Iinvited Vivek, a part-time journalist, for a cup of tea at a restaurant by the river. I had heard that he was interested in working for me as a research assistant and translator. When I told him of my plan to study the boatmen of Banaras, he replied, somewhat condescendingly, that one must be wary of boatmen, as they are well-known cheats, drunks and thieves. He pressed me to reconsider my research topic, saying that this group of people are of the ‘criminal type’. Well, I thought to myself, perhaps this is the reason why no anthropologist has travelled this murky path before. I was, however, intrigued by the prospect of working with a group that inspired such strong sentiments. This would indeed be a fascinating project.

Admittedly, I wasn't overly surprised to hear this from Vivek; I was aware that under colonial rule people belonging to fishing and boating communities were legally classified under the ominous category of ‘criminal castes’. Still, I was somewhat taken aback by the conviction and immediacy conveyed by such derogatory statements. To what extent contemporary views of boatmen are coloured by the colonial legacy is hard to determine. Nevertheless, the targeting and categorizing of a group as a ‘criminal’ caste is significant if we are to understand the way in which under colonial social order boatmen and numerous other low castes were systematically marginalized, oppressed and stigmatized.

The Tourist-cum-Anthropologist

As mentioned in the introduction to this book, my interest in tourism and the role of culture brokers, in part, derives from my own experiences as a frequent visitor to India under various guises: initially as a traveller, then as a tour guide and eventually as an anthropologist. Clearly, these ‘shifting identities’, to use Crick's term (1989), are not mutually exclusive. Moreover, my personal experiences as a traveller and tour guide provided me with a more emic perspective regarding tourist sensibilities and the way in which the tourist industry operates in India and in Banaras in particular. Equally important, however, is to reflect on how such experiences influenced my work as an anthropologist and the often unconscious methodological implications this had for both the fieldwork and the writing of my research.

As an anthropologist I often felt the need to shed what I considered to be the ‘superficial skin’ of my tourist identity. While in the field, I found that the anthropological rite of passage, namely fieldwork (involving participant observation and learning the language), was indeed (or so I thought) an attempt to establish clear boundaries between myself and other tourists.

INTRODUCTION

In deference to Indian demands for a greater share in the administration of the subcontinent, the white men who administered the British Empire in India were joined, during the last decades of the Raj, by a growing number of Indians. By the end of 1939 Indians numbered 540 out of a total of 1299 members of the Indian Civil Service, a figure that, with few subsequent appointments, would remain fairly static until independence (Noronha 61). These Indian members of the elite service occupied a strange position as the topmost functionaries governing their own land and people in the name of an alien monarch and empire. As the apex administrative service, the ICS managed complex cross-cultural relationships in the colonial space, based on radically unequal and racially based power relations. However, with the service itself becoming increasingly Indianised, the role of the ICS and the racial basis of power in the colonial space had to be re-negotiated on both sides. While the Indian element of the ICS had to come to terms with the basic ideology of colonial control, the British constituents of the “steel frame” had to manage a new identity forged out of a relationship fraught with apparently incompatible elements across the white/ brown, ruler/ruled divide. The memoirs of Indian ICS officers employed during the last few decades of British rule offer unusual insights into the way the steel frame managed the relationship with its brown element – an element that always remained incongruent since the basic character of the service remained British to the end.

In the early decades of the nineteenth century, the administrators of British colonial institutions were predominantly male. Architecturally, the institutions they ran occupied public space. As local manifestations of imperial power, the buildings which housed colonial institutions stood out from the vernacular architecture, and by design could be easily identified as belonging to the imported culture. The tenacity of a colonial presence was signalled by the number and scale of public buildings housing administrative offices. For the most part, male administrators also had access to other spaces where they could be “at home,” buildings in a distinctively domestic style which marked a separation between their public and private lives. If an administrator was married, the space available for his private life was managed by his wife, who had no daily role to play inside the public buildings where her husband worked. On the frontier and its outposts, however, where the footprint of empire was less visible, administrative officers often lived and worked in the same location, usually without their wives. Likewise, male missionaries setting up stations authorised within the imperial enterprise, if often at odds with its officials, began with space serving both public and private functions – and their wives went with them. “From an early date,” writes Clare Midgley in her study of women on the mission fields in the early nineteenthcentury British Empire, “missionary societies recognized the benefits of recruiting married men as missionaries, and thus, as early as there were foreign missionaries, there were missionaries' wives” (339).

