“The Cremation Ground and the Denial of Ritual. The Case of the Aghorīs and Their Forerunner”, in: Ute Hüsken, Udo Simon (eds.), The Ambivalence of Denial. Danger and Appeal of Rituals. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2016, 43-79.

The Ambivalence of Denial Danger and Appeal of Rituals

Edited by Ute Hüsken and Udo Simon

2016 Harrassowitz Verlag · Wiesbaden

Acknowledgements We wish to express our gratitude to the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft and the Heidelberg collaborative research center “The Dynamics of Ritual” for funding a workshop of our working group, and for inviting Ute Hüsken for six months as guest researcher to work on the project. We also thank Oslo University for its contribution to the project. Finally, we are grateful to Douglas Fear and Bao Do for their help in editing the volume. Cover illustration: Detail of Ballygunge Cultural Club Pandal during Durgapuja in Kolkata 2013; photograph: Ute Hüsken

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://dnb.dnb.de abrufbar. Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the internet at http://dnb.dnb.de.

For further information about our publishing program consult our website http://www.harrassowitz-verlag.de © Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden 2016 This work, including all of its parts, is protected by copyright. Any use beyond the limits of copyright law without the permission of the publisher is forbidden and subject to penalty. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. Printed on permanent/durable paper. Printing and binding: Memminger MedienCentrum AG Printed in Germany ISBN 978-3-447-10570-5

The Cremation Ground and the Denial of Ritual The Case of the Aghorīs and Their Forerunner The Cremation Ground and the Denial of Ritual

Christof Zotter1

Denial of Ritual as an Argument Since ancient times the Brahmanical tradition has played an important role in the religious and ritual spheres of the South Asian sub-continent. Brahmanic priests refer to their inherited relation to the Vedic seers and their prestigious ritual to support claims of superiority. The knowledge of ritual which is at the centre of this tradition has been jealously guarded and access to it has been restricted by regulations concerning ritual purity, by life-cycle rites, different forms of initiation, and so on. Although concepts of salvation have changed in the course of time, from the orthodox Brahmanical point of view, ritual traced back to their somatic and spiritual forefathers has always been ascribed a key role in attaining the final goals of human existence. This position has been contested. Over the centuries, different religious movements gained shape by arguing against the Brahmanical ideology, often by attacking the opponents’ ritual or its (metaphysical, ontological, social, etc.) implications. In the debates between these critics, too, ritual, and its denial, have often been an issue. The argument may turn harshly against ritual in general, as in the songs of the North Indian Nirguṇī Sants (fl. from the 14th or 15th century) who are known as attackers of outward religiosity (including rituals) and promoters of an approach to their “formless” (nirguṇa) god with inner devotion and the simple remembrance of his name.2 In most cases, however, specific forms of ritual are criticized for being false, useless, or fraudulent. And usually it is the ritual of the others that is denied correctness, efficacy or proper intentionality. This paper will approach the issue of the “denial of ritual” and its complexity— denial is ambivalent and often does not work only in one direction—through a focus on religious traditions featuring ritual practices related to the cremation

————— 1

2

I am grateful to Nina Mirnig and Peter Berger for giving me the opportunity to discuss the topic of this paper in the “Colloquium on Asian Religions” at the University of Groningen and to Véronique Bouillier, Monika Boehm-Tettelbach and Astrid Zotter for their comments on earlier drafts of this paper. For the Sants’ critical stance towards ritual, see e.g. Lorenzen 2011. As Horstmann (forthc.) has stressed, the popular imagination of the Sants as mystics often underrates the relation of their poems to private yogic practices and congregational rituals.

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ground. While the first part of the paper examines historical examples in order to work out some dimensions of the issue under consideration, the second part takes the famous North Indian Aghorī-Saint Bābā Kīnārām (fl. 17th/18th cent.)3 and his tradition as the main example. For a number of reasons, this instance seems especially suited to examine the phenomenon of denial of ritual as an argument. Firstly, Bābā Kīnārām is known as an Aghorī and therefore considered a person with (in)famous transgressive ritual practices that provoke polarized positions; and most of the positions taken towards the Aghorī and his ritual, either pro or contra, argue with denial. Secondly, Bābā Kīnārām is an exceptional case of an Aghorī, since he is a popularly recognized saint. One reason for Bābā Kīnārām’s enduring popularity is that he is the founder of several institutions in and around Benares, whose adherents, the Kīnārāmīs, have been preserving his memory and maintaining his heritage down to the present day. Furthermore, under the guidance of the charismatic guru Bhagvān Rām (1937–1992), Kīnārām’s tradition has expanded rapidly over the last decades. This expansion has been accompanied by an increasing number of publications, whose authors aim at the general public and provide information about the tradition, its saints, their teachings, and literary heritage, but also about the “true” meaning of aghora and Aghorī. Being aware of the bad reputation the figure of Aghorī has in Indian society and caring for the reputation of their own tradition, some of these ‘official’ Kīnārāmī sources take a firm stand against other Aghorīs. The large range of voices speaking about the Aghorī and Bābā Kīnārām, both from the outsiders’ and insiders’ perspectives, will be examined here for instances of denial. Finally, the tradition under consideration reveals the influences of different religious streams. Depending on who speaks to whom, Kīnārām might be described as a Śaiva, a Śākta, a Vaiṣṇava, a Tāntrika, a Yogī, a Sant, etc. (cf. Gupta 1995: 136). One could ask whether this plurality of identities is a reason or a result of Kīnārām’s popularity. But what is of more interest for the present context is that it brings different traditional arguments of denial into view, albeit in a unique blend.

————— 3

According to the official sources of his tradition, Kīnārām was born in 1601 on the 14th of the dark half of the lunar month of Bhādra, a day known as Aghoracaturdaśī (e.g. Anonymous n.d.: [4]; Siṃha 1999: 28; Śukla 1988: 18), and left his mortal body on the 21th of September 1771 (Anonymous n.d.: [15]; Siṃha 1999: 112; Śukla 1988: 77). Others give 1627 as year of his birth (Anonymous 1937: 628f.; Miśra 2001: 76; Śastrī 1959: 168; Sinha and Saraswati 1978: 144) or suggest other dates (for further references, see Miśra 2004: 34f.).

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Cremation Ground Cultures and the Denial of Ritual The Cremation Ground as a Place of Heterodoxy and Transgression For the orthodox Brahmanical way of thinking, based on the Vedas and related authorities, the cremation ground (śmaśāna) is a place of impurity and danger. Elaborate rituals and sets of rules and regulations have been developed and carefully transmitted to ensure that the pollution caused by death does not enter the ordered world of (normal) life. Others, less close to, but not necessarily disconnected from, Vedic lore, have taken a different attitude towards this spot at the periphery of human settlement. They have ignored, transgressed or recoded the notion of impurity and have considered the cremation ground to be a great teacher (of death and one’s own mortality) or as a place where supernatural powers (siddhis, lit. perfections) can be obtained and even death can be conquered. Throughout the centuries a variety of religiosi have visited this ambivalent location (see below). Among them are currently the Aghorīs. The mention of their extreme practices is rarely missing in general introductions to Hinduism but, notwithstanding their renown as one of the most radical groups of Hinduism, reliable information about the Aghorīs’ practices and doctrines is still meagre. According to the prevailing stereotypes, they are dressed in black, carry a human skull, consume a lot of alcohol and ganja and behave brutally or as if mad. They are associated with bloody rituals and notoriously held to eat of filth, excrement, or even human flesh. Obviously, not all people labelled as “Aghorī” exhibit these practices. The main aim of the present paper is not to uncover the “real facts”. In searching for instances of denial, looking at who is saying what about the Aghorīs to whom is more interesting than merely establishing what the Aghorīs really do or think. As will be shown the very use of this name by outsiders usually bears the notion of denial and the “Aghorīs” are not the first to experience such negative labelling. Often as a quasi-explanation, the Aghorīs (including Kīnārām and his tradition) are linked to other religious groups. Pointing to seemingly similar patterns of practice, some consider them to be Śaiva or Śākta Tāntrikas.4 More specifically,

————— 4

See Barrett 2008: 11; Gupta 1993: 65 and 1995: 133. As June McDaniel (2012: 158, 160) observes in West-Bengal, outsiders may even assume the Aghorīs’ extreme practices are a norm of the Tāntrikas’ daily behaviour and therefore “the response of fear and avoidance that they generate can carry over to the tantric moderates, who do none of these things” (ibid.: 158). That at least the followers of Kīnārām’s tradition (in many situations) would deny being Tāntrikas will be dealt with in the second part of the paper.

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they are declared to be the successors of the extinct Kāpālikas5 and occasionally, they are associated with the historically still more remote Pāśupatas (Briggs 1938: 218). Indeed, all these groups were related to the cremation ground and, from the orthodox Brahmanical point of view, exhibited features of heterodoxy and transgression and therefore provoked rejection, but what they actually practiced and what connects them to the Aghorīs is not as obvious as supposed. Because the study of the historical traditions also tells us a great deal about the use of denial as an argument and helps to outline what the modern discussion on Aghorīs is about, the following sections will pick up some points of relevance for the topic and in doing so will critically survey the alleged relations with the modern Aghorīs.

The Pāśupata as Provoker of Rejection That an ascetic can intentionally transgress Brahmanical norms as part of his quest is already attested for the early Pāśupatas,6 who considered themselves to be the cattle (paśu) of their Lord (pati), and while observing a “bull’s vow” (govrata) adopted the corresponding behaviour.7 Their adepts showed different forms of conduct that, at first glance, look indeed similar to features the Aghorī is (in)famous for. Thus, for example, on one of the preparatory levels, the Pāśupata had to behave rudely or madly, to make obscene gestures or to pretend to be crippled. As some of their texts—foremost the Pāśupatasūtra and its commentary by Kauṇḍinya—have come down to us, we know that the Pāśupata was “simply making unorthodox use of a thoroughly orthodox principle” (Sanderson 1988: 665). His misbehaviour served to provoke rejection and insults from passers-by and thereby triggered a process of merit transfer, in which the Pāśupata’s demerits were passed on to the insulters and in turn the latter’s merits were obtained (Hara 2002: 126– 136).8 As some Aghorīs do too, the Pāśupatas intentionally provoked refusal by others and used this for their own spiritual progress. But the logic behind the Pāśupatas’ instrumentalization of rejection during the observance of their vow works only if the adept is a Brahmin initiated into the Vedic ritual tradition9 and if he

————— 5 6 7

8 9

See Barrett 2008: 6; Briggs 1938: 218, 224; Crooke 1896: 28 and 1908: 210–212; Eliade 1969: 297; Lorenzen 1991: 53; Parry 1985: 55, 64. The denomination of these ascetics as “Pāśupatas” began to appear in the 4th century only, although their cult is probably older (see Acharya 2011: 548 and 2013: 101–103). On the Pāśupatas’ “four-phased ascetic career” (Bisschop and Griffiths 2003: 324), see Acharya 2011: 460; Hara 2002: 127–129; Sanderson 1988: 664–665. Acharya has argued that the govrata involved as an essential part also the breaking of sexual and dietary restrictions (2013: 116–118). See also Acharya 2013: 109; Lorenzen 1991. 187f. On the Brahminhood of the Pāśupatas, see Bisschop and Griffiths 2003: 325 n. 49; Hara 2002: 127.


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keeps his sectarian identity a secret (Acharya 2011: 460), i.e. denies who he is, at least in public. For the Aghorī—openly displaying his identity and overtly indifferent towards caste status and ritual purity—we certainly have to look for another explanation. This holds true for other seemingly similar features, such as the usage of the Vedic aghoramantra.10 In fact, apart from these superficial similarities, there is no proof for any direct connection between the two historically distant figures.

