To do good ethnography, do we have to speak the ‘language of the masses’?  This is a simple question but its answer is quite complicated. Tamizh like most Indian languages has many dialects. These dialects differ by region, occupation, caste and class. Moreover the dialect itself is inflected with tones, ending phrases, and pronunciations that also differ from occupation to social strata. This phrase ‘language of the masses’ is quite complicated too. Speaking the ‘language of the masses’ implies two very important facets of communication: speaking popularly understood/ fashionable language and speaking the vastly / majorly spoken language. Even English speakers unconsciously and consciously make decisions to speak the ‘language of the masses’. Slang words like “dude” and “OMG” have quickly replaced “young man” or exchanges of exclamation/ surprise. Some older adults consider this too a corruption of the pure English language.

While our English speaking professors in America are highly critical of the language we use to conduct ourselves as writers or members of the academic community, this same language is recognized as fallible, elitist, and unpopular when speaking to the masses; be in blogs, social media, or even with peers outside of the academic community. I can think of many who have criticized me or other academics when we speak complex theoretical phrases, by calling them academic “jargon”. Though we are guilty at times, at most other times we are forced to dumb down our lingo to suit the masses. On the one hand I have to agree with a colleague in Equinox Publishing, Craig Martin, who commented on his Facebook Status that, academics of the Humanities shouldn’t be singled out to de-complicate their concepts just because they are in the social sciences.  After all we don’t expect our Scientist friends to dumb down their formulae, do we? On the other hand I recognize the annoyances and the elitism of speaking unfashionable or academic language especially while conducting fieldwork. But there are two sides to a coin always. In speaking the ‘language of the masses’ aren’t we presuming that our audiences are dumber than us? Aren’t we also presuming then that in order to really understand the world, we need to speak its’ language? That is rather unsettling when we do have well written and researched ethnographies from those who didn’t care to learn a local language, or  even those who used translators.

What provoked me to write this piece is actually an earlier anxiety about using the Tamizh language especially as an ethnographer. I have often been critiqued of speaking elitist Tamizh. Occasionally some criticized my Sanskritized Tamil, and at other times it is my affiliation to Centamizh or “pure Tamil” that unsettles them. It could be to do with the vocabulary I use, the dialect, or the pronunciations. Centamizh is concerned with pronunciations mainly and vocabulary, while Sanskritized Tamil is concerned with occupational dialects and caste lines. But studying religion requires us to speak academic and literary language as well as the ‘language of the masses’. What separates this divide however is where the intellectual and elitist assumption lies. The first assumption is that learning the ‘language of the masses’ is somehow necessary in order to fully grasp the worldview of the participants. Secondly, literary language is considered unpopular and distancing from the participants which troubles IRB and ethically considerate ethnographers. But I am unsure how to reconcile the two worlds I live in. In the academic world where intellectualism and academically theoretical concepts are valued, there is no place for my ‘language of the masses’ and yet when I return home to my native language of Tamizh, I am heavily criticized for