Where
fusion cannot work faith and history
Romila
Thapar
If
there is strong religious faith among millions of people, it does
not require to be protected through massive political demonstrations
and the killing of innocent persons. Nor do archaeology and history
have to be brought in to keep that faith intact. Faith finds its
own place and function, as do archaeology and history. And the
place and function of each is separate.
Faith and history have been brought into conflict once again by
being forced to jointly occupy the same public space in contemporary
India. In effect, there should be no conflict if it is recognised
that the two are irreconcilable and that they cannot be fused
together. They are independent of each other. Their premises,
their methods of enquiry, and their formulations are dissimilar.
So instead of trying to conflate them, it might be better to concede
the difference and m aintain the distance.
When
historians speak of the historicity of person, place, or event,
they require evidence singular or plural that proves
the existence of any of these and this evidence is based on data
relating to space and time. The two important spaces in the Valmiki
Ramayana are Ayodhya and Lanka, on the location of which scholarly
opinion differs.
The
location of Lanka, for example, has been disputed by Indian scholars
for the past century and remains unidentified with any certainty.
Some have located it in the Vindhyas in Amarkantak or in
Chota Nagpur and others in the Mahanadi delta. The identification
with present day Sri Lanka is problematic. The earliest name for
Ceylon judging by Indian and Greek and Latin references of the
Mauryan and post-Mauryan period was Tamraparni (Taprobane in Greek).
Ashoka in the third century BC, in one of his edicts, mentions
Tamraparni as on the frontier. Later, the more commonly used name
was Sinhala or Sinhala-dvipa, (Silam or Sieledib in Greek). It
would seem that the name Lanka was a later adoption of the centuries
AD.
This
becomes puzzling for the historian. If Valmiki was referring to
Ceylon, then the name should have been the one by which the island
was known, either Tamraparni or else Sinhala, at the time of his
composition. But since the name used is Lanka, which at this time
appears not to have been the name for Ceylon, then perhaps Lanka
was located elsewhere. The location of the Ram Setu would have
to be reconsidered. This has been suggested by scholars who have
argued that the setu was more likely located in a small expanse
of water in central India and not in the Palk Straits. Nor is
the setu referred to in every version of the story. Alternatively,
if Lanka in the text is a reference to Ceylon, then the composition
of the Valmiki poem would have to be dated to a later period when
the island came to be called Lanka. All this uncertainty is quite
apart from the question of the technical viability of building
a bridge across a wide stretch of sea in the centuries BC.
It
is said that the Ram Setu is cultural heritage and therefore cannot
be destroyed even if it is a natural geological formation and
not man-made. Has the idea become the heritage? To search for
a non-existent man-made structure takes away from the imaginative
leap of a fantasy and denies the fascinating layering of folk-lore.
It would be more appropriate to recognise the undersea formations
in the Palk Straits as a natural heritage and protect the relevant
areas. We pay no attention to the fact that such marine parks
are as important to our ecological future as those visible on
the landscape.
That
Rama is central to variant versions of the story is, in itself,
not evidence of historicity. If the variants contradict each other
as they do, this may create problems for those who believe that
only one of the variants is true. But multiple variants enrich
the interest of historical and comparative analyses in assessing
the degree to which each approximates, if at all, to the historical
past or what the divergence symbolises.
The
two closest in time to the Valmiki are the Buddhist and Jaina
variants. The Buddhist version in the Dasaratha Jataka differs
entirely from the Valmiki. Rama is the son of the raja of Varanasi;
exile is to the Himalayas; and there is no kidnapping of Sita
by Ravana.
The
earliest of many Jaina versions, the Padmacharita of Vimalasuri,
dating to the centuries AD, contradicts all earlier versions and
states that it is doing so in order to present the correct version
of what happened. It differs substantially from the Valmiki narrative.
Ravana is not a demonic villain but a human counter-hero. It presents
the story in the conceptual framework of Jainism.
These
other versions might be objected to or dismissed by the person
who has faith in the Valmiki version since the other versions
differ. What is of interest to the historian is not the number
of variant versions, which is impressively large, but why major
changes were introduced into these.
This
does not happen with the biographies of those who were known to
be historical figures and who founded belief systems: the Buddha,
Jesus Christ, Mohammad. Their biographies adhere largely to a
single story-line and this helps to endorse the 'official' narrative
of their life. Their existence is recorded in other sources as
well that are not just narratives of their lives but have diverse
associations. The historicity of the Buddha, for example, is established,
among other things, by the fact that a couple of centuries after
he died, the emperor Ashoka on a visit to Lumbini had a pillar
erected to commemorate the Buddha's place of birth. This is recorded
in an inscription on the pillar.
If
the current debate had grown from a genuine sense of enquiry,
historians might have participated. Human activity has a historical
context and this is open to historical comment. But it is only
too evident that the issue of the Ram Setu has become a matter
of political strategy on the part of those who are mobilising
in the name of faith, and on the part of those who are reacting
to the mobilisation. From the point of view of archaeology and
history, the Archaeological Survey of India was correct in stating
that there is to date no evidence to conclusively prove the historicity
of Rama. The annulling of this statement was also a political
act. Reliably proven evidence is of the utmost significance to
history but not so to faith. Blasphemy does not lie in doubting
historicity.
The
historian is not required to pronounce on the legitimacy of faith.
But the historian can try and explain the historical context to
why, in a particular space and time, a particular faith acquires
support. And we need to remind ourselves that our heritage has
been constantly enriched not just by those of faith but also by
those who contend with faith.
If
there is a strong faith in the religious sense among
millions of people, then it does not require to be protected through
massive demonstrations and the killing of innocent persons, through
political mobilisation. Nor do archaeology and history have to
be brought in to keep that faith intact. Faith finds its own place
and function, as do archaeology and history. And the place and
function of each is separate.
To
say that the partial removal of an underwater formation in the
Palk Straits is going to hurt the faith of millions is not giving
faith its due. Is faith so fragile that it requires the support
of an underwater geological formation believed to have been constructed
by a deity? Making faith into a political issue in order to win
elections is surely offensive to faith?
What
is at issue is not whether Rama existed or not, or whether the
underwater formation or a part of it was originally a bridge constructed
at his behest. What is at issue is a different and crucial set
of questions that require neither faith nor archaeology but require
intelligent expertise: questions that are being wilfully diverted
by bringing in faith. Will the removal of a part of the natural
formation eventually cause immense ecological damage and leave
the coasts of south India and Sri Lanka open to catastrophes,
to potential tsunamis in the future? Or can it be so planned that
such a potentiality is avoided?
What
would be the economic benefits of such a scheme in enhancing communication
and exchange? Would the benefits reach out to local communities
and if so, how? Equally important, one would like to know precisely
what role will be played by the multinational corporations and
their associates in India. Who will finance and control the various
segments of such an immense project? It is only when such details
are made transparent that we will also get some clues to the subterranean
activities that are doubtless already simmering. These are the
questions that should be asked of this project and that at this
point in time should be occupying public space.
(Romila
Thapar is a distinguished historian of ancient India. She is the
author of several books, including Asoka and the Decline of the
Mauryas, 1961; A History of India: Volume I, 1966; Early India:
From the Origins to AD 1300, 2002; and Somanatha: The Many Voices
of History, 2005. An expanded version of this article will be
published in Economic and Political Weekly, 29 September 2007.)