Partial Denial and the Invention of Tradition While the early Pāśupatas retained several links with the orthodox Vedic lore, they also diverged from it by making crucial modifications. They transcended, for example, the orthodox system of four life-stages (āśrama) by aiming for a “new” siddhāśrama, or “fifth” life-stage of the Perfected (Sanderson 1988: 664). They drew their authority from what already existed, but, by adding new layers, they implicitly refuted others’ claims to have captured the truth. Similarly, newly arising ascetic Śaiva groups did not cut the links to older traditions, but introduced innovations in their turn, by basing themselves on additional textual authorities (pramāṇas). The Lākulas (also known as the Kālamukha or Kālāmukha) related their teachings to a figure named Lākulin/Lākuḍi or Lakulīśa,11 and added him to the genealogy as the preceptor (guru) of Kuśika, who had been the teacher of the older Pāśupata system (Bisschop 2006a: 46–48, cf. also Bakker 2007: 2f.). For the Kāpālikas, another offspring of the early Śaiva ascetic movement, something similar is attested. Relating their knowledge to Somaśarman, whom they considered the guru of Lākulīśa, allowed them to make their tradition “date back further and appear more prestigious or original” (Törzsök 2011: 358) than the teachings of the precedent Pāśupatas and Lākulas. This strategy of creating hierarchy by including and modifying an older pattern or system was also widely employed in later developments of the Śaiva Tantric traditions, both in ascetic ones and in ones open to householders. The latter, and later, not only promised liberation (mokṣa), but also the enjoyment (bhoga) of

————— 10 This mantra, by which God Rudra is addressed in his various forms and characterized as non-

terrible (aghora), terrible (ghora) and utterly terrible (ghoraghoratara) enjoys popularity among many Śaiva groups (for its variant readings and accentuations in Vedic and later sources, see Bisschop and Griffiths 2003: 332 n. 89; Bisschop 2006b: 2, 11f.; for its different interpretations and application, see Goudriaan 1978: 154–162; Sanderson 2006: 175). It is part of the so-called pañcabrahmamantra, a set of five mantras that is found as a coherent formula for the first time in the Taittirīya Āraṇyaka 10.43–47 (= Mahānārāyaṇa Upaniṣad 7.3–7) of the Yajurveda tradition, but it is not certain from what source these formulas have entered the Pāśupatasūtra (cf. Bisschop 2006b: 2). 11 He was seen as a form of Śiva who came to earth by entering and reanimating a Brahmin’s corpse at a cremation ground (Sanderson 1988: 664; cf. Lorenzen 1991: 176).

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supernatural powers and pleasures. New layers were added to earlier versions of the cosmic hierarchy that the adept had to master and pass through by gnosis and ritual.12 By making additions to the top of the system, older levels were degraded to lower strata. The others’ ritual cosmos was taken over without being much criticized, but as a consequence the old system was transcended and (at least implicitly) the others’ claims of having access to the ultimate reality by their rituals were denied. Such phenomena could be discussed as a form of “inclusivism”, but one might also consider the important aspect of—at least partial—denial of ritual efficacy here. It will be shown in the second part of the present paper that the followers of Kīnārām’s tradition, although often declared by outsiders to be Tāntrikas, do not continue with this Tantric line-up of esoteric worlds and levels of initiation. Nonetheless, they make use of the strategies of transcending and denial to express their superiority.

The Ambivalent Figure of the Skull-Bearer By partially denying the “old school” Pāśupatas, the Lākulas and the Kāpālikas remained connected to it, but they exhibited a more radical attitude and intensified the transgressive character of their practice (cf. Sanderson 2006: 166). They came up with a new practice known as mahāvrata (“great observance”) or kapālavrata (“observance of the skull”)13 that was modelled on Bhairava, a fierce and destructive form of Śiva that—according to mythological sources—came into being when the God cut off the fifth head of Brahmā, the Brahmin among the gods.14 In analogy to the expiation prescribed in the orthodox dharma literature for killing a Brahmin (cf. Lorenzen 1991: 74–76) these ascetics lived outside society for twelve years, carrying, among other paraphernalia, a skull (kapāla) as a begging bowl—a characteristic typically ascribed to the Aghorī, too. The ambiguous figure of Bhairava also provides the model for other features that are associated with the Kāpālika, as well as nowadays with the Aghorī. Both kinds of ascetics are occasionally accompanied by a female consort and outsiders commonly refer to reputed sexual rites that are performed to produce impure substances which—besides wine, meat and (human) blood15—serve as offerings to the hordes of female deities accompanying Bhairava.

————— 12 For an illustrative example, see the description of the initiation ritual (dīkṣā) of the Lākulas in

Sanderson 2006: 188–193. 13 For these and other terms used, see Sanderson 2006: 158; Törzsök 2011: 355. 14 The story of Bhairava is retold in several Purāṇas, see e.g. Kramrisch 1981: 259–265;

Lorenzen 1991: 77f. 15 For the association of the Kāpālikas with human sacrifices, see Lorenzen 1991: 85–87;

Törszök 2011: 358.


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To what extent there are real parallels between the historical and the modern skullbearers or just coincidences—as in the case of the rude behaviour of the Pāśupata—is difficult to assess, for the simple reason that reliable information is hardly available. The Kāpālika was a common figure in Sanskrit literature, but many descriptions reproduce stereotypes containing biased and fictitious elements (cf. Törzsök 2011: 355, 358).16 As earlier religious transgressors, and later on the Aghorīs, the Kāpālikas provoked rejection. This could go along with forms of denial if, for example, the skull-bearer is seen simply as a criminal or a madman not possessing the qualities required to carry out valid and effective rituals (cf. the section “The Aghorīs as Provokers of Denial” below). The “original” Kāpālikas ceased to exist, according to Lorenzen (1991: 53), in the 14th century, but probably remodelled variants of practices and doctrines ascribed to them have survived in later cults. Some assume that the Kāpālikas were absorbed by the, at that time rather loosely structured, movement of the Nāths (cf. Briggs 1938: 218; White 1996: 97), and, seemingly, certain Śākta Tantric practitioners incorporated into their cult what they considered “Kāpālika stuff” (cf. Törzsök 2011: 355). Especially the Nāths are understood as constituting a kind of bridge between the ancient skull-bearers and the modern-day Aghorīs, 17 but besides the reconstruction of such historical connections, there is another form of continuity that I want to point out here. Used in a general sense, the term “Kāpālika” apparently functioned as a negative “label” given by outsiders to anyone who roams around with a skull bowl and shows some other characteristics.18 The scary and thrilling imaginings provoked by the Kāpālikas and their rituals are still alive and can be found, e.g. in modern Hindi publications,19 although nowadays the respective narratives are typically related to the Aghorīs. The label’s name has changed but the stereotype labelled has not changed much. The Aghorīs have inherited the image and reputation from earlier skull-bearers or at least they occupy a very similar niche in the religious landscapes and imaginations of India. This niche has been feared by common people, but, as Bhairava, the skull-bearer is an ambiguous figure. As, for example, the incorporation of the Kāpālika passages into Śākta texts indicates, the skull-bearer has also been associated with secret powers

————— 16 Followers of opposing traditions (e.g. the Jainas or the Śaṅkarācāryas) attacked the Kāpālika

as heretic, hedonist, or criminally fraudulent (Lorenzen 1991: 48, 50 and passim). Poets conventionally stylized him to evoke terror and horror, but also for the comic sentiment (ibid.: 54). 17 Balfour 1897: 341; Briggs 1938: 71, 218; Crooke 1896: 29f.; cf. also Lorenzen 1991: 53. 18 As Törzsök writes: “In its most general usage the word kāpālika can simply denote someone who carries or deals with a skull or skulls (kapāla) on a regular basis” (2011: 355), e.g. the cremation ground worker (ibid.). For the problematic general usage of the term “Aghorī” see the section on “Denominations of the Aghorī” below. 19 See e.g. Śarmā’s (1999) collection of essays, said to be “based on true events” (satya ghatanāõ para ādhārita), on a “mysterious” (rahasyamaya) Kāpālika centre.

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that were welcomed by some householders. Here, we enter another field for denial of ritual as an argument.

The Domestication of Transgression and the Power of Secrecy In the Tantric traditions (not only of Śaiva affiliation), rituals that were considered impure by orthodox Brahmins entered the domestic domain. The cremation ground with its ambiguous gods, goddesses and practices became a ritual arena for householders seeking supernatural powers. This “domestication” (Sanderson 1988: 662) of transgressive practices was a complex process of interaction between multiple orthodox and heterodox positions (Sanderson 1985), and again denial of ritual was crucial in consolidating oppositions and identities. From different orthodox standpoints the opposed Tantric other was considered polluting, i.e. access to ritual needed to be denied. From the transgressors’ points of view, the notion of purity was to be reformulated (Sanderson 1985: 198) and the other’s ritual appeared as impotent—a reproval that reoccured within the Tantric tradition itself when new cults took a stand towards earlier ones by partially denying an older system. As compromises between the opponent positions, the cremation ground culture was variously recoded by internalization, aesthetization or by the substitution of its impure components (ibid.: 202–205).20 Furthermore, the Tāntrikas developed a “strategy of dissimulation”—as White (2003: 157–159) calls it—allowing them to perform heterodox practices in privacy or in secret circles without losing their social identity in the orthodox system. There again, the policy of creating hierarchy by partly denying and transcending other systems is observable.21 Adding an esoteric second or even third identity, they could secretly deny basic orthodox concepts—foremost the notion of ritual purity—without openly denying the social structure based on these principles. In most of the examples given so far, denial was used to downgrade or reject the ritual practice of others. The attacked ones often struck back by themselves using arguments implying the denial of others’ ritual. The domestication of transgressive Tantric practices is, however, also indicative of another twist of the issue under consideration: Denial need not result in rejection but, on the contrary, can cause acceptance. In the course of time, kings and others began to openly aspire to the powers of Tantric gurus and yogīs, and eventually Tantra became a state religion in many parts of the Indian subcontinent (and beyond). For some centuries, it had a

————— 20 For another important aspect of the “domestication”, see the section on “The Domesticated

Aghorī Saints” below. 21 As Sanderson writes, “the visionary power of the heterodox self is recoded in order to be

inscribed within the orthodox social identity and in such a way that it reveals the latter as a lower nature within the one person”. (1985: 191; emphasis in original).


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profound impact on the temple architecture, the literary production of the courts and—of special importance in the present context—public rituals. 22 Although Tantric rituals entered public life, at least certain parts were well protected by secrecy and remained hidden to the public. Access was only allowed for initiated insiders, though it was now often shown that there was something powerful hidden. As with any secret, the Tantric ritual secret can be seen as a form of denial resulting in the rejection of outsiders. It is, however, not necessarily followed by rejection by the rejected ones.23 Being part of the “religion of the state”, Tantra became naturally entangled with the social structure of the realm. Bledsoe (2000) and White (2003: 123 and passim) aptly refer to Robert Levy’s concept of an “advertised secret” in relation to the publicly promoted idea of the king as the realm’s highest Tantric practitioner (sādhaka). Levy (1990), however, was not just thinking of the top ranking social level and the power-plays of kings and their Tantric gurus. In his study of Bhaktapur (Nepal), he observed that the cellular units constituting the social structure of the city are not only associated with secrecy, but that this association is, “in fact, a condition of their cellularity” (1990: 335). In public rituals, such as processions, different units of initiates (including maskmakers, ritual dancers, potters, astrologers, Brahmins, etc.) work together to produce a public output. The secret creates boundaries, but turning it into a mystery by advertizing its presence makes it effective beyond these borders (cf. Levy 1990: 335–337). In this way, denial can result in acceptance. As Levy writes: “knowledge by others that a group has secrets, or more precisely has the secrets it is supposed to have, is a sign that it is an effective and necessary component of the larger system” (ibid. 336). In the heyday of Tantra, the peripheral cremation ground was not only the place of origin for ambivalent gods and goddesses that became part of urban structures with associated institutionalized ritual roles and secrets for people of different social groups. It also remained the host of malicious ghosts, spirits, and other beings that are best kept away from the social world of the living. Accepted public forms of ritual developed to deal with these dangers. For example, the Nepalese Nāth yogīs—the ascetic Kānphaṭā and the Kusle (a group of initiated householders)24—regularly perform (Tantric) cakrapūjās to pacify the deceased of a certain locality. Unbescheid (1980: 107 and passim) stresses the similarity of these performances with (orthodox) death rituals (śrāddha). Taking into account their

————— 22 At the periphery, e.g. in Nepal, the nexus of Tantric, royal and public was apparent until

recently, see A. Zotter’s paper in this volume. 23 This holds true for the Vedic tradition as well. Initiated Brahmins could gain prestige because

outsiders knew that they had the secret knowledge of Vedic mantras and rituals. 24 For the Kusles or Kāpālis and their association with the Kāpālikas, see Bouillier 1993: esp.