[The year of Puyachupa Sing, Sakabda 1772 (1850 CE).] (1) The Month of Yingen (June/July) began on Wednesday. 3 Friday, just before day break (Chandra Kriti) occupied the palace. While the star Aaslesa was in the ascendant Meetingu Jaiman Chandrakirti Singh became king at the age of nineteen years. The royal palace, the mantop and many other buildings were burnt. But two great palaces in the Kangla complex were not burnt. 4 Saturday, the royal son of Nongpok Wairang Pamheipa died. 5 Sunday, a star entered (went behind) the moon. 6 Monday, the Sangkranti of Yingen began. 9 Wednesday, Surja of Moirang was appointed the chief of Moirang. 11 Friday, (the building in) Kangla was dismantled. 13 Monday, a monkey entered in Kangla. 15 Wednesday, in the night Yipungsi Aangou the Senapati, along with others including all his brothers and cousins (2) whom he had gathered together, entered into the palace trying to claim the throne and there was shooting all night at Chiraithong gate. But they were not successful and at four pung hours before the day-break yuthak they fled to Mayang, including Yipungsi the Jubraj. Bamon Gobinat was hit by a bullet and he died. Seven other men also were hit by bullets but they did not die. As the morning light was beginning to break through, Langkoncham Chaba and Nahakpam Cha Chal Sing, these two had a fierce combat in the southern area of the market and killed each other.

Hello! Boat?

‘Hello! Boat? Hello! Boat? Hello! Boat?‘ These are the words that echo around, spoken from 10–20 mouths as you step onto the ghats of Banaras. ‘Hello! Boat? Hello! Boat?‘ After continuous repetitions, the words have a lingering effect, much like an insidious jingle that refuses to fade, puncturing the spiritual ambience of the riverfront (one tourist I met even suggested I title this book, ‘Hello! Boat?‘). As customers what we fail to understand is why, after so many rebuttals the boatmen continue to beseech us with the same nagging question. Indeed, the unfavourable initial encounter between boatmen and tourists seems at odds with what we would commonly expect from service providers, in terms of the courtesy and responsiveness to market and consumer needs, characteristic of the tourist service industry in the West.

But there is more to the story than that. The two words – Hello! Boat? – encompass the complexity of the informal institution of boating: a work system used by boatmen operating along the ghats of Banaras and based on customary rules and regulations – something I describe as a moral economy. It is unlikely that the following account of the boatmen's work system will offer any consolation to those tourists visiting Banaras.

The draft of this book, the third volume of the author's annotated translation of the Cheitharon Kumpapa, the Court Chronicle of the Kings of Manipur, was completed a week before her death. In editing her draft I have tried to keep as closely as possible to the methodology which she set out in the Introduction to Volume 1, which readers of this volume will find it helpful to consult. The guiding principle in her translation was to render the Meetei Mayek manuscript as literally as possible into English, both to reflect as accurately as possible the style of the original and also as an aid for those readers who are able to compare it to the original text. This is not an easy task, given the complexity of the Manipuri sentences, the multiplicity of subordinate clauses, and constructions which, if rendered absolutely literally into English, would not be strictly grammatical. Direct speech especially causes particular problems. Furthermore the original (as in common in ancient documents) has no breaks between words or sentences, or punctuation (apart from the marker at the end of paragraphs). In a few places in this translation excessively long sentences have been broken up for clarity, but on the whole the rendering tries to reflect the construction patterns of the original.

