominent role relatively recently in
religious history of the subcontinent.2
Other types of individual and communal
acts of conversion, belonging to what is considered today as a
Hindu civilisational core, are usually given other names such as ‘purification’,
‘enlightenment’, ‘renunciation’, ‘insurrection’, ‘acts of devotion
(bhakti)’, ‘cultural translation’, ‘cultural migration’, etc.
1
Hayden White, Metahistory. The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe.
2
According to Gauri Vishwanathan, ‘it has been a long-standing belief among Hindus
that only Christians and Muslims actively proselytize’. See GauriVishwanathan, ‘Literacy
in India’s Conversion Storm’: 273. See also, Rowena Robinson’s and Sathianathan Clarke’s
‘Introduction’ to their volume Religious Conversion in India: Modes, Motivations, and
Meaning.
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In the present article, I will try to trace only a fragmentary and incomplete
history of what I will call conversion historiography in (or about)
South Asia. I will then discuss a particular case of religious and cultural
conversion, in which the descendants of the former converts to
Christianity re-appropriated conversion as an analytical and historiographical
tool in order to reconfigure their relation with the present and
the past. In the process, they created, for the better or the worse, their
own communal history and historiography. This particular historical
example should help us see to what extent the act of conversion is a selftransforming
work in progress, a communicational project without teleological
guarantees, capable of empowering alternative historical
readings. It defies current and equally simplistic historicist approaches
to conversion based on continuity or discontinuity paradigms.An anthropological
model based on three-stages theory (proselytising, conversion,
acculturation/adaptation) is also incapable of accounting for unpredictably
changing social locations and temporalities involved in the process of
conversion, and combined with historiography, it easily slips into articulating
foundational and supplementary narratives. More helpful are recent
efforts by some historians, notably Saurabh Dube, to define conversion
as an idiom of social and cultural mobility.3
As a way of telegraphic conclusion, I will propose that there are merits
to revisit the concept of conversion in South Asian historiography—
even more than the recently over-debated concept of religion—because
it is one of the principal generative tropes of religious and cultural phenomena
as they appear to us in their historically mobile disguises. Moreover,
as a space saturated by contemporary adversarial politics and the growing
fear of religious terror, religious and conversion history has become lately
an interdisciplinary El dorado in which theologians, religious studies
scholars, sociologists, anthropologists and historians are invited to play
together. It is therefore imperative that historians resurrect and reflect
on the concept of conversion in their interpretative operations.
It may be true what Dipesh Chakrabarty wrote some years ago criticising
Marxist and Left–liberal historians (Sumit Sarkar, in particular),
that they never developed ‘any framework capable of comprehending’
religious phenomena because of their ingrained hyperrationality inherited
3
Saurabh Dube and Ishita Banerjee Dube, ‘Specters of Conversion: Transformations
of Caste and Sect in India’.
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from colonial modernity.4
However, this is also true for subaltern studies
scholars that Chakrabarty defended in the same article. ‘The strong split,’
writes Chakrabarty further on, ‘between emotion and reason...is a part
of the story of colonialism in India’, and that is, according to him, why
modern Indian secular scholarship is incapable of coming up with analytical
categories ‘that do justice to the real, everyday, and multiple
connections that...we have come to see as non-rational (religious).’5
Although the split between emotion and reason may appear as a frivolous
way out of theorising religion and historiography, he is certainly right in
pointing to the fact that professional—and mostly secular—historians
neglected religious history for too long. Moreover, nowhere as in religious
processes, of which conversion is the central arena, can we find a more
sustained individual and institutional effort at reconciliation of reason
and sensibility.
From a different discipline, Rowena Robinson, dissatisfied with the
way religion and religious conversion was treated by sociologists, has
recently written that ‘religion has for too long been identified with
Indology’, and with theories that associate eastern religiosity with irrationality
as opposed to western rationality.6
Max Weber and Louis
Dumont were often chastised, guilty or not, for being at the origin of
eurocentric epistemologies of this kind. There has been a lot of conceptual
soul searching in the relatively recently constituted academic field of
religious studies as well, and some scholars like Richard King and Will
Sweetman took a long look at some of the concepts that needed to be
unravelled, like ‘mysticism’ and ‘religion’.7
In the field of South Asian historiography in particular, it is perhaps
time to rescue and reclaim the concept of conversion from the black list
4
Chakrabarty’s critique focuses especially on Sumit Sarkar’s The Swadeshi Movement
in Bengal, 1903–1908; Chakrabarty, Dipesh, Habitations of Modernity. Essays in the
Wake of Subaltern Studies: 22.
5
See Chakrabarty, Habitations of Modernity: 26. This remark is somewhat unfair since
Sarkar’s later work such as his article on Ramakrishna published in Economic and Political
Weekly (1992) is a masterpiece of social history based on deep understanding of the Bengali
religious traditions. This article and a response to Chakrabarty are included in Sumit
Sarkar, Writing Social History.
6
Robinson, Religious Conversion in India.
7
Richard King, Orientalism and Religion: Postcolonial Theory, India and ‘The Mystic
East’; Will Sweetman, ‘Unity and Plurality: Hinduism and the Religion of Indian in Early
European Scholarship’.