78f.

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“cellular” surroundings, and arguing in accordance with Levy, these pūjās, too, might have the power and efficacy ascribed to them because of a Tantric secret.25 A social system interwoven with Tantric ideas also has niches for individual specialists who deal with the cremation ground and its beings by their knowledge of what is, these days, labelled “tantra-mantra-yantra”. These practitioners may be related to a particular tradition or may be “self-made” freelancers. They might be ascetics or householders. They may carry out their rituals for themselves, or in competition to others, in the service of clients. It is in this arena of Tantric ritual mysteries that the Aghorīs appear—equipped with their own secrets and, in many cases, openly displaying their transgressive identity that provokes, but also expresses, denial.

The Case of the Aghorī The Aghorīs as Provokers of Denial For decades the most voluminous source on the Aghorīs, or Aghorapanthīs (“followers of the way of aghora”)26 as they are alternatively called, was a paper of 54 pages by H. W. Barrow published in 1893.27 Based on the manuscript of the late Edward Tyrell Leith’s Notes on the Aghoris and Cannibalism in India, the paper presents the Aghorīs as a public nuisance, disturbing the social order and committing crimes. They are accused of the desecration of corpses (e.g. Barrow 1893: 209) or even of (ritual) murder and cannibalism (e.g. ibid.: 208, 216) and are condemned for using disgusting devices to extract money from the “timid and credulous Hindu” (ibid.: 202).28 In most of the reports Tyrell Leith has collected, mainly from civil officers and pundits, the rejected Aghorīs are determined exclusively by their outer appearance, their behaviour, and by what is thought to be their (secret) ritual practices, not by ideology or doctrine. Actually, as the Kāpālikas were before, they are repeatedly described as not having any philosophical or theological background or reflection at all.29 They are stylized either as maniacs or

————— 25 As Gold (2002) reports from householder Nāths in Rajasthan, even the Sant Kabīr—who is

26 27

28 29

otherwise well known as a denunciator of the Śāktas (cf. Pauwels 2010)—can be ascribed a Tantric secret brought from his hometown Benares. For these terms, see the section on the “Denominations of the Aghorī” below. Other colonial accounts are Crooke 1896: 26–29 and 1908: 210–213; Oman 1903: 164–167. For further references, see Barrow 1893: 205. Surprisingly unbiased, and therefore exceptional, is Balfour 1897. See also ibid.: 217, 221f., 226 and passim. E.g. in statements, such as “the doings of these people […] happily were too below the attributes of human nature to be erected into a system” (Barrow 1893: 204).


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as charlatans, feared for their “black deeds” (ibid.: 199, 228).30 As in the case of many sources on the Kāpālikas, it is obvious that layers of rejection and denial have to be removed in order to obtain a more realistic picture from the material. In Barrow’s unsystematic accumulation of case examples and statements, at least a few voices indicate that the prevailing perception of the Aghorī as a terror of society is too one-sided. The author (1893: 226, 237, 239f.) makes mention, for instance, of the belief—in his opinion a superstition—that the Aghorīs possess supernatural powers that can be used either to curse or to bless. He also reports that some informants even admit that the “true” Aghorīs originally were a superior sect of holy saints, although those who are commonly found nowadays should be considered a degenerated and “dirty” branch of the original and “pure” sect.31 Barrow (ibid.: 218) comments that the Aghorīs obviously have been confused with other groups. And indeed, the Aghorīs appear to be confused not just with other ascetics, but also with different tribal groups32 and criminals.33 As for the Kāpālika, one gets the impression that the name of the tradition serves as a kind of umbrella term, a label applied to cover all those who exhibit a particular outer appearance and behaviour or to whom are ascribed certain ritual practices that are rejected and denied any religious worth. In this notion of denial, the colonial meets the orthodox Brahmanical position. Although the argument might be different, as a result the Aghorīs are seen as not possessing qualities that are considered crucial for a valid ritual, i.e. purity, proper understanding, etc. As already alluded to, there are other positions whose proponents are less concerned about purity, but believe in powerful rituals.

The Tantric Aghorī A division into “true” and “false” Aghorīs is also made by Rameśacandra Śrīvāstava (n.d.) in his collection of essays on the “power of aghora” (aghora śakti). He, however, holds that “true” (saccā) Aghorīs can be met with up to the present day. These extraordinary beings have acquired special power (śakti) through difficult and dangerous ritual practices (ghora sādhanā) involving ambivalent deities (Bhairava, Kālī, etc.) and beings (ghosts, spirits, etc.).34 Śrīvāstava mentions the Aghorīs’ curse, but what figures much more prominently is their blessing. In almost all

————— 30 Cf. also John C. Oman: “There is no denying that the Aghoris are only too successful in

extorting money from people who have a supreme dread of them” (1903: 166). 31 See e.g. the statements of Mr. C. Mull, Pandit R.S. Mishra and others, quoted in Barrow

1893: 216–218. Cf. also Eliade 1969: 297 and Gupta 1995: 136. 32 E.g. what is reported about the “Waghoris” (Barrow 1893: 218, 212) could refer to a group of

vagabonds know as Vāgrī. 33 Barrow (1893: 236) mentions e.g. that they are believed to be gang robbers. 34 For the Aghorīs’ reputation of being specialists in dealing with ghosts etc., see also Briggs

1938: 174; Miśra 2001: 11, 150; Parry 1985: 57; Ram 2007: 52; Śāstrī 1959: 9, 20.

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of his stories35 they help devoted suppliants, and often their śakti works where other means have failed. Śrīvāstava addresses the horrible image of the Aghorī, but repeatedly argues that, though common people may see only the dreadful appearance, a “true” Aghorī is to be considered a perfected being (siddha), or an incarnation of Śiva in his form as Mahākāla or Rudra (ibid.:1f., 8f., 65f. and passim). The perception that the Aghorī is versed in the field of “tantra-mantra-yantra” and yoga, that he entertains close ritual relations with ambivalent entities and therefore commands extraordinary powers is shared by others, who address a different readership, such as, for instance, Robert E. Svoboda (1986), an American disciple of a cosmopolitan upper-class Aghorī from Calcutta, and “Kula-Bhūṣaṇa” Ramādatta Śukla (1997), the late publisher of the Tantric journal Cāṇḍī. In contrast to Śrīvāstava, these two authors dedicate longer passages to the aghora philosophy, but, again, ritual is considered to be of crucial importance. Both agree on the idea that the Aghorīs’ rituals are dangerous (and therefore especially powerful). 36 Stressing parallels to the Śāktas, Śukla, for example, provides detailed information about the Aghorīs’ cakrapūjā (1997: 45-47),37 the proper application of the aghoramantra (ibd: 63f.),38 etc., but also alerts the reader that such practices will cause damage if not performed with a knowledgeable preceptor (ibid.: 47)39—a common way to advertize a ritual secret (cf. Levy 1992: 337). All these sources have a Tantric background. Accordingly, the Aghorī is depicted as a sādhaka, a practitioner, rooted in Tantric ritual knowledge. As in the case of the “Kāpālika practices” incorporated into Śākta cults there are seemingly floating Tantric ritual practices associated with the skull-bearers, but nowadays they are labelled “Aghorī practices”.40 What distinguishes the colonial accounts

————— 35 Śrīvāstava (n.d.) contains a few legends about Kīnārām and Bhagvān Rām (see below) and

36 37

38

39 40

reports about Bhīm Bābā (cf. Parry 1985: 75 n. 26; Sinha and Saraswati 1978: 147). However, most of the stories are related to lesser known or even admittedly fictitious persons e.g. an Avadhūt Śaṅkar who promised a devoted woman a happy life and therefore had to restore the life of her husband by means of a complicated ritual, a Daityānand who foresaw the catastrophe of Bhopal, a Nāgā Bābā who predicted and counteracted the death of a girl, etc. Other stories relate how Aghorīs relieve the ghosts of suicidal persons, reprimand evil spirits, fly at night, cure diseases and infertility, uncover and punish evil doers, and so on. Cf. also Barrett 2008: 158; Gupta 1993: 69; Parry 1985: 62; Śāstrī 1959: 13. For further accounts of the Aghorīs’ version of this worship in a circle (cakra) of adepts, see Barrett 2008: 91, 154f.; Miśra 2001: 161–163; Miśra 2004: 127f.; Parry 1985: 60; Sahay 1996: 98. Details on the ritual use of the aghoramantra and related formulas (such as aghorastava, kavaca, etc.) found in the Tantric textual traditions are also provided in Siṃha and Siṃha 1986. Cf. also the discussion of Svoboda’s books by Barrett 2008: 7. See e.g. the “Aghorī Tantra” (Śarmā 1995), a Hindi manual containing recipes and mantras (Sanskrit as well as vernacular ones) to counteract illnesses or the effect of poison, to handle


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rejecting the Aghorī from the Tantra-influenced publications accepting him is the authors’ attitude towards these rituals; while the former deny that they have any validity or efficacy, the latter ascribe these qualities to them to a special degree.

The Aghorī as Ascetic yogī The picture of the “Tantric Aghorī” is also drawn on by Jonathan Parry (1985, 1994), the first Western post-colonial researcher to collect new material on the skull-bearing ascetics and challenge their portrayal in the colonial accounts. His interpretation, however, focuses less on the suggested Tantric background than on (yogic) asceticism. Like Eliade (1969), he argues that the Aghorī literally works out “what is more orthodoxly interpreted as a purely internal quest” (1994: 252). Unlike Eliade,41 he does not degrade these practices, styling them a result of a confusion of symbols or as an imitation empty of meaning. In contrast, he speaks of a “perfectly coherent logic” (ibid.: 252). Addressing the different images of the Aghorī—as a fierce figure, as a performer of powerful Tantric rituals, as an ascetic yogī, etc.—Parry emphasizes the Aghorīs’ ambivalent position and further argues that these ascetics themselves instrumentalize their ambivalence. It is “by systemically combining opposites” (1985: 71) 42 that they aim at reaching the common goal of Indian ascetics and yogīs, namely the suspension of time and the conquest of death.43 Such a conflation of the Tantric sādhaka and the ascetic yogī is not unproblematic (cf. Mallinson 2014: 168, 169), but I want to stress another point here. If the underlying theology is common ground among Indian ascetics, in Parry’s line of argumentation, as in the previously treated depictions of the Aghorī too, the hallmark to distinguish him from other mendicants and to connect him to the Tāntrikas (cf. e.g. Parry 1985: 60) again is his ritual practice. More recent research, which especially focuses on the Kīnārāmīs, the followers of the Benares-based Aghorī Saint Bābā Kīnārām, raises doubts about the common portrayal of the Aghorīs as (ascetical) Tāntrikas. Roxanne Gupta (1993: 65) and Ron Barrett (2008: 11) point to the fact that the majority of followers of Kīnārām—at least in most situations—would deny belonging to this sort of practitioners. This attitude is also attested to in the publications of the institutions of Kīnārām’s tradition, which will be dealt with in more detail below. Thus, the

————— ghosts, and to perform classical Tantric specialities, such as the so-called “six rites” (ṣaṭkarmāṇi). 41 Eliade treats the Aghorīs and the Kāpālikas as examples for the “degradation of an ideology [i. e. the “original” yoga, CZ] through failure to comprehend the symbolism that forms its vehicle” (1969: 296). For a critical discussion of Eliade’s position, see Gupta 1993: 22 and Zotter 2004: 8–11. 42 Cf. also Parry 1985: 55, 67f. 43 Parry 1985: 52, 54 and 1994: 259f. Cf. also Barrett 2008: 7f.

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Kīnārāmīs—who are counted as typical Aghorīs by Parry and others44—reject features that are seen by outsiders as hallmarks of their tradition. They do not even call themselves “Aghorī”.