This book was written with the general reader in mind. I have therefore tried to avoid overly technical terms and phrases and omitted any diacritical marks. I have attempted to transliterate the Hindi, Sanskrit and Bhojpuri terms in a way that most closely approximates their local pronunciation. Words and terms that are already accepted in English, and found in the Oxford dictionary, like Ramayana, Shiva and Shastra, remain without academic transliteration. Indian terms are pluralized by adding an ‘s’, as in English. Frequently used names and terms have been listed in the glossary at the end of this book

In early October 2005, 18 boatmen were captured and arrested by the Dashashvamedh ghat police for operating as ‘fake tour guides’ for pilgrims and foreign tourists. The news of the arrests quickly spread across the riverfront. A large group of boatmen congregated on the main ghat, calling for the police to stop harassing their community. By evening a local Congress Party leader had also arrived to join the protest in front of the Dashashvamedh police post. The boatmen demanded the release of the arrested persons and the immediate dismissal of all charges. The following morning a meeting was convened at the ghat and the boatmen decided to stage an indefinite strike, halting all boating on the river, and subsequently shutting down the main fish and vegetable market in Banaras. According to newspaper reports, the arrests had been made in response to the demands by the Government Approved Tourist Guide Association (GATGA) for legal action against unlicensed guides operating in the city.

The boatmen continued their strike and protests over the following days, threatening to refuse participation in the upcoming festival of Durga Puja unless their demands were met. This was a serious threat, as thousands of pilgrims from across India arrive in Banaras for the occasion to perform a ritual immersion of the Goddess Durga in the River Ganga. The boatmen and their boats were essential for what is considered the climax of the Durga Puja celebrations. Clearly, the boatmen themselves stood to loose money from the collective action.

The year of Naorem Punsi, Sakabda 1808 (1886 CE). The month of Kalen (April/May) began on Wednesday. 17 Thursday, the royal son Surchandra Singh became king at the age of thirty-five years. Laisrapa Aangaton Macha stood on the right hand of the king holding the sword as his body guard and Khutlem Cha Sachou on the left (2). On that day, the royal maternal uncle Bara Chaopa fled (3) and there was shooting at Yaorou between (Bara Chaopa) on the one side and Maisnam Cha the Tuli Yaima Major, Yirungpa poila on the other side. 18 Friday, the royal younger brother the Katwan (Koireng Tikendrajit) along with the royal younger brother the Lakpa of Phungkanai Institute, Kangngapam Cha Major, the royal son (of the former king) the Lakpa of Wangkhei, and Chongtha the Aaya Puren Major, all of them joined the fighting at Yaorou. Those who rebelled were routed from Yaorou and repulsed up to Khurairakpapan barricade where the shooting commenced again. Finally they were defeated and they fled. 21 Monday, the royal younger brother the Katwan and the royal younger brother the Sanglakpa of the Phungkanai Institute, these two and others, returned. Those who were captured in the battle were Pukhranba Tangko, Chongtha Mia, and Yingkutumpa Samiaik, these three and others, a total of ten people were captured.

From the earliest renditions of the Ramayana, boatmen have occupied a special place in the traditional moral universe of India. Murals depicting the legendary story of the boatman, Kevat, ferrying Prince Ram and his pious wife Sita across the Ganga can be seen all over Banaras, while historical, literary and travel narratives are replete with accounts of encounters with boatmen. The following excerpt from Pankaj Mishra's (1999, 26) acclaimed novel The Romantics is a particularly good example of literary fascination with boatmen:

As the subject of Miss West's orientalist gaze, Ramchand is at once exotic, erotic and subservient. Such indulgence, however, is quickly dispelled in the following paragraph:

In 1876 the London literary critic Edmund Gosse was given what he described as “a thin and sallow packet with a wonderful Indian postmark on it” by William Minto, the editor of the Examiner. It contained, he later recounted, “a most unattractive orange pamphlet of verse, printed at Bhowanipore, … [a] shabby little book of some two hundred pages, without preface or introduction, [which] seemed specially designed by its particular providence to find its way hastily into the waste-paper basket” (Ancient Ballads viii-ix).

The book, A Sheaf Gleaned in Foreign Fields (1876), was a collection of translations into English of French works; its authors were sisters Toru and Aru Dutt, members of a Bengali family already active in the local literary community, though set apart to a certain extent by their conversion to Christianity in 1862. Toru and Aru's mother Kshetramoni published Bengali translations of Christian tracts (tract writing was something she had in common with Gosse's formidable mother Emily). And The Dutt Family Album, a collection of poems by their father Govin Chunder Dutt and his brothers, had been published in London in 1870 with a preface which describes the authors as “foreigners, natives of India, of different ages, and in different walks of life, yet one family, in whom the ties of blood relationship have been drawn closer by the holy bond of Christian brotherhood” (Preface).