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of the nationalist political mythology of today. It may help us come to a
better understanding of how religious processes work to embed individuals
and identities in communities and the nation, as well as how
they politicise, liberate, valorise and inevitably, reformulate social distinctions,
horizons of hope and social aspirations at different periods of
history. Conversion is always a project that opens up a cognitive space
for the play of contingency, difference, consensus and terror.
Historiography of conversion to Christianity in India, the field in which
I may claim some competence, will serve as an example here. It has a
long history and it possesses many different branches that do not necessarily
have a common trunk. In spite of occasional moments of fame
and importance within certain historiographical fields, such as British
India in the nineteenth century, and a feeble but continuous scholarly
production in Portugal and Rome, the historiography of conversion
acquired the role of a marginal subgenre with the rise of the postindependence
Indian historiography.As a semi-autonomous field, it never
even tried to connect to debates that raged in mainstream historiography
among the Marxists, nationalists and scholars of the Cambridge school,
and it remained, surprisingly, outside of the analytical reach of subaltern
studies.
A prudent interest was shown towards the controversial missionary
histories, which are also seen as the tools of conversion, by a relatively
recent current of inquiry confederating historians, religious studies specialists,
Indologists and anthropologists trying to establish, once and for
all, the genealogy of Hinduism. This urgency came in the wake of the
emergence of a counter-current of folk Hindutva historiography, stimulated
by television series and other types of political mythologies of recent
fabrication. Tracing the genealogies of the ‘late’construction of Hinduism,
of its name in English, its first occurrence, meaning and actors or agencies
who employed or invented it forced some of the scholars to revisit the
reviled and discredited missionary histories, in addition to the British
Orientalist classifications.8
8
British scholars, Orientalists and colonial administrators are mostly held responsible
for the ‘construction’ of Hinduism, although some historians like Romila Thapar balanced
the list with Indian nationalists and communalists, while David Lorenzen pointed to the
rivalry between Muslims and Hindus between 1200 and 1500 as crucial for the emergence
of the ‘sharper self-conscious religious identities’. The question of when Hinduism, with
or without the name, came into being is another hotly debated historiographical topic and
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The scholarly consensus has recently converged on defining the concept
of Hinduism as originating in the eighteenth century and of being
shaped according to the Judeo-Christian idea of a unitary religion. Of
course, the question of how and when religion as a concept came into
being is an equally hotly debated subject. It is from the field of religious
studies, not from history, that a plethora of stimulating scholarly works
emerged during the past three to four decades, not only about different
religions but about the history of the concept of religion itself. Thus, it
has been recently shown, to a tiny detail, to what extent the concept of
religion—from its various Latin etymologies (Ciceronian re-lego or
Lactantius’s re-ligo) to contemporary anthropological definitions—is
impossible to be used rigorously as a historically or methodologically
coherent category.Wilfred C. Smith, Michel Despland and Ernst Feil argued
that religion meant different things in different periods and when applied
to non-European traditions, it had to be reformulated from within and from
without in order to encompass different phenomenal forms and structures
of meaning. In the process of historical and philosophical repackaging,
especially from Enlightenment onwards, it has been also argued, some
of the features of religious experience were universalised and reified
and thus, we accept today that all cultures had and have some sort of religion
since even secularism fits into the religious paradigm.
At the same time, there is a tendency among scholars to privilege a
minimalist and affect-centred definition of religion—one that draws on
modern religious expressions—that is that religion is a matter of belief,
private faith, or a matter of public attitude. Just as the privatisation of religion
meant intensification and diversification of psychological catego-
ries,atleastfromFreudonwards,ritualbehaviourandperformance,religious
mythology and cosmology became a privileged territory for sociological
and anthropological objectification. Religion as a historical/historiographical
category is, therefore, fraught with epistemological and methodological
uncertainties, aggravated in addition by the tradition inherited from
evolutionary theories of the nineteenth century according to which
religion was considered a lesser kind of social knowledge, detached from
the answers are many and far from being conclusive. David Lorenzen, ‘Who Invented
Hinduism?’; Romila Thapar, ‘Syndicated Hinduism’; and GauriViswanathan, ‘Colonialism
and the Construction of Hinduism’.
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law, science and politics. Some philosophical currents went so far as to
predict the disappearance of religion.9
By substituting Hinduism for religion of the Heathens, a well-known
category in the early modern classification of religions which also encompassed
Jews, Christians and Muslims, the West, the argument goes, also
reduced it to constitutive elements that apply to these other religions. In
the process, one to which missionaries, Orientalists and Indian literati
and nationalists in the twentieth century wittingly or unwittingly contributed,
Hinduism was homogenised into an elitist religion, based on
Sanskrit (sacred) texts and containing dogmas and theologies comparable,
if different, to the founding texts of other world religions. It is precisely
these homogenising and reductive definitions that provoked a reaction
by scholars who either tried to put back into Hinduism whatever appeared
to have been silenced or to split it into smaller units; thus, Vaisnavism,
Saivism and Saktism were to be called religions as well (Stietencron),
‘non-linear religion’(Lipner) and as R. Thapar wrote ‘a convenient general
label for studying the different indigenous religious expressions’.10
Besides historiography dealing with the genealogy of Hinduism that
resurrected missionary archives, from the 1970s onwards, some historians,
without partisan affiliations (or without aggressively visible partisan affiliations)
and without forming a school or a branch of historiography, did
address the question of conversion to Christianity. Most of them also
came to challenge the idea of a unified Hinduism in one way or another.