Denominations of the “Aghorī” The divergent opinions about what the Aghorīs are can also be demonstrated by looking at the different interpretations of the very name. Although sometimes other explanations are offered,45 “Aghorī” is related to Skt. aghora, “non-terrible”. In this meaning aghora is already attested in the Veda,46 but because, in later sources, the word is principally used to denote Śiva, especially his terrible Southern face (Kramrisch 1981: 82f.), it has often been regarded as an euphemism (e.g. ibid.: 184).47 Dictionaries of Hindi and other New Indo-Aryan languages attest that the possessive derivative denomination Aghorī (Skt. *aghorin),48 too, is commonly understood as referring to something actually negative.49 Used by outsiders, it often functions as an abusive label. As seen in the last two sections, some adopt this label but give it a positive meaning. They admit that the “Aghorī” may have a terrible (ghora) appearance and

————— 44 Kīnārām is even considered to be the originator of the Aghorī tradition (cf. Barrow 1893:

236; Crooke 1896: 26; Parry 1985: 55f.; Rigopoulos 2000: 97). 45 Barrow (1893: 218, 238) stresses the similitude to the word “ogre”, the violent but stupid

46 47

48

49

man-eating giant of French fairy-tales. Etymologically this is the same nonsense as Brajamadhava Bhattacharya’s suggestion to relate the Tantric Śaiva sect known as the “Aghoras” to a non-Vedic cult of snakes (nāga) and to understand the “Nāga-Aghoras” as “Pythagoreans” (1975: 234). E.g. in the “marriage hymn” (Ṛgveda 10.85.44), in which it is said that the look of the bride’s eye shall be “not terrible”. For further references, see Goudriaan (1978: 156f.), who doubts that the term “euphemism” is appropriate in this context “because it suggests that the thing or being designed by it is unable to change its malicious or evil character, while Śiva/Aghora can manifest his other side upon the devotees’ plea” (ibid.: 157). For the association of the right/southern side of Śiva with a mild and teaching aspect, see also Bakker 2001. I am not aware of any usage of Skt. aghorin as a designation of a person and therefore assume a New Indo-Aryan origin of the term, created in analogy to yogī or jogī (Skt. yogin), saṃnyāsī (Skt. saṃnyāsin), etc. Some consider it an abridged form of aghorapanthī (cf. next fn.). The noun is usually explained as denoting a follower of the aghorapantha, lit. „the way of aghora“, the aghora community (see e.g. McGregor 1993: s.v. aghora, aghorī; cf. Callewaert 2009: s.v. aghora). The Hindī Śabdasāgāra (Varmā 1997: s.v. aghorī) also has the meaning “the one who does not care for (the distinction between) eatable and non-eatable” (bakṣyābhakṣya kā vicāra na karnevālā; cf. also Sharma and Vermeer 1987: s.v. aghorapantha). Used as an adjective, aghorī means “foul, unclean” (McGregor 1993: s.v. aghorī) or disgusting, loathsome, etc. (cf. Varmā (1997: s.v. aghorī): ghṛṇita, ghinaunā). McGregor (1993: s.v. aghora) lists for aghorapanthī also the meaning “a glutton”.


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carry out ghora rituals, but the mastery of his difficult quest is rewarded by the divine power of aghora. The Kīnārāmīs usually understand aghora neither as a euphemism nor as related to a certain outward appearance or ritual practice. Rather, it denotes a perfected inner state of mind, free of fear or terror (ghora).50 The “true” Aghorī is the one who has mentally accomplished aghora. Followers of Kīnārām, too, render ghora as “hard, difficult, and complicated”51 and relate it to ritual, but interpret the “Aghorī” as the simple or uncomplicated one.52 It will be shown later that this understanding can entail the idea of a general denial of ritual, similar to the refutation of ritual in the rhetorics of the Nirguṇī Sants, such as Kabīr. Declared to be “Aghorīs” by outsiders, the Kīnārāmīs offer not only their own interpretations of this name, they are also aware of its bad connotations and therefore prefer to apply other terms (such as Aughaṛ53 or Avadhūta54) as selfdesignations or titles.55 These names are used by other traditions, too. So, the appellation habits of both—outsiders (calling nowadays all skull-bearers Aghorīs)56

————— 50 This meaning is also given by “Mr. Chaina Mull”, one of the informants of Tyrell Leith, who

mentions the category of the “true” Aghorī (Barrow 1893: 218). 51 See Miśra 2001: 149; Ram 2007: 53; Sahay 1996: 19; Śrīvāstava n.d.: 1; Verma 1986: 1. 52 See e.g. statements, such as “The term ‘Aghor’ stands for easy and simplified form of

53

54

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worship whereas the process of worship of other sects and cults are ‘Ghor’—meaning cumbersome and labyrinthine—and unless victory is registered over ‘Ghor’ process of worship, one can never be venerated as Aghor” (Jha and Shanker 2005: 2). This term is used by different traditions. Among the Nāths, Aughaṛ denotes an adept who has passed the first initiation but has not (yet) proceeded towards the second one of a “Kānphaṭā” (see e.g. Briggs 1938: 10, 27, 30; Crooke 1896: 29). Sinha and Saraswati (1978: 47, 144) explain it as referring to an ascetic who has reached a certain (high) spiritual stage. That the word can denote an Aghorī is supposed already for the Sant literature (Callewaert 2009: s.v. aughaṛ). Although more commonly aughaṛ is related to avaghaṭa (cf. Caturvedī 1972: 686; Miśra 2001: 1; Śukla 1997: 44), some (e.g. Śrīvāstava n.d.: 1) regard it as an Apabhraṃśa form of aghora. Modern Hindi dictionaries translate it as “misshapen, awkward, ungainly, uncouth, strange” (e.g. McGregor 1993, s.v. aughaṛ) and occasionally as “carefree” (cf. Sharma and Vermeer 1987, s.v. aughaṛ). The last meaning fits other terms in usage by the Kīnārāmīs, such as alalmasta phakkaṛ (Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 121). Avadhūta, lit. “the one who has cast off (everything)”, is a popular appellation not confined to one tradition (Rigopoulos 2000: 51 n. 48 and passim; Ram 2007: 45; Śukla 1997: 45). The Kīnārāmīs especially refer to Bhagvān Rām, the reformer of their tradition, as Avadhūta. He is also addressed as “Lord of aghora” (aghoreśvara) and his closer followers know him as “Sarkār Bābā”, or make use of other royal honorific terms (cf. Gupta 1995: 144). The founder, Kīnārām, is styled “preceptor of aghora” (aghorācārya) often combined with the honorific titles Śrī and Mahārāja. The Kāpālikas, too, seem to have preferred innocuous terms, see Törszök 2011: 356. One could include here the “disciples from non-Aghor tradition who refer to themselves as Aghorī only while undergoing certain antinomian phases of their initiation” (Barrett 2011: 281).

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and insiders (some preferring other terms)—blur the differences between traditions and contribute to a confusion of terminology. At least three positions in the use of the name Aghorī can be distinguished. Outsiders use “Aghorī” as an abusive label to denounce certain opponent others whose ascribed ritual practices they reject.57 Some “Aghorīs” accept and adapt such labelling, whether to advertize their ritual secret or, as Parry argues, to instrumentalize their ambivalence. Other persons labelled in this way, however, avoid the name as a self-designation. Thus, generally speaking, from the inside there are fewer “Aghorīs” than from the outside. The next two sections will briefly introduce the third group of “Aghorīs”, before the paper finally discusses how they use denial of ritual as an argument.

The Domesticated Aghorī Saints Bābā Kīnārām, who lived in the 17–18th century CE,58 is a well-known figure throughout North India, especially in Benares, where he established the main centre of his tradition, the Kīnārāmsthal,59 and empowered the water tank known as Krīṃkuṇḍ as a place of healing.60 People of different social strata, who come to bathe there, have to pass through an entrance gate flanked by massive concrete skulls. Several other features of the material layout of the centre, too, evoke and advertize the close relation of Kīnārām’s tradition with the cremation ground, e.g. the “eternal fire” (akhaṇḍa dhūnī) that is fuelled by logs from a cremation ground.61 As is the water of the tank, the ashes of the fire are known for healing

————— 57 This negative notion is already attested in the literature of the Sants. In a satirical passage of

58 59

60

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the “Pañcprahār” (“The Five Strokes”) of Sundardās (1596–1689), translated in Horstmann (2012: 102–107), the Aghorīs are declared to be filthy in two ways (st. 32), by their antinomian behaviour and by the missing hygiene (ibid.: 105 fn. 33). The same work also mentions that the Kāpālikas hold corrupt views (st. 18) and (st. 45) makes fun of the ascetics who “move to the cremation ground and proudly proclaim: ‘I am avadhūta!’” (ibid.: 106). I am grateful to Monika Boehm-Tettelbach for pointing out this early reference to the Aghorīs to me. For the controversy about his biographical data, see fn. 3. Kīnārām is also said to be the founder of several other ashrams, vaiṣṇava as well as aghora, in the wider vicinity of Benares. Small "huts“ (kuṭi) of the Kīnārāmīs can be found all over North India (cf. Anonymous 1937: 629; Caturvedī 1972: 693; Crooke 1896: 27; Gupta 1993: 168–190 and 1995: 137; Miśra 2004: 53–75; Śāstrī 1959: 116, 139f., Singh Asthana n.d.:10; Sinha and Saraswati 1978: 148). For a map, see Miśra 2004: 74. Gupta (1993: 174 and 1995: 139) reports that the village centres barely survive today. For the respective legend, see Anonymous n.d.: [13]; Siṃha 1999: 108; Śukla 1988: 47; cf. also Singh Asthana n.d.: 8f. The Krīṃkuṇḍ is not the only healing spot Kīnārām is associated with. For a well in his birthplace Ramgarh that provides waters of four different tastes and healing powers, see Srīvāstava n.d.: 19f. According to legends, the right to collect these logs (as well as money from the villages of the Benares district) was granted to Kīnārām by the Mughal ruler Śāh Jahā̃ in a (lost) copper-


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and wish-fulfilling powers.62 Last but not least, the place is charged with the presence of more than sixty Aughaṛs residing in meditation posture in their tombs (samādhi).63 The largest of these tombs is that of the founder, Kīnārām, who promised—according to legends—that whoever will remember him in times of despair will be helped.64 As this brief description of the Kīnārāmsthal suggests, this “burial site” deliberately engenders the imagery of the cremation ground, but for its visitors it is not a place of death and horror. On the contrary, people come in search of healing and help. The spot is “domesticated” (see below) and the mystery displayed and advertized results in acceptance. The devoted householders understand the “true” Aghorī, Aughaṛ or Avadhūta, as the simple one, and he is believed to be not only powerful, but also easily accessible. Outside the lineage of Kīnārām, too, there are Aghorīs who have a similar function as bestowers of blessings for householders,65 some of them even having earned more than local fame,66 but it is rather exceptional that— as in the case of the Krīṃkuṇḍ—the helping character of an Aghorī saint has been transferred into permanent institutions. Already Barrow mentions “Kenerám” (1893: 225), “Kira Râm” (ibid.: 236), “Kiveram” (ibid.: 247) aka “Kinaram” (ibid.) and his tradition. Crooke (1896: 26– 28)—based on his main informant Rāmgharīb Chaube—even reports some related legends, but the first Western scholar who acknowledged that the Kīnārāmīs could be what Levy calls “an effective and necessary component of the larger system” (1990: 336) was Parry.67 In order to analyse the instances of denial surrounding Kīnārām and his tradition, however, Parry’s attempt to “make some sense” (cf. his foreword in Barrett 2008: XII) of his findings seemingly does not sufficiently distinguish the discrepant views of insiders and outsiders and of Kīnārāmīs and other Aghorīs.68 His (outsider) informants69 obviously preferred explanations that