The early significant works, such as Duncan Forrester’s (technically not
a historian, and moderately partisan, though) and Robert Hardgrave’s,
relying much for their conceptual framework on the anthropological and
sociological theories in vogue in the late 1960s and late 1970s, mostly
used the experience of conversion to Christianity in order to understand
caste formation in south India.11
In the 1980s and 1990s, Susan Bayly
and David Mosse, heirs to new anthropologising social-history-frombelow
approaches, emphasised the importance of the processes of
9
Marxism in particular. The secularisation thesis was further developed from August
Comte to Max Weber.
10
Thapar, ‘Syndicated Hinduism’; Heinrich von Stietencron, ‘Hinduism: On the Proper
Use of a Deceptive Term’(p. 1027); and Julius J. Lipner, ‘Ancient Banyan: An Inquiry
into the Meaning of “Hinduness”’.
11
Duncan B. Forrester, Caste and Christianity: Attitudes and Policies on Caste of AngloSaxon
Protestant Missions in India; Robert L. Hardgrave Jr, The Nadar of Tamilnad: The
Political Culture of a Community in Change.
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adaptation and syncretism at the grassroots level of the society whenever
there is a religious and cultural encounter.12
They gave ample evidence of
complex social and economic processes at work in redefining corporate
solidarities that are best studied through conversion histories. G.A. Oddie,
Rosalind O’Hanlon, Henriette Bugge, Richard Fox Young, Robert
Frykenberg, to mention just a few authors who focused in some of their
works specifically on conversion, espoused, self-consciously or not, the
contingency paradigm, namely, that there is something unpredictable
about conversion cases in the South Asian setting.13
They all agreed that
Indian religions provided a floating pool of cultural elements (ideas about
salvation or redemption, theological precepts, cults of fierce goddesses,
warrior heroes and the ranking system) and material objects (such as
shrines, sacred spots, etc.) that were re-appropriated and re-created, sometimes
in fantastically innovative ways, by convert lineages and social
groupings.
Yet, in spite of the obvious explanatory potential for understanding
religious processes provided by histories of conversion, the general political
‘mood’ in 1980s and 1990s, in India, was not propitious to scholarly
debate on this topic. Converts were increasingly stigmatised in public as
‘foreigners’and identity politics provoked in many places violent confrontations,
while scholars ducked and waited for the storm to pass. Moreover,
Edward Said’s inspired ‘colonial discourse analysis’, that became the
most prominent theorising current in the 1990s historiography, was joined
by the subaltern studies’ innovative approach to, as Ranajit Guha called
it, ‘subaltern politics’, which he defined as inseparable from ‘religious’,
which, however, took only a scant, if at all, interest in conversion (David
Hardiman’s work is more of an exception).14
It is often from other
12
Susan Bayly, Saints, Goddesses and Kings: Muslims and Christians in South Indian
Society, 1700–1900; C.D.F. Mosse, ‘Caste, Christianity and Hinduism: A Study of Social
Organisation and Religion in Rural Ramnad’.
13
G.A. Oddie, Social Protest in India. British Protestant Missionaries and Social
Reform, 1850–1900; Rosalind O’Hanlon, Caste, Conflict and Ideology: Mahatma Jotirao
Phule and Low Caste Protest in Nineteenth-Century Western India; Henriette Bugge,
Mission and Tamil Society; Richard Fox Young, Resistant Hinduism. Sanskrit Sources on
Anti-Christian Apologetics in Early Nineteenth-Century India; and Robert Frykenberg
and Brown Judith, Christians, Cultural Interactions, and India’s Religious Traditions.
14
Edward W. Said, Orientalism; Ranajit Guha, ‘On SomeAspects of the Historiography
of Colonial India’ and Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency in Colonial India; and
David Hardiman, The Coming of the Devi: Adivasi Assertion in Western India.
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disciplines such as sociology (Rowena Robinson), anthropology and even
literary studies that some new research on conversion has come, such as
Gauri Viswanathan’s Outside the Fold.15
Nevertheless, conversion is and should be a prime field of historical
research. One of the reasons is that disciplines other then history tend to
adopt a synchronic approach to conversion, which is defined as a foundational
moment. Whatever follows is then seen in terms of continuities
and discontinuities with the past. A proper historical, longer and
harder glance reveals that conversion is neither a steadfast estrangement
from one’s own past, nor can one expect essential and permanent identities
on either side of the conversion line. It is rather a work in progress of
appropriating and reinventing traditions to fit and serve communal or
personal projects and, along the way, creating, as Saurabh Dube said, a
variety of ‘vernacular religiosity’. In a word, no conversion is final. And
it is this finality that the scholarship on conversion often reinscribes into
the conversion histories, while national and community mythologies
exploit it for their own purpose.
Even when religious identities appear to be stable and shored up by
the state (or bureaucracy), the church and the community, the maintenance
and management of desirable traditions and boundaries is, in fact, facilitated
by the ‘threat’ of conversion (or apostasy). This is why the figure
of a convert is often denied both stable and moral identity and has to
double or triple the labour of reinvention and dissembling.
By briefly looking into a dispute between eighteenth century Goan
Christians, whose forefathers converted during the sixteenth century and
who were subjects of the Portuguese Crown, I will discuss somewhat
schematically how these converts continued to ‘convert’ or ‘translate’ or
‘reinvent’, selectively and self-reflexively, their local cultural heritage
and used modern technologies such as printing in order to broaden their
identificatory framework.16
Ângela Barreto Xavier studied in detail the dispute between the Goan
Christian Brahmans and Christian Charodos (Kshatriyas) that raged in
Goa during the late seventeenth and eighteenth century, especially through
15
Gauri Viswanathan, Outside the Fold: Conversion, Modernity, and Belief.
16
On the broadening of identificatory frameworks, see Benedict Anderson, Imagined
Communities. Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. On broadening of
identificatory spatial frameworks in Goan history, see Alexander Henn, ‘The Becoming
of Goa; Space and Culture in the Emergence of a Multicultural Lifeworld’.
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what she calls ‘identity writings’, that is, printed pamphlets by which each
group tried ‘to surpass the status of subalternity’and to acquire privileges
within local Portuguese imperial and ecclesiastical administration.17
While their ancestors initially converted to Christianity in order to preserve
their lands, goods and elite status under the Portuguese rule, therefore,
under coercion, by the end of the seventeenth and in the eighteenth
century, these two elite groups had developed strategies and institutions
that maintained and strengthened their social identity to a point of considering
themselves better Christians and better Portuguese and better
royal subjects then the Portuguese settlers and their descendents in Goa.
Unlike in other parts of India, beyond the Portuguese Estado da India,
where missionaries worked alone and hard, constantly negotiating with
local political hierarchies and in competition with other religious specialists,
in the capital Goa or the ‘key to all India’, conversion to Christianity
was an essentially political act and the local elites had only two choices:
to convert or to leave.18
Conversion in this precious piece of territory,
the biggest in the whole PortugueseAsian ‘empire’was, in fact, an integral
part of the state building, endeavoured by John III in the sixteenth century.
This is what he had in mind when he invited the newly established Jesuit
order, with Francis Xavier arriving to Goa in 1542, to take the lead in the
conversion of the ‘heathens’.19
Without sufficient military and bureaucratic
institutions, the only way to spread and imagine Portuguese imperial
sovereignty was by way of establishing missions and claiming ‘spiritual’
conquest.
After the destruction of temples on the island of Tiswadi and establishing
a system by which temple-owned land and its revenue were
diverted towards the construction and maintenance of the churches, the
authorities in Goa left the rest of the spiritual guidance and disciplining
in the hands of the religious orders (Jesuits, Franciscans and Dominicans).20
17
Ângela Barreto Xavier, ‘David contra Golias na Goa seiscentista e setecentista,
Conflitos entre aspirantes a colonizadores’ and A Invenção de Goa, Poder Imperial e
Conversões Culturais nos Séculos XVI e XVII: 333–80.
18
On the Estado da India in the first part of the sixteenth century, see Catarina Madeira
Santos, ‘Goa é a chave de toda a Índia’. Perfil político da capital do Estado da Índia
(1505–1570). For the latest and most complete work on the construction of Goan colonial
and convert society, see Ângela Barreto Xavier, A Invenção da Goa.
19
See the first chapter on Francis Xavier’s life in Asia in Ines G. upanov, Missionary
Tropics, The Catholic Frontier in India (16th–17th Centuries).
20
Ines G. upanov, ‘Compromise: India’.
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Bitter rivalry between the missionary families forced the Portuguese
Crown in 1554–55 to partition off and delimit their respective jurisdiction
to defined territories. Thus, Dominicans and Jesuits were allowed to share
the island of Chorão and Divar, the Salcete went entirely to the Jesuits
and Bardez became exclusively Franciscan.
The most difficult and challenging territory, from the missionary point
of view, was Salcete to the south, where the borders with the surrounding
area under Bijapur’s rule continued to be threatened all through the
sixteenth century. As a consequence, Goan village communities, such as
those in Cuncolim on the southern border of the Portuguese ‘Old Conquests’,
continued to resist Portuguese centralising efforts, on the forefront
of which were Jesuit missionaries.21
Violence was, at times, the way to
resolve these problems. The story of the so-called ‘martyrs of Cuncolim’
figured prominently in all Jesuit hagiographies, especially because one
of the victims was Rodolfo Acquaviva, a nephew of the Jesuit General in
Rome, Claudio Acquaviva, and a former head of the mission to the
Mughal Court.22
The actual acts of force and cruelty against the missionaries,
all in all relatively few and more of an exception in the early modern
period in India, were often promptly redesigned to serve as the founding
moments of community conversion. The victims and the assailants were
thus united in the (ritual) moment of the spilling of sacrificial blood.
The scenarios of martyrdoms such as that of Antonio Criminale in
Vedalai on the Fishery Coast; of the Cuncolim party; of João de Brito in
Oriyur among the Maravas; and sometime later, of Devasahayam Pillai
in Travancore, figured prominently in Jesuit and Christian hagiographical
literature, but they were also appropriated by local Christian communities
and rooted into their own sacred geography. Even today, the pilgrims to
Oriyur can freely collect a handful of sand—turned red, it is believed,
after St João de Brito’s bloody execution—from the concrete container
next to the old church wall.
In places sufficiently distant from the Portuguese secular arm, such
as in the Tamil country, in Mysore and at the Mughal Court, the method
of conversion called accommodation was applied from the early
seventeenth century. First elaborated by Alessandro Valignano upon his
arrival in India in 1575, and inspired by the missions among the St Thomas
21
On Cuncolim martyrs, see Ângela Barreto Xavier, A Invenção da Goa: 333–80.