————— 62 63

64 65 66

67 68

plate inscription (Siṃha 1999: 90; Śukla 1988: 15f.; cf. also Siṃha Aṣṭhāṇā 1977: 84; Gupta 1995: 139). Barrett 2008: 2; Ram 1997: 73; Siṃha 1999: 108f.; Śukla 1988: 47. See Jha and Shanker: 26; Ram 1997: 74. As Gupta writes, “it is believed that the souls of the Aughaṛs are accessible to devotees who come to worship them and gain their assistance in solving various problems” (1995: 134). Cf. also Parry 1985: 66 and 1994: 260f. Anonymous n.d.: [15]; Siṃha 1999: 114; Śukla 1988: 79. For examples, see Parry (1985: 62f.) and the stories told in Śrīvāstava (n.d.). The famous Bengali Saint Vāmakhepa is sometimes counted as an Aghorī, too (e.g. by Śukla 1997). One of the most famous Aghorīs of the twentieth century was the Bengalī Dr. Rām Nāth Aghorī, who is said to have been the guru of the Royal family of Nepal and founder of the aghora seat at the Paśupatināth-Temple in Deopatan (see Gupta 1993: 93–96). Parry e.g. refers to their (often violent ways of) blessing (1985: 65) or addresses the issue of lay followers (ibid.: 56, 62f.). He actually rather blurs them, e.g. when he is doubtful about “whether these ascetics are genuinely guilty of the crimes they were accused, or whether they themselves were the

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served to reinforce the stereotypical Aghorī image, and although critical of the colonial accounts and being well aware of negative stereotypes at work, Parry himself evidently picked up biased information not in accordance with the ideas of Kīnārām’s modern day followers. The name of the founder, according to the tradition meaning “Purchased Rām”,70 is explained as “Kina (‘rancour’) Ram” (1985: 56; 1994: 252).71 The tank nowadays known as “Krīṃkuṇḍ” appears as “Krimi Kund (‘tank of worms’)” (1985: 65),72 etc. In this light, it is no wonder that Parry’s article provoked angry reactions among some officials of the tradition (cf. Gupta 1993: 12). To understand the present situation of the Kīnārāmīs, another point has to be taken into consideration. Already Parry (e.g. 1985: 68) referred to a fundamental transformation of the tradition under the influence of Avadhūt Bhagvān Rām (1937–1992). More recent studies (Gupta 1993, Barrett 2008) distinguish—as nowadays the Kīnārāmīs themselves do (cf. Barrett 2011: 281; Verma 1986: 45)— between “old style” practitioners wearing black, drinking alcohol, performing secret practices and so on; and “new style” disciples wearing white clothes, living abstinently, showing an engagement in social welfare, treatment of lepers, medical eye care, etc. So, even if speaking only about the Kīnārāmīs—and not the Aghorīs in general—one should use further specifications. On top of that, the Kīnārāmīs (whether of the old or the new style) include ascetics, householder practitioners, and lay followers, all of whom might have different ideas about the tradition they belong to. As already suggested above, the role of householders deserves some attention in the discussion of denial of ritual. Sanderson (1985: 202–205) has used the term “domestication” to denote a shift from Tantric ascetics towards householder practitioners characterized by the internalisation and aesthetisation of heterodox practices. In contrast, the recent reformation of the Kīnārām tradition, that attracts a large fellowship among the educated middle class, could be seen as a “domestication” by externalisation, because the “new style” teachings follow a common trend of Neo-Hinduism and advocate spiritual practice (sādhanā) as selfless service

————— 69 70

71 72

victims of popular convictions about the behaviour of those who follow their path” (Parry 1994: 253). Cf. Barrett 2008: XII, 187 fn. 1. In Bhojpurī, Kīnārām’s mother tongue, kīnā is the past perf. part. m. of the verb kīn- (cf. Skt. krīnati), “to buy”. For the legend of how he was sold and re-bought, see Gupta 1993: 126; Sahay 1996: 14; Siṃha 1999: 30; Śukla 1988: 19. In Hindi, this meaning is lexically possible (cf. McGregor 1993: sv. kīnā). It is said that Kīnārām used the syllable “krīṃ”, the ‘seed’ mantra of the Goddess Kālī (cf. Parry 1985: 75 n. 24), to charge the tank (e.g. Anonymous n.d.: [13]; cf. Barrett 2008: 141). It is noteworthy that the rather pejorative name “Kṛmikuṇḍ” is also recorded in some older Hindi sources that fully acknowledge Kīnārām as a positive saintly figure (see Caturvedī 1972: 693; Śāstrī 1959: 139).


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(sevā) to the world. Furthermore, the reforms also differ from what Sanjukta Gupta (2003) describes as “domestication” for a famous Śākta pilgrimage place, i.e. a systematic Vaiṣṇavisation of the Goddess and her ritual by the priests, entailing the replacement of impure ritual elements by the usage of pure substances. 73 As Barrett has pointed out, the “new” aghora tradition—treating stigmatized lepers, street children etc.—turned “from the embrace of ritually polluted substances to that of ritually polluted people” (2008: 94). I would like to add another point here (which, in my opinion, is of importance for the discussion of the older traditions of skull-bearers, too). Considering the Aghorī or Aughaṛ as a saintly figure, “domestication” might not only be approached on a doctrinal level or by taking into focus who the initiated practitioners are or what they practise, but also by recognizing the uninitiated lay followers as a “domesticating” agent. From this perspective, the pragmatic aspect and the powers of the person considered a saint are central (cf. Parry 1985: 63). As seen, according to the popular understanding, in the case of the Aghorī, such powers are gained by controversially discussed Tantric rituals. For the devoted lay followers, however, the question of how these powers are gained is less important than the fact that there are powers. They are asked for as proof of perfection and, more importantly, the saint makes them accessible to ordinary people, who may milk the blessings for profane problems and homely affairs. When conceived of in this sense, the “domestication” of the aghora lineage under consideration did not start with the “new style” of Bhagvān Rām, but with the founder, Kīnārām, and his divine guru.

The Tradition of Bābā Kīnārām and its Textual Sources The first scholarly works about Kīnārām in Hindi (Śāstrī 1959; Caturvedī 1967 and 1972) were based on a couple of small booklets published by “officials” of the Kīnārām tradition in the second quarter of the twentieth century (see fn. 92 below). These studies cover some details of Kīnārām’s life-story, the centres established by him, and the lineages of disciples, but—following their sources—their main focus is on the songs and poems ascribed to the saint. 74 In its content, style and

————— 73 The reforms by Bhagvān Rām also include a banning of alcohol and other intoxicants in the

tradition’s centres under his influence. However, this ban is not understood as an attempt to purify the rituals. It is rather argued, that it was done to improve the atmosphere in the ashrams and to exclude a conduct that—although sometimes claimed to be ritual—is not considered ritual by the reformers (cf. Barrett 2008: 23, 90–93, 149; Gupta 1993: 102; Verma 1986: 39–41; Sahay 1996: 97f.). 74 Kīnārām’s main work is the Vivekasāra (dated [V.S.] 1812 (= 1755 AC)), a text of 298 verses dealing with the eight limbs (aṣṭāṅga) of yoga, the analogies between the human body (piṇḍa) and the cosmos (brahmāṇḍa), etc. While this text is said to contain aghora (or avadhūta) teachings, the collections of songs are usually classified as vaiṣṇava works (cf. Anonymous 1937: 669; Caturvedī 31967: 169f. and 31972: 694; Miśra 2004: 76; Śāstrī 1959:

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phraseology, this textual corpus of about 900 verses (cf. Miśra 2004: 77–79) attests to a close relation to the popular teachings of the Nirguṇī Sants. This aspect of Kīnārām’s tradition may not figure into the popular expectations of what the Kīnārāmīs supposedly are and has so far largely been ignored by Western academics,75 but it is not the only textual evidence for the fact that from the inside the tradition looks differently.The main source on Kīnārām for the more recent publications of the Kīnārāmīs is the Aughaṛ Rāma Kīnā Kathā, a full-fledged hagiography of the saint, first published by Lakṣmaṇa Śukla in 1978.76 Although the stories collected there do not deny that Kīnārām was an Aghorī, they often do not serve the respective stereotypes. Most of the legends retold in the kathā follow the general narrative patterns described by Lorenzen (1995: 185, 188f.) for the hagiographies of Nirguṇī Sants (cf. Barrett 2008: 33). They relate how Kīnārām supported the weak and desperate by working miracles, how he encountered (and in many cases chastised) the rulers of his time, 77 how he clashed with other saints,78 and so on. The majority of stories illustrate the saint’s supernatural powers. Remarkably, the kathā does not prominently promote the popular idea that complicated rituals had to be mastered to acquire such powers. Instead, the stories related to his birth and early childhood, in particular, depict Kīnārām as janma-siddha, “perfected by birth” (Śukla 1988: 18).79 He has an inherent, never decaying access to supernatural powers, which he readily uses to help his devotees (bhaktas). Illustrative for this thread is the famous story about how Kīnārām was tested by his divine

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78 79

116). Available today are: Gītāvali (for a tentative German translation, see Zotter 2004), Rāmagītā, Rāmarasāla, and Unmunirāma; while other texts (such as Rāmacapeṭā and Rāmamaṅgala) mentioned in some sources seem to be lost. All works ascribed to the Saint are composed in Sadhukkaṛī (also called Khicaṛī or Santvaṇī)—a variety of Old Hindi that served as a lingua franca of Sādhus and Sants to convey their religious teachings. Exceptions are Gupta 1993 and Zotter 2004. I am referring here to the third edition (Śukla 1988). The text is said to stem from a wormeaten birch-bark manuscript written by the hand of Kīnārām’s direct disciple Bījārām (ibid.: 16) and has been republished under different titles (e.g. Siṃha 1999). It is also the basic source of an illustrated concise life-story in Hindi and English (Anonymous n.d.). For other English summaries of the legends about Kīnārām, see Barrett 2008: 31–34; Gupta 1993: 126– 137; Ram 2007: 46–51 (based on Gupta 1993) and Singh Asthana n.d.: 29–34. According to the kathā, Kīnārām encountered, among others, the Nawab of Junagarh and the Mughal Emperors Śāh Jahā̃ and Aurangzeb. For Kīnārām’s relation with the rulers of Benares, see below. E.g. the Vaiṣṇava Saint Loṭādās, see next chapter. For example, the newborn refused to drink his mother’s milk until the three gods Brahmā, Viṣṇu and Śiva—disguised as ascetics (mahātmās)—visited him and whispered the initiation mantra into his ear (Siṃha 1999: 28; Śukla 1988: 18; cf. Anonymous n.d.: [4]).


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“Aghorī guru”, the Siddheśvara Dattātreya, at Mount Girnar.80 Having taken the form of an Aghorī, the godhead offered him a piece of meat cut by his own teeth. Although the meat and the way of serving it were loathsome, Kīnārām—full of trust and devotion (bhakti)—tasted it and was instantly bestowed the siddhi of farsight (dūradṛṣṭi). Finally, the godhead ordered him to go and bring welfare to the world (Śukla 1988: 26f.).81 Although it is this event that made Kīnārām an Aghorī, the story—as related by the kathā—makes no explicit mention of any ritual. This holds true for many other stories, too.82 The main focus of this text is not (as in the Tantric textual tradition) on doctrinal83 and practical or ritual issues, nor can we see these legends as documents providing historical evidence (as in the case of inscriptions and the like), but they attest to a “domestication” of the saint in the sense indicated above, i.e. a holy person is regarded as a mediator of blessings for his followers. For the older cults of skull-bearers (such as the Kāpālikas) such hagiographical material is not attestable but—suggesting here another parallel between the Aghorīs and their alleged forerunners—might have existed, at least in certain cases. Another point is of interest in the present context. The hagiographic legends of Kīnārām not only contain fewer indications than expected of ritual activities of the saint himself, they moreover depict him as a disturber of others’ rituals. This is also the case in the most popular legend about Kīnārām, which is retold in several other sources, too, and notably features his curse. According to the kathā (Śukla 1988: 37f.; cf. Siṃha 1999: 92f.), Kīnārām had been on good terms with the family of the ruler of Benares,84 but became increasingly disappointed by the conduct at the

————— 80 For the association of this place with the Aghorīs, see Barrow 1893: 211 and passim; Crooke