22
See Admirable Vida, y virtudes del santo martyr Rudulfo Aquaviva, hijo del Exc.mo
Señor Duque de Atri don Juan Geronimo Aquaviva.
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Christians in Kerala and those in Japan and China, it was an offshoot of
a long theological tradition going back to the early biblical exegesis.23
From the antiquity, accommodatio referred to the hermeneutic procedure
by which new figurative significations were allowed to be read into the
literal meaning of the Scriptures. With the rise of Protestantism, the problem
of how to interpret the Holy Scriptures became of crucial importance
and another philosophical concept—adiaphora (indifferent things)—was
resurrected in order to elucidate and delimit the ‘human’ sphere from the
‘divine’. It is this particular concept of ‘indifferent’ customs and
meanings—those that are neutral in terms of their moral content (neither
good nor bad) and of no religious connotation (neither divine, nor diabolical
or superstitious)—that helped the Jesuits convert the signs of ‘heathenism’
into purely social customs.
As it was applied in India by Roberto Nobili in his famous Madurai
Mission, and defended in his treatises and letters to his superiors in Goa
and Rome, it was much discussed and disputed both as a theological
concept and a missionary practice.24
He arrived perniciously close (from
a Catholic point of view) to a Protestant idea of radically separate spheres
between the divine and the human by conceptualising (almost) all customs
and rites observed among the Tamils as belonging to ‘political’, human
inventions. Thus, he wrote on the kudumi or the tuft of hair as a sign of
learnedness, the Brahman thread was a sign of nobility and the ceremonies
in honour of its investiture were, he claimed, purely social events. Even
the religious rites per se—such as veneration of a ‘heathen’ divinity—
could be easily converted into adoration of the one and true, Christian
God, with the redirection of interior intention.
The distinction between the interior and exterior is important because
Nobili himself adapted his body, externally—from clothing to gestures
and dietary habits and by always speaking Tamil, Telugu and reading
Sanskrit—to the local customs and models appropriate for a guru, or a
religious teacher. He also adapted the celebration of the Mass to fit Indian
expectations and not to break any kind of taboos such as the use of saliva
in baptism and consecrating wine as a symbol of Christ’s blood. In fact,
23
See my forthcoming article, ‘Accommodatio’. See also, Pedro Lage Reis Correia, A
concepção de missionação na Apologia de Valignano: Estudo sobre a presença jesuíta e
franciscana no Japão (1587–1597).
24
I have developed this particular topic in Ines G. upanov, Disputed Mission, Jesuit
Experiments and Brahmanical Knowledge in Seventeenth-century India: ch. 1 especially.
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these kinds of adaptations were already applied in the mission among
the St Thomas Christians, who faced similar challenges long before the
early modern proselytising movement started.25
Accused by his fellow missionary, Gonçalo Fernandes Trancoso, for
going native himself and practising dishonest dissimulation, especially
when he publically declared that he was not a Parangi (Frank, Portuguese)
and that he was a Brahman by profession and raja by birth, Nobili spent
two decades defending his method, and the controversy spilled out of
India to Lisbon and Rome and became a famous ‘Malabar rites quarrel’,
joined at the same time with the ‘Chinese rites quarrel’.26
At the heart of Nobili’s method was cultural translation brought to
the extreme by the fact that the medium of conversion became Tamil and
Sanskrit, not Portuguese and Latin. He had no choice, and the same happened,
for example, with Mandarin in China, but to follow the logic and
respect the polysemy of the receptor language. However, Nobili decided
that even with the interior intention switch towards the True God, the
names such as Tambiran and Siva were not appropriate semantic vessels
and that Caruvecuran [in Tamil] corresponded to the omniscient, omnipresent
and omnipotent Christian deity. Just as it was language that helped
Christianity become rooted in different cultural and linguistic setting, it
was also languages that, in many ways, reshaped the initial message.
Especially in the first years after the conversion, it is quite uncertain
how the new converts understood the religion they espoused. No need to
ask about their grasp of the fine theological points.
It is well known that Nobili made just a few converts, most of whom
were from high and literate castes, and knowledgeable of their own
religious (textual) tradition. In fact, Nobili used them as informants for
his catechetical works in Tamil, Telugu and Sanskrit in which he refuted
Indian ‘idolatries’ and ‘sects’. As individual converts they may have
undergone an intellectual, interior conversion, which is an ideal conversion
in the Jesuit sense of the word. But, that was neither decisive nor
sufficient for the widespread ‘fire’ conversion. ‘Ite, inflammate omnia’,
attributed to Ignatius of Loyola in his farewell address to Francis Xavier,
became an emblematic Jesuit motto.
25
See my article on the Jesuit mission among the St Thomas Christians in the sixteenth
century, Ines G. upanov, ‘One Civility, but Multiple Religion: Jesuit Mission among
St. Thomas Christians in India (16th–17th centuries)’.
26
See also, D.E. Mungello, Curious Land: Accommodation and the Origins of Sinology
and The Chinese Rites Controversy: Its History and Meaning.
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However, if one examines a rugged map of Asia in the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries, the missionaries succeeded in kindling, under the
blazing banner, only a few scattered bushfires.All Catholic success stories
in India such as among the Parava pearl fishers and traders, and in Goa
show that conversion was not a momentary, individual affair.27
It was
rather a repeated community event that had to ripen for at least a decade
through sustained missionary efforts involving some coercion and a lot
of religious edification and spectacles. During this gradual process of
assimilation, negotiation and adaptation of Christianity, the local converted
elites strived for and competed for the highest ritual status, often
corresponding, in their view, to their socio-economic position within the
community before the conversion. Within a generation of conversion,
they produced the first ‘native’priests and replaced non-Christian línguas
(interpreters) from the positions of intermediaries in the Portuguese
Estado da India.
It took another century and a half in Goa for them to start using historical
writing in order to construct their own alternative history of conversion
and of Christianity, and to contest and fight similar claims from other
ascending Christian convert elites. One of the ways of proving their superior
status was, according to Barreto Xavier, through the ‘genealogical’
or ‘historical’pamphlets in which they tried to convert what they defined
as their traditional and hereditary noble status into the ‘noble status’ within
the Portuguese imperial nomenclature. It was a strange balancing act in
which these Goan elites used simultaneously the arguments for (social)
continuity and for radical (religious) disjunction. These treatises, written
in perfect Portuguese and clearly destined to metropolitan Portuguese
officials, nobility and the king, combined their broadly common Indian
heritage with Christian historical tradition and in the process, created
some interesting ‘Catholic Orientalist’narratives.At the same time, a similar
process of status jockeying relying on genealogical texts is well known
in Indian historiography of this period, when many obscure, but militarily
advantaged groups started to claim Kshatriya or royal status and employed
local literati to create their family histories.28
27
Ines G. upanov, ‘Prosélytisme et pluralisme religieux: Deux expériences missionnaires
en Inde aux XVIème et XVIIème siècles’.
28
See Nicholas Dirks, The Hollow Crown, Ethnography of an Indian Kingdom; : Gordon,
Steward. 1993. The Marathas, 1600–1818, Cambridge: New Cambridge History of India.
See also various works by the famous trojka, namely, Sanjay Subrahmanyam, David
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What these different genealogical treatises have in common is their
sharp sense of temporality and a barely disguised intention of their authors
to create authoritative—printed and indelible—knowledge about the pasts.
These authors were, in fact, creating their own strategic communal
memory. Simultaneously, however, their politics of memory was based
on conversion that they manipulated into two different, perhaps at first
glance, contrary directions: Christianising their pre-Christian past and indigenising
Church history. I will briefly mention only two of these texts,
of which the second responds to and disclaims the first: the Halo of the
Indians and the System of Nobility of the Brahmans, a historical, genealogical,
panegyrical, political and moral treatise, published in Lisbon
in 1702, by Antonio João de Frias (Apostolic protonotary, Notary of the
charter of the Holy Crusade, etc., and the vicar of the parochial church
of St André in Old Goa),29
and the Summary of the Indian Definitions
deduced from various Indian Chroniclers by Serious authors and from
the Gentile Histories, by Leonardo Paes, published in Lisbon in 1713.30
Both Frias and Paes were disgruntled Catholic priests, as were most
writers of similar treatises, unhappy with their inferior status in the local
Portuguese ecclesiastical and imperial bureaucracy. Although they acknowledged
the sovereignty of the King of Portugal over the Goan territory,
they also promoted a subversive ‘indigenist’ thesis, as we would
call it today, about ‘native nobility’ or ‘nobility of the soil’ being higher
than the ‘foreign nobility’.This particular claim overlapped with Portuguese
contemporary metropolitan discussions about old ‘hereditary nobility’
and new ‘political nobility’. However, the common agenda of displacing
the Portuguese descendentes, mestiços and reinões from the top of the
local social hierarchy and thus, from the positions of authority and power,
was a poor incentive for Catholic Brahmans and Catholic Charodos to
work together towards these goals. In fact, these two elite groups often
considered one another as rivals in the scramble for honours and status.
Shulman and Velcheru Narayana Rao, Textures of Time; Writing History in South India
1600–1800; Subrahmanyam, Penumbral Visions, Making Polities in Early Modern South
India. Sumit Guha, ‘Speaking Historically: The Changing Voices of Historical Narration
in Western India, 1400–1900’.
29
Antonio João de Frias (Protonotario apostólico, Notario da bulla da Santa Cruzada),
Aureola dos Indios & Nobiliarchia Bracmana, tratado historico, genealogico, panegyrico,
politico, & moral.
30
Leonardo Paes, Promptuario de diffiniçoes Indicas Deduzidas, De varios Chronistas
da India, graves Authores e das Histórias Gentílicas.
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António João de Frias—just as one of his predecessors, Matteus de
Castro, who wrote Espelho de Bramenes (The Mirror of the Brahmans),
and just as Filipe Nery de Xavier31
in the nineteenth century—defined
Brahmans as the ancient and the most noble ‘nação’ (nation, ethnic group)
in Goa and the whole India and of the purest blood and ‘geração’(lineage).