81

82 83

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1908: 210; Gupta 1993: 85f.; Rigopoulos 2000: 98. Some authors distinguish between a Himalayan (Himālī) branch of the aghora tradition and a Girnālī branch to which the Kīnārāmīs belong (Miśra 2001: 67; Ram 2007: 40; Śukla 1997: 48; Verma 1986: 42, 44). See also Anonymous n.d.: [10]; Gupta 1993: 129; Rigopoulos 2000: 97; Sahay 1996: 17; Siṃha 1999: 69f. Other sources give a shorter account of Kīnārām’s visit to Girnar, but at least mention Dattātreya (Caturvedī 1972: 692; Śāstrī 1959: 137f.). The popular Santaṅk relates that Kīnārām was so impressed by the teachings of an “Aghorī Siddha Mahātmā” that he took initiation (dīkṣā) in the aghora way there (Anonymous 1937: 628). For an account on Bhagvān Rām’s visit to Girnar alluding to the Kīnārām legend, see Ram 1997: 52–54; Sahay 1996: 22f. For the few more pertinent legends on “Aghorī” rituals contained in the kathā, see next section. Although a few legends are concerned with central tenets of the tradition, e.g. the conversion of the orthodox Brahmin Nīlakaṇṭha to the idea of abheda, indistinction (Śukla 1988: 58–60; Siṃha 1999: 77–79), or the encounter with the Maithili Brahmins whose aversion towards eating meat and fish was dissolved after Kīnārām revived a dead elephant (Śukla 1988: 57f.; Siṃha 1999: 33f.; see also Anonymous n.d.: [12], Gupta 1993: 134; Ram 2007: 49). It is said that Manasārām, the grandfather of Cet Singh, regularly visited the Krīṃkuṇḍ and personally prepared Kīnārām’s hookah. The saint bestowed on him the blessing that there

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court and the intrigues of the city’s priests. He finally took his terrific outer form (unkā mahāraudrarūpa) and visited Cet Singh (r. 1770–1781) when a (ritual) Vedic recitation (vedapāṭha) by Brahmins took place at the newly built fort at Śivālā Ghāṭ. As provoked, he was mocked (Barrett 2008: 34). So he made his donkey recite the Veda and then cursed the assembly by throwing some ritual rice (akṣata) towards the fort. 85 The actual details vary in different versions of the story. According to Barrett (2008: 33f.), Kīnārām appeared at a Vedic fire sacrifice (yajña) where the reputed Brahmins and pundits, as well as the rich and powerful men of Banaras, had gathered. Yet others report that Kīnārām disturbed a consecration ceremony (prāṇapratiṣṭhā) for a śivaliṅga (Śrīvāstava n.d.: 21). While the kathā just speaks of the Saint’s terrific outer form, other sources often add illustrative details, stressing the “Aghorī-ness” of Kīnārām. 86 Furthermore, the story can contain additional motifs. 87 Obviously, the various versions have different messages, but common to all is a clear notion of protest and denial and, in most cases, it is a ritual that provokes this. Before further elaborating on this point, at least a few words must be said about the successors of Kīnārām. While there exist full-fledged hagiographies for the two major saints, the founder Kīnārām and the reformer Bhagvān Rām, 88 little is known about the history of the lineage(s) that kept the heritage of the tradition going over the last couple of centuries.89 There are lists of throne (gaddī) holders

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would be a king (rāja) born in his house (i.e. Balvant Siṃha, who reigned as rāja 1740–1770 CE). According to the Santaṅk (Anonymous 1937: 629) Balvant Siṃha granted Kīnārām and his successors the right to collect one rupee a year from 96 villages to cover the costs of their worship rituals (pūjā). The fort was cursed to be inhabited only by pigeons who “will shit in it”, and the king and his lineage were to be barren. While the fort still remains empty (after Cet Singh was dethroned by Warren Hastings in 1781), it is reported that the curse on the king’s family was removed some decades ago (Barrett 2008: 188 fn. 4; Gupta 1993: 136; Parry 1985: 64). It is said, for instance, that Kīnārām carried the leg of a corpse (Śrīvāstava n.d.: 21) or a stinking dead body (Pathak and Hume 1993: 238). According to Parry (1985: 64; 1994: 259), the filthy Aghorī who disturbed the sacrifice at the kings’ palace was dressed in the rotting skin of a fresh-water porpoise and after he was denied admission “the sacrificial offerings became immediately infested with maggots and the sacrifice had to be abandoned” (ibid.). E.g. the blessing of the family of a court employee who humbly asked Kīnārām’s forgiveness (Miśra 2004: 31; Śukla 1988: 38; Siṃha 1999: 93; Śrīvāstava n.d.: 21), or the cursing of the dancers of the “red light” district of the city (Pathak and Hume 1993: 238). For another version of the legend involving the motif of dancing, see Gupta 1993: 136 and 1995: 135. Bhagvān Rām’s life-story is retold e.g. in Ram 1997; Ram 2007: 8–32; Sahay 1996. Barrett (2008: 91–100) mentions some of the obvious parallels to the hagiography of Kīnārām. Historical documents (cf. Barrett 2008: 188 fn. 1) have not been sorted yet.


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of the different centres which are not always congruent,90 but apart from these genealogical skeletons not much information is available yet to provide a more vivid picture of the past.91 It seems that under some gaddī-holders the tradition was very much alive,92 while at other times it remained rather dormant like “embers under ashes” (Ram 1997: 69).93 One of the persons, about whom comparatively much is known, is the guru of the reformer Bhagvān Rām, Rajeśvar Rām alias “Old Bābā” (Buṛhaū Bābā), who held the throne at Krimkuṇḍ for three decades, until 1978.94 He was undoubtedly an Aughaṛ of the “old style” (cf. Gupta 1995: 140; Sinha and Saraswati 1978: 144). Although his descriptions lack some typical Aghorī features—he did not use a skull as begging bowl, for one thing,95 nor was he known for his ritual activities—he behaved as the skull-bearers are commonly believed to. As Ron Barrett states: “Burhau Baba was known for consuming supernatural quantities of country liquor, as well as marijuana from a chillum (clay pipe) that his disciples kept filled and ready. His manner was fierce, and he often gave his ‘blessings’ through the medium of profanity and the business end of his staff to anyone who had the courage to come within his range” (2008: 85). The Kīnārāmīs, even the “new style” followers, accept his harsh, rude way as a façade,96 and justify it in various ways: he was trying to find seclusion (cf. Barrett 2008: 88; Verma 1986: 40); he defended the Krīṃkuṇḍ against seizure by the locals (Jha and Shanker 2005: 18); he had drastic ways to express his radical non-

————— 90 For the succession at the Kīnārāmsthal, cf. Barrett 2008: 85; Caturvedī 1972: 695; Miśra

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93 94 95 96

2001: 77f.; Miśra 2004: 53; Śāstrī 1959: 139f.; for the lineages at the centres in Rāmgaṛh, Deval (Ghazipur) and Hariharpur, see Miśra 2001: 79–81; Miśra 2004: 66–73. Caturvedī (1972: 695), based on Śāstrī (1959: 140), mentions the caste origin of some of the abbots and a few sources relate some short anecdotes (see Jha and Shanker 2005: 15–18; Miśra 2004: 59–64, 66–75; Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 105–109). An example is the sixth (or seventh?) abbot at Kīnārāmsthal, Jayanārāyaṇ Rām (d. 1923), who was very active in popularizing his tradition (Barrett 2008: 84; Jha and Shanker 2005: 16; Miśra 2001: 78; Miśra 2004: 59f.; Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 106, 115). He was the initiator of the (probably first) publications of Kīnārām’s poems and songs—a work that was continued by his disciple Gulābcand Ānand (lived 1880–1949), a scribe (kāyastha) by caste origin (Caturvedī 1972: 695), who took care of a “hut” (kuṭī) of the tradition at Cetgañj, Benares (cf. Miśra 2004: 53, 73f., 80f., 84). As Bijārām, the first disciple of Kīnārām and said composer of the Aughaṛ Rām Kīnā kathā, Jayanārāyaṇ Rām was a kalvār (i. e. belonged to a caste that is traditionally associated with the distillation of liquor) and a musician. Sinha and Saraswati (1978: 144) report that he was one of the great sitar players of Benares who had 18 rooms full of instruments and taught music to many courtesans. The same is said about the past of the aghora tradition in general (Ram 1997: VII). The most detailed source available is Siṃha Āṣṭhānā 1977. See also Barrett 2008: 85–88. The Kīnārāmī ascetics instead often use clay utensils (Ram 2007: 45; Śāstrī 1959: 118). See e.g. the statement of Harihar Bābā quoted in Barrett 2008: 88. Verma (1986: 40) stresses that he always appeared normal to the persons he wanted to see.

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materialism (Barrett 2008: 87); and so on. This attitude of excusing his conduct does not necessarily mean that the Kīnārāmīs see the stereotypical behaviour of other Aghorīs in the same positive light.

The Kīnārāmīs and the Denial of Ritual It should have become clear by now that in the debate on the Aghorīs different positions can be distinguished. Outsiders who oppose them attack them for carrying out (or pretending to) certain rituals, while Tāntrikās who oppose them attack them for carrying these rituals out wrongly or without the proper understanding. Several of these arguments of denial reappear when the Kīnārāmīs talk about the practices of others and deal with the bad reputation that is ascribed to the Aghorīs and to the Tāntrikas. Before entering the discussion about the forms of denial that surround the Aghorī Saint Kīnarām and his tradition, a few more words about the Kīnārāmīs’ rituals must be said. As with other religious institutions in South Asia, the centres of the Kīnārāmīs, too, have their daily ritual routine.97 Festivals98 offer occasions for the congregational singing of Kīnārām’s songs and other Nirguṇī bhajans.99 These practices form important fields of religious activities of the followers of the tradition.100 Controversy usually turns less on such institutional forms of practice101 and more on the non-public, personal rituals of the initiated adepts. Here, again, a distinction has to be made. Modern Kīnārāmī publications prescribe daily private practices that follow more or less established and generally accepted patterns.102 Outsiders usually attack other rituals, namely those stereotypically related to the Aghorī, i.e. certain secret practices commonly classified as belonging to the “left-hand” path of the Tantric tradition. But, as in the case of the Kāpālikas, reliable information about these rituals is difficult to obtain. Instead, one encounters a field of rumour, hearsay and mistaken identity. Being well aware of scholars’ and journalists’ special interest in these exotic practices, the persons most authorized to speak about the matter—the modern preceptors of the Kīnārāmīs—usually remain reticent on this issue (cf. Gupta 1993: 73, 197; Barrett 2008: 150). As in other

————— 97 E.g. the worship of the samādhis (Miśra 2001: 164f.; Miśra 2004: 131f.; Śāstrī 1959: 119f.). 98 An overview is given in Jha and Shanker 2005: 24f.; Miśra 2001: 230–235. 99 Gupta 1993: 1, 3. For the creation of new songs, e.g. on Bhagvān Rām, see ibid.: 210f., 240. 100 Cf. what Horstmann (forthc.) writes about the religious practice of the Sant traditions. 101 Although there have been, too, instances of protest, e.g. the annual dancing of courtesans at

the Kīnārāmsthal on the festival of Lolārk Chaṭh (Gupta 1993: 3; Pathak and Hume 1993: 238; Śāstrī 1959: 119), was banned by Rajeśvar Rām after a students’ revolt in 1958 (Miśra 2004: 60; Sinha and Saraswati 1978: 144f.). 102 See e.g. Ram 2007: 182–206.