The Brahmans were the natural and true nobility, Frias argued, because
they came from the royal lineage of the Emperor Cherimperimalle, ‘a
famous conquistador of the kingdoms of Malabar and the founder of the
empire of Calicut’.32
Hereditary nobility, it was a common presumption
in Portugal, started their lineages and dynasties with an act of heroism
and the display of martial prowess, followed by an act of providence
confirming the election.33
By using historical–hagiographical narratives
that circulated among the Syrian Christians and with which the Portuguese
were well acquainted, Frias invented a second originary moment for his
lineage in which Indian and Christian history meet—in epiphany and
conversion. Cherimperimalle was, according to Frias, one of the Magi
kings who returned to India and was baptised by St Thomas, the Apostle,
and who upon baptism renounced the throne. It is this renunciation that
made the rise of the royal house of Calicut possible, to which the contemporary
Zamorin, who played the role of the archenemy of the Portuguese,
was the heir.
Another proof that Frias mobilises in order to underscore the hereditary
nobility of the Brahmans is concocted through a careful mix of Christianity
and idolatry. Thus, Cherimperimalle, also called Brama, built a church
in Calicut that was later converted into a temple in which Vasco da Gama
recognised Virgin Mary and the Magi kings painted on the wall when he
visited it almost a millennium and a half later. This magnificent structure
remained in possession of the Brahmans and their ‘descendents’, who
alone had and continued to have the privilege to approach the ‘throne of
Our Lady’. This privilege that was a prerogative of the Christian Brahmans
became, in the course of the time, perverted into a ‘superstitious rite’. In
the course of the history, heathenism grew over the ‘ancient and primitive
Christianity (Christianitas) of that Empire’ and it was subsequently
31
Xavier, ‘David contra Golias’: 16.
32
Frias, Aureola dos Indios: 12.
33
A similar process of political enlargement (kingdom building) in south India in the
early modern period can be seen in the histories recorded in the MacKenzie collection of
manuscripts in London.
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subjugated by the kings belonging to the ‘infamous Mahometan sect’.34
Frias is quite skilful in manipulating the plot, which constantly amalgamates
historical distance and ethnographic closeness. It is ‘a pure effect
of the temporal inconstancy’, writes Frias, that empires pass from one hand
to another, from a Christian to a Muslim king, and that Christians return
to heathenism or convert to Islam. Temporality, as an agency in its own
right and possessing an arbitrary power to convert one thing into another,
is the ultimate Frias’s explanation for the disappearance of Christianity
in India.
However, Brahmans have certain permanent qualities that mark them
out from the rest of the population. Not their martial prowess (as was
implied in the opening statements of the treatise), but their ‘magical’
skills, their learning and their monopoly over the dignity of priesthood,
the highest nobility of all, qualified them for the highest social status.35
Even a well-known legend of the role of the Brahmans in killing StThomas
in Mylapore was refurbished to support Frias’s thesis. The Brahmans
killed the apostle because they were fervent in their faith and at that
point had not yet heard his message. Those that did, immediately became
staunch Christians because the intrinsic quality of the Brahmans was
constancy.
In fact, Frias’s evidence is a series of historical fabrications with
loopholes and escapes by which his foundational narrative avoids uncomfortable
issues. For example, he writes an apology of the important Goan
Brahmans who were appointed bishops in India in the seventeenth and
the eighteenth centuries, without mentioning that most of them were
persecuted by the Goan ecclesiastical authorities. Most of them were sent
by the Roman Propaganda Fide in order to undermine and supplant
Portuguese Royal Padroado system. Simultaneously, however, Frias
makes it clear that only Brahmans were the ‘natural leaders’and ‘nobility’
of India and that the metropolitan and local Portuguese were not indispensable
agents of the Portuguese colonial order. Brahmans could play
the role even better was Frias’s ultimate message.
Leonardo Paes responded to this apologetic tirade in favour of
Brahmanhood with a counter-apology of Kshatriyahood. Like Frias, he
admitted that the only true nobility was hereditary nobility, rooted in
34
Frias, Aureola dos Indios: 27.
35
Uneasily, he then makes a case that only those of the royal blood among the gentiles,
barbarians and Christians were eligible for priesthood.
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land and confirmed by antiquity. However, he rejected, point by point, all
the arguments so precariously constructed by Frias. Thus, there was never
in India a king that did not originate from the royal nation of the Rajput
Kshatriya (nação de Razeputrus Qhetris). The Charodos in Goa were
their descendants, and the family of Paes traced its genealogy to the
King of Sirgapor. As for the King Perimal, the alleged ancestor of the
Brahmans, Paes claims that he lived in the eleventh century (taken for a
Kadhamba king) and was a descendant of the King of Calicut who
introduced Islam and died on the pilgrimage to Mecca.
The origins of the lineage of the Charodos, according to Frias, goes
all the way back to Indo, who was a grandchild of Saba (a son of Sam,
who was a son of Noah), who, in turn, was the grandchild of Noah. The
Emperor Pondo, a descendent of Indo, left the palaces that lie in ruins all
over Tiswadi and Salcete. Another emperor connected in blood with the
Charodos was the King Poros who fought against Alexander, and one of
his descendents, the Satespor Raja had a palace in the village of Colvale
in Bardes. As for the Brahmans, Paes proposed a different genealogy.
Following closely analogical protocols for the sake of his foundational
narrative, he restated a well-established genealogy linking Jews and
Brahmans. As descendants of Noah’s grandson Magog, Brahmans were
responsible for the death of St Thomas, just as Jews were responsible for
the death of Christ. Moreover, according to Paes and another Charodo
writer, João da Cunha Jacques, whose treaties remained in manuscript,
Brahmans obscured the origin of their ‘nation and their caste’, since
Brahmanism was, in fact, a religious sect, not a caste. While one was
born in the caste, Jacques claimed, one joined a sect after performing
certain rituals.36
These are only some of the virulent attacks exchanged between these
competing texts and their authors. The writers on each side of the divide
were perfectly aware of what they were doing: working on memory and
forgetting, inventing archives and writing texts that would fix, once and
for all, a particular narrative of origin, providing an edge to their respective
social groups and supremacy over the other and over the Portuguese.
Thus, at the very source of Christian history and human history, according
36
Jacques, João da Cunha, Espada de David contra o Golias do Bramanismo pessimo
inimigo de Nosso Senhor Jesu Christo, verdadeiro Deos e verdadeiro Homem, dedicado a
S. Francisco Xavier.
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to these texts, one finds Brahmans and Charodos. Neither Portuguese
nor Europeans were anywhere in sight. This particular effacement of
Portuguese can be found in all missionary literature in vernacular languages.
For example, Henrique Henriques began his Flos Sanctorum, printed
in Tamil in 1586, with a statement, ‘in the beginning there were no
Muslims, only Tamils and Jews’.37
The ambiguity inherent in translation
was part of the missionary strategy of conversion. However, Frias, Paes
and Jacques added another layer of ‘strategic opacity’to their genealogical
texts in Portuguese.38
In the colonial situation, as permanent subalterns
to the metropolitan Portuguese, they established their identities as convertible
double-occupancy of an appropriated Christian tradition filled
in with a reconstituted regional ‘caste’folklore.39
These ‘duplicated’identities
are visible in other successful convert communities (in Pondicherry,
for example). However, even if they lasted for two hundred years, these
collective religious distinctions and aspirations are never permanent, but
ever changing compositions, and may disintegrate under new types of
political pressures or may be woven into other types of religious forms
and communities.40
What the Goan Christian elites started to do by the end of the
seventeenth century and continued well into the twentieth century,
although the actors and the outcomes inevitably changed, was to try to
reinvent and ‘naturalise’ the link between past identities and the legitimacy
of their present political claims. Finally, Frias, Paes, Jacques and
their likes were no less than ‘engaged’ community historians. With the
help of historicist analysis—which always links past and present in an
37
Ines G. upanov, ‘Twisting a Pagan Tongue; Portuguese and Tamil in SixteenthCentury
Jesuit Translations’.
38
Stephen Greenblatt is responsible for introducing ‘strategic opacity’ when writing
about Shakespeare’s hidden Catholic persona. See Greenblatt, Will in the World, How
Shakespeare Became Shakespeare.
39
Double-occupancy is Alexander Henn’s term by which he defines the religious
conquest in Goa as a ‘space-filling project’. ‘Substitution of local deities by Christian
monuments and saints not only replicated the ancient spatio-religious system of the Hindus,
but also prepared the ground for its eventual duplication and synthesis’. See Henn, ‘The
Becoming of Goa’: 335.
40
With the liberalisation of Goan politics in the nineteenth century, a massive reconversion
took place of certain castes and communities, and in a similar way, in other parts
of south India, Catholic converts moved to various Protestant sects or established their
own syncretistic varieties of independent churches.
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organicist way—these articulate authors responded to the contemporary
political demands of their particular lineage-based collectivities. Against
Portuguese colonial historiography, Goan elites devised their alternative
community histories in which conversion ‘performs the epistemological
function of negotiating differences in viewpoints’ but also, and more
importantly, of improvising desirable identities, that is, applying old
scenarios to new and upcoming political and social exigencies.41
Like it or not, conversion historiography is obviously deeply involved
in politics of representation and identity. The fact that conversion in
India, that is, conversion to Christianity and Islam, is perceived as destabilising
activity, threatening the community, the nation and the secular
state, should be a signal and an incentive to historians to reinvest into
the field of conversion historiography.42
Although subject to misinterpretation
and manipulation in nationalist, communalist and fundamentalist
narratives, conversion historiography can also produce a counter-space
for alternative histories and thus, escape approaches based on theories
of cultural finitude, cognitive incommensurability and immobile scepticism.
The concept of conversion, as an analytical tool, may be helpful in
the context of South Asian history and the plural religious traditions that
inform it, in disaggregating lineaments that constitute and connect, according
to the nationalist narrative (and often counter-nationalist narratives
as well), categories such as ethnicity, race and religion. While we
have often conceptualised conversion in terms of choices, it may be better
to understand it in terms of facilitating access to desired worlds and goods
it makes available to individuals and communities in particular time and
space. For example, access to language, to economic betterment, to social
and territorial mobility, to education, to spirituality and salvation, to
desirable self-identity, to mystery, to unknown, etc. At the same time,
the inbuilt logic of religious conversion is expansion, conquest and incorporation,
and it can take many forms and contrary directions. It is this
and similar kinds of historical mobility of social and cultural forms—
that some scholars (from Weber to Hefner) somewhat misleadingly call
‘rationalization’—that needs to be revisited and revised in the field of
Asian historiography.43
41
Gauri Viswanathan, ‘Literacy in the Eye of Indian Conversion Storm’: 276.
42
Gauri Viswanathan, Outside the Fold: XVI.
43
Robert W. Hefner, Conversion to Christianity; Historical and Anthropological
Perspectives on a Great Transformation.
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