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traditions, secrecy is part of the doctrine103 and there are other forms of denial that need to be considered when analysing the Kīnārāmīs’ stance towards ritual. As shown, the Kīnārāmīs understand aghora as a perfected state of consciousness, not as defined by a certain appearance or practice. Thus, the (ritual) eating of human flesh, discussed by Parry at length as “the hallmark of an ideal Aghori” (1985: 59),104 is claimed to be of no great importance.105 Viśvanāth Prasād Siṃha Aṣṭhāṇā, a senior Kīnārāmī lay activist, who has published several booklets on the tradition, repeatedly refers to the dogs at the cremation ground in this context: they eat human flesh, even on a daily basis, but they gain nothing because they lack the proper consciousness (Siṃha Aṣṭhāṇā 1977: 123; Singh Asthana n.d.: 26). The same author (ibid.: 25) also stresses that the Aghorī does not need to employ a human skull (cf. Barrett 2008: 91, 154; Miśra 2001: 226f.) nor does he have to wear a cloth shroud, as the popular imagination would like him to. The lay follower Siṃha Aṣṭhāṇā even touches upon the issue of the secret rituals of the initiated, which are at the core of the discussion about the Aghorīs. As a reaction to the society’s “misconceived notion about the use of wine, meat, corpses, [...] etc” (Singh Asthana n.d.: 15) by the Aughaṛs, he addresses the topic of śavasādhanā, a practice of doing japa (i.e. repeating a mantra) while sitting on a corpse (śava).106 He explains that the adept transfers his life force (prāṇa) into the dead body and thus experiences and masters his own death (ibid.: 25f.; Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 123, cf. also Miśra 2001: 160). Based on information from the official preceptors of the Kīnārāmīs, Barrett offers a slightly different, but related explanation: the cremation ground practices (that may include śavasādhanā) are meant to confront and conquer one’s own aversions and fears (2008: 92f., 140, 157–159). Remarkably, both kinds of explanation imply that śavasādhanā is not meant to control ghosts or to gain certain siddhis, as popular ideas of this practice suggest (cf. e.g. Parry 1985: 57). In an essay on “the true Avadhūta” (saccā avadhūta) by the Tantric author Śrīvāstava, an Aughaṛ explains that a self-styled Aghorī, full of anger and uttering curses, might suffer this feeling because he failed in his difficult ritual practice (n.d.: 47). Although this “false” Aghorī is seen as having no final success, he is feared for harmful powers he might have gained in past rituals. The Kīnārāmīs, too,

————— 103 E.g. Ram (2007: 200, 204) states that mantras and other ritual details should not be revealed

(cf. also Sahay 1996: 60). I therefore doubt that the reluctance of the Bābās to speak about certain practices can be—as Barrett (2008: 150) suggests—sufficiently explained only by referring to bad experiences with earlier researchers. 104 Others, too, have determined (ritual) necrophagy as the distinctive characteristic of the Aghorīs, see e.g. Balfour 1897: 342; Briggs 1938: 224; Crooke 1908: 212. 105 E.g. Saroj Kumār Miśra (2001: 226) mentions some reported instances of this practice, but hastens to add that it is not in usage among the modern followers. 106 For further details, see e.g. Gupta 1993: 77f.; Parry 1985: 73f. n. 12; Śāstrī 1959: 231–238.

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differentiate between “true” and “false or fake” Aghorīs (cf. Miśra 2001: 226; Siṃha Aṣṭhāṇā 1977: 138), but they take a different position, arguing that what the fake Aghorīs are pretending to do as sādhanā (in public or in secret) is only part of a scam. They deny that the “fake” practice is ritual at all. Instead, such pretenders are blamed for spreading fear by their appearance and for misusing aghora as a means to extol people or as an excuse to enjoy drinking, smoking (cf. e.g. Miśra 2001: 226). Often the Kīnārāmī sources concur with the colonial accounts of the Aghorīs and the classical sources on the Kāpālikas in declaring the skull-bearers to be impostors without any higher aspiration. Thus, for some authors the same fierce behaviour, which they excuse in the above-quoted case of Buṛhaū Bābā or even see as sign of perfection, can prove a bad and uncontrolled (and therefore not aghoralike) character when related to others. Śrīvāstava depicts the aghora sādhanā in the traditional Tantric way, as being a complicated and dangerous practice for heroic specialists only. In contrast, Kīnārāmīs praise the aghora way as “extremely simple, easy, natural and beautiful” (Singh Asthana n.d.: 26). It is said to be a “unique method of love and devotion” (ibid.: 15). Specific rituals (such as śavasādhanā) are possible, rather than necessary, “stations” on the way towards the state of aghora. Siṃha Aṣṭhānā admits that there are enticements and that “people with weak will-power succumb to them” (ibid.: 15), but trusting in the guru and the help of the mantra one should proceed without detachment to the final goal. Such a focus on devotion and the destination downplays the role of ritual. While the former point of view evokes the Tantric concept of a hierarchy of rituals that has to be passed through in order to reach the Ultimate, in the latter perspective ritual merely plays a role in testing and strengthening devotion and is ultimately left behind (see below). Most of the Tāntrikas, Aghorīs, Kīnārāmīs, and others involved in the controversy about the cremation ground practices would agree with the popular metaphor of spiritual progress as a journey. Differences occur when it comes to the role and function of ritual or the exclusiveness of the final state. The debate, in which denial is frequently at play, is about who has reached how far, or who has got stuck at certain stations or has lost the proper way. In the Kīnārāmīs’ argumentation, the metaphor becomes a tool with a twofold function. Firstly, by stressing that the “eternal truth” (Singh Asthana n.d.: 11) of aghora can be reached by different ways, independent of “any religion, sect, tradition, cult etc”. (ibid.: 10),107 the claim of universal superiority is formulated. Hierarchy is created by transcending differences. While the early Śaiva groups mentioned in the first part of the paper made their claim of truth by adding levels to an older system of thoughts and rituals, the Kīnārāmīs explicitly transcend all possible systems and rituals. Secondly, the metaphor allows for drawing borders,

————— 107 See also Ram 1997: 169; Verma 1986: 39.


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not just to the “false” Aghorī108 but to other traditions, too. The author just quoted admits that the Tāntrikas might reach the aghora state by their methods, “but usually followers of the tantrik path stray from their aim due to getting struck in the lure of supernatural powers” (ibid.: 14). As he stresses elsewhere (Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 137), the Aughaṛs are neither Tāntrikas nor do they have knowledge of magic (abhicāra).109 That the modern Kīnārāmīs especially attack other Aghorīs and Tāntrikas may have as one reason that they are usually counted as such by outsiders. Thus, they need to deny ascribed identities to clear the ground for their own presentations of what they are. Interestingly, this is done by denial of ritual. Indeed, statements by the Kīnārāmīs about the history of the aghora tradition contain very few explicit references to a Tantric background. Instead, aghora is described as the original and natural state of mankind, being older that any religion or cult.110 Authentication is not gained—as among the early Śaiva groups—by incorporating genealogies and lineages of others. Kīnārāmī authors confine themselves to a few highlights. The examples given for the time before Kīnārām are certain well-known Vedic seers, epic heroes or even the Buddha, but only rarely famous Tāntrikas.111 Furthermore, with a few exceptions, the Kīnārāmīs do not explicitly relate their practice to Tantric ritual texts. 112 Their own textual tradition (the hagiographies and songs) points, rather, to the importance of another source that is also characterized by forms of denial of ritual, namely the teachings of the Nirguṇī Sants. As shown in the last section, legends depict Kīnārām not only as a disturber of religious events and the rituals of others,113 but they also provide less information

————— 108 Cf. Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 122, 137. 109 Cf. also the statement of Bhagvān Rām quoted in Miśra 2004: 52. 110 This state is considered to be of universal character and it is argued that all human babies are

natural-born Aghorīs before they progressively learn to discriminate (cf. Barrett 2008: 161). 111 As Aghorīs of former ages, e.g. Viśvāmitra, Śukadeva or Paraśurāma, are listed (cf. Miśra

2001: 47f.; Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 122; Singh Asthana 17, 22; Ram 2007: 36). A Tantric figure acknowledged as a forerunner is Bhairavācharya (Ram 2007: 38f; Siṃha Aṣṭhānā 1977: 122; Singh Asthana n.d.: 5, 17), a Kāpālika-like Śaiva ascetic whose portrayal in Bāṇa’s Harṣacarita is surprisingly sympathetic (cf. Lorenzen 1991: 20–22). Śāstrī (1959: 29) and Ram (2007: 39) point to the importance of the Vedic seer Vasiṣṭha for the aghora tradition and refer to a story (told in the 17th paṭala of the Rudrayāmala) which relates how Vasiṣṭha, experienced in the “way of the Veda” (vedamārga), became disappointed by his achievements and went to “China” (cīna) to learn the “way of perfection” (siddhimārga) from the Buddha. 112 One of the exceptions is a collection of aghora-related passages gathered from manuscripts of Tantric texts that was, according to the editors, initiated by Bhagvān Rām (Siṃha and Siṃha 1986: VII). 113 See also the example below.

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on his own ritual activities than one might expect for a person known as Aghorī.114 The “official” kathā contains some legends pointing to typical cremation ground practices of Kīnārām, but their number is small, just enough to hint to and advertize the existence of a powerful ritual secret.115 Most of the stories have a different direction of impact. They promote a different ‘secret’. Kīnārām works miracles by simply beating a person or an object with his stick or just giving an oral command, not—as many Aghorīs in the stories of Śrīvāstava (n.d.)—by performing the complicated secret rituals the typical Aghorī is feared or respected for. In congruence with the views of Siṃha Aṣṭhānā quoted above, the legend material promotes simple devotion (bhakti), not ritual, as the key tool of practice (of the saint as well as of the people approaching him). The hagiographic legends attest to a “domestication” of the saint. They demonstrate that Kīnārām lived in a state of perfection and willingly used his powers to help devoted others. His way of achieving this state and its powers is of minor importance. Depicting him as “perfected by birth” even implies that there was no such way.116 Certainly, the motives and messages of the legends—some retold in various versions—are richer than shown here and can be interpreted differently. For example, the popular story of Kīnārām appearing in his terrific Rudra form to disturb the ritual feast (bhaṇḍārā) of a Vaiṣṇava saint—according to the kathā a Loṭādās—by turning the dishes served to the gathered saints and Brahmins into jumping fishes and the drinking water into alcohol might be seen as a demonstration of the saint’s powers and his spiritual superiority over opponents,117

————— 114 Respective references are very general or only vague indications that might hint at rituals. In

his childhood, Kīnārām was singing songs in praise of god, in Girnar he ate a piece of meat, in Hiṅglāj he practiced some austerities, to curse the fort of Cet Siṃha he threw some ritual rice, etc. 115 In a story entitled the “practise of the vulva posture” (bhagāsāna-sādhanā) it is related how Kīnārām and a yoginī living in a Kālī cave in Girnar jointly performed a ritual involving a corpse until the godhead of the cremation ground (śmaśāna devatā) appeared, acknowledged their success and bestowed his blessings (Siṃha 1999: 81–83; Śukla 1988: 61–63). In another story, Kīnārām performed śavasādhanā to evoke the popular Tantric Goddess Rājyalakṣmī (Tripurasundarī) who finally explained to him that such hard forms of worship (kaṭhor upāsana) are not necessary and that he always will obtain whatever he wishes for. As the story goes, Kīnārām then stopped his ritual and returned to the Kṛīṃkuṇḍ by using his will power. The narration ends by stating that the circle of disciples still trusts in this practice (Siṃha 1999: 88f.; Śukla 1988: 65f.). Miśra (2004: 129–131) quotes these two stories at length and comments that the preceptors do allow such practices, but only after a sufficient time of service to the guru (ibid.: 129). 116 In this light, Kīnārām’s cremation ground practices as recounted in some legends (see above) appear less the cause of his supernatural powers, but rather a testing and proving. 117 After Loṭādās realized the reason for the magical transformation, he humbly approached Kīnārām and ask him to bless the food, Kīnārām spoke the syllable “huṃ“ and everything turned back to normal. After he had shown them another miracle (see next fn.), Loṭādās and


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as an update of mythological motifs,118 (depending on the version) as promotion of the aghora doctrine,119 or as perpetuation of common stereotypes,120 etc. For the present purpose, it might be summarized that the “official” versions of the legends, at least the majority, downplay the role of ritual and emphasize bhakti. This attitude can be met with in the poems ascribed to Kīnārām, too. As with the verses of Gorakhnāth and Kabīr (cf. Lorenzen 2011), the songs transmitted in the Kīnārām tradition repeatedly reject popular Hindu and Muslim ritual practices. Being more or less confined to generalities, they deny the claims of established religious authorities and attack the blind belief in the power of rituals. In the “Garland of songs” (Gītāvalī) ascribed to Kīnārām, the so-called scholar (paṇḍita) is condemned e.g. for telling others about ritual bathing, sacrifice and observance while having deceit in his heart, for reading Purāṇa, the Koran or the teachings of the Veda while knowing no mercy for the creature, etc. (see Zotter 2004: 91f.). Or it is said that the ones sunken in loving devotion (prema bhakti) realize that the many forms of exercise, prayer, asceticism, vow, gift, sacrifice and service are false (ibid.: 93). Further examples could be added to demonstrate that the songs share Kabīr’s sometimes harsh rhetoric against the rituals of others.121 One is even tempted to speak—as Lorenzen of Kabīr—of a “vision of religion devoid of hypocrisy and ritual” (2011: 35), but, as in the legend material, there are important nuances that should not be overlooked (cf. fn. 2). Most of the verses of the Gītāvalī and the other song collections are dedicated to the state of mind that is aimed at by the seeking “Sant”.122 The songs describe its ecstatic experience (beyond ritual), but they also speak about how to reach it. In fact, they contain much more spiritual instruction than the legends do, but, again, the achievement of the final goal is not ascribed to success in performing complicated rituals. Instead, using similes of everyday work,123 the songs primarily ad-

————— the other sādhus respected Kīnārām as their guru (Siṃha 1999: 41f.; Śukla 1988: 31f.; cf. also Gupta 1993: 136). 118 As the story goes on, Loṭādās wanted to feed Kīnārām but whatever he placed in the Saint’s begging bowl—here explicitly a human skull (nara kāpala)—disappeared immediately (Siṃha 1999: 42; Śukla 1988: 32). These details clearly resemble the mythological theme of Viṣṇu trying to fill the skull bowl of Bhairava with his blood (for references see Lorenzen 1991: 78). 119 Siṃha (1999: 41) entitles the story the “awakening of indistinction” (abheda udabodha (sic!)), a central concept of the aghora teachings. 120 According to a short version of the story given by Vidyarthi (1979: 304), Kīnārām was not allowed to enter the Saints’ bhaṇḍārā because he was known as a “man-eater aughar” (ibid.). 121 For his and other Sants’ diatribes, especially against Śāktas, see Pauwels 2010. 122 This state is here not called aghora, but rather paraphrased as being “sunken in heaven” (gagana magana), “staying beyond the mind” (unamunī/unmanī rehani), etc. 123 One of the songs of the Gītāvalī speaks about tilling the field of God’s name (see Zotter 2004: 80), others about preparing the hookah (ibid.: 76f., 86f.), etc.

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vertize the simple practice of repeating the name of God (rāmanāma) and of trusting in the grace of the preceptor (sataguru), both common to other (Aghorī and non-Aghorī) Sants.124 As seen, most outsider sources on the Aghorīs (including the Kīnārāmīs) are marked by an overstatement of ritual. The Aghorī is rejected because he is performing the terrific rituals he is characterized by. Other authors, such as Srīvāstava (n.d.) or Svoboda (1986), who see the Aghorīs in a more positive light, share the focus on ritual, but do not combine it necessarily with denying its spiritual function. They assume a Tantric background to the Aghorī’s practice, acknowledge that at least the “true” Aghori knows what he is doing and that he carries out his extreme rituals for a higher purpose. Surely there are Aghorīs who would argue as do the authors of this group. On the contrary, the Kīnārāmīs— attacking other Aghorīs and the left-hand Tāntrikas by using arguments of the first group—often understate their own rituals. The reasons behind this negation of ritual are complex. It is not merely a reaction of the Kīnārāmīs to the stereotypical notions of others about what they are, nor can it be solely explained as an effect of the denial by secrecy (i.e. the exclusion of others, particularly from the most personal parts of the spiritual practice). It is also an expression of an anti-ritualistic attitude that is deeply rooted in the tradition and can turn against the practices of others, as well as against ritual in general. Parry has stressed the importance of ambivalence for the typical cremation ground Aghorī. As shown, the Kīnārāmīs differ, and distance themselves from this type of practitioner, but if it comes to ritual they, too, hold an ambivalent position. On the one hand, even “official” sources, concerned about the reputation of the tradition in public, tell at least a few pertinent stories and insinuate a ritual secret that is known to be powerful.125 The statements that others (Aghorīs or Tāntrikas) carry out certain rituals wrongly or for the wrong purpose can point in the same direction, as they may imply that one has oneself (or one’s own tradition’s preceptor) the proper knowledge of such rituals. 126 On the other hand, the Kīnārāmīs define themselves by taking a critical stance on ritual. This is not only found in the legends and songs of Kīnārām, but in statements of modern preceptors and followers as well. Ritual is attacked for being a mere formality127 and as a

————— 124 Other “Aghorīs” that are known to be Sants can be found in the Sarbhaṅga tradition of Bihar,

see Śāstrī 1959 (the classical source on this tradition); Caturvedī 1972: 696–709; Gupta 1993: 158–162; Miśra 2001: 81–93. 125 Such stories are available for Bhagvān Rām, too, see e.g. Ram 1997: 60–62. 126 The issue is more complicated than such statements suggest. There is not one correct form of these rituals (cf. e.g. the descriptions of śavasādhanā in Śāstrī 1959: 231–242). Furthermore it should be kept in mind that the controversy is about secret practices, and no one actually knows what the other is really doing. 127 Cf. e.g. Bhagvān Rām’s statement on Christian church service quoted in Ram 2001: 240.


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burden for the people.128 Avadhūt Siṃha Śāvak Rām, a senior disciple of Bhagvān Rām, answers to the question “Do aughars give importance to rituals?” (Verma 1986: 48), “No, they don’t” (ibid.). He further explains the tradition’s engagement with rituals as a kind of necessary compromise. Society emphasizes ritual and Aughaṛs emphasize society: “Rituals were used as means to gradually attract people’s attention and to increase their faith in the system. However they are necessary only for those who are mentally disturbed and restless. Others, who are mentally at peace and calm in every situation, do not need these rituals” (ibid.). As the legends and poems transmitted by the Kīnārāmīs attest to, the criticism of ritual is not the result of modern reformations. It rather seems an enduring and crucial element of the tradition’s teachings that goes back to its founder. This point can be illustrated with one of the most Aghorī-like legends in the “official” kathā. One day, Kīnārām visited the cremation ground at Hariścandraghāṭ, Benares, and witnessed how an Aughaṛ named Kālurām was feeding chickpeas to the heads of corpses. Kīnārām recognized that this ascetic was no other than Lord Dattātreya, who had appeared in disguise to test him again. By his magical powers, Kīnārām made the heads stop eating and made three fishes jump out of the Ganga into a funeral pyre to be baked, as Kālurām was hungry. Then Kālurām asked Kīnārām whether he could see the dead body in the water. Replying that the body is not dead, Kīnārām revived the corpse by speaking some words and made him join the fish meal (Siṃha 1999: 39f.; Śukla 1988: 27f.).129 Though the story mentions several typical Aghorī features (the cremation ground, corpses, fish as food, magical powers, etc.), it contains no explicit references to ritual actions performed by Kīnārām. The feeding of corpses by Kālurām hints at typical Aghorī rituals, but, tellingly, this action was stopped by Kīnārām. According to the version in the kathā, Kīnārām revived the dead body—a typical Aghorī feature—by simply sprinkling some water and speaking the words “take the name of Rām, in this name of Rām the whole play of nature is (contained)”.130 This phrase is not a (Tantric or whatever) mantra, but rather a typical Sant saying. Again, the saint is portrayed as a perfected being, a siddha, with direct and spontaneous access to the powers that others seek to gain and manipulate by rituals. The story is not just denying that the Aghorī Kīnārām was the ritualist others think him to be. The message is rather: a true saint such as Kīnārām does not need any

————— 128 As part of the reformative agenda of Bhagvān Rām, the tradition promotes and offers

simplified, cheap marriage and death rituals for their lay clients. The usual argument is that the traditional forms of life cycle rituals are ruinous, especially for financially weak people (see e.g. Miśra 2001: 282f.; Ram 1997: 64; Ram 2007: 31; Sahay 1996: 26f.). 129 For variants of this story, see Anonymous n.d.: [8]; Gupta 1993: 130f.; Ram 2007: 48; Śāstrī 1953: 138f. 130 le rāmanāma jisa rāmanāma mẽ hai sārī kudarata kā khelā (Siṃha 1999: 40; Śukla 1988: 28).

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ritual. 131 In contrast to the strategy preferred by most of their opponents, the Kīnārāmīs here, as elsewhere, refrain from making reference to ritual in order to support their claim of superiority. This special form of “denial of ritual” seems to be important for the Kīnārāmīs, who cultivate and aim at non-discrimination. It should thus be taken into consideration, too, when distinguishing between the different views on this tradition.

Epilogue The interrelations between the different agents and ideas that make and surround a tradition are complex. Especially when dealing with transgressive religious ideas, “denial of ritual” can work as a useful lens to highlight borders and sticking points in such negotiation processes. In the case of the cremation ground practices discussed in this paper, manifold layers of denial have to be penetrated to see what is behind the public controversies. This paper has tried to pick up on some of the positions and analyse their usage of denial. Transgressive religious practices that violate the rules and norms of ordered social life almost inevitably provoke rejection. This can be intended by the transgressors for different purposes—to trigger a process of merit transfer, as in case of the ancient Pāśupatas, or, as in other cases, to cast off social bonds.132 The persons provoked by the transgression may also react with different forms of denial related to ritual. They may deny the opponent other access to their own rituals, or argue that he is a fraudulent imposter or incapable madman and what he is doing as ritual is no real ritual. The persons attacked may argue in a similar way, thus may counterpunch denial with denial. One could distinguish different types of transgressors. The Pāśupātas (concealing that their transgressive behaviour is in fact part of their spiritual practice) and the ascetic skull-bearers (overtly showing who they are) can be differentiated from those Tantric householder practitioners who perform their transgressive rituals only in secret. Albeit such differences, it seems to be a pervasive trait that

————— 131 This idea could also be demonstrated by taking Bhagvān Rām as example. There are reports

on how Rajeśvār Rām initiated him in 1951 by offering a meal of rice mixed with fish or, according to some, by performing a cakrapūjā (cf. Ram 1997: 15; Ram 2007: 17; Sahay 1996: 10), but nonetheless his followers stress that “[h]is practices were inborn and selfinitiating. He didn’t need any initiation whatsoever”. (Verma 1986: [I]). As the founder of the tradition, the reformer, too, is considered to be a divine figure and an incarnation of Śiva (see e.g. Ram 1997: 69; Ram 2007: 13) who is not in need of any authorization by ritual. 132 Cf. e.g. the story how Bhagvān Rām, equipped with a shroud-cloth, a corpse of dog and a bottle of liquor, visited his home village to “to free himself from the ties of human bonds” (Ram 2007: 21).


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claims of superiority are formulated by (at least partially) denying the efficacy of others’ rituals. The cremation ground practices under discussion provoke ambiguous sentiments. Some fear and reject them. Others—or the same persons in other situations—stand in awe and point to the powers that can be accomplished by mastering such rituals. The secretiveness around these practices (or at least around certain parts of it), too, can be ambiguous. Nondisclosure can be a means to hide or even deny one’s own practices or to exclude uninitiated outsiders (i.e. deny them access). At the same time, a ritual secret can be turned into a prestigious mystery by advertizing its presence. The controversy about the Aghorīs and the mysterious rituals they are accused of or respected for, illustrates how complex the interactions of opposing positions and the interplay of the different forms of denial can be. Different types of outsiders and insiders adjust their arguments according to the prevailing circumstances. The Kīnārāmīs, declared to be Aghorīs by outsiders, in most cases, deny the ascribed identity and use arguments of their opponents when repudiating false Aghorīs and Tāntrikas. Furthermore, they are not just attacking others’ rituals but, based on their own textual tradition, put forward a radical refusal of ritual in general. As with the other forms of denial of ritual, their opponents might argue the same way. To be sure, the idea that pure devotion ends ritual is not unique to the aghora tradition, nor to the Sants, but is a pervasive concept that has long entered the Tantric, even the orthodox Brahmanic world as well. The focus on “denial of ritual” discloses a repertoire of arguments shared by different positions in processes of mutual othering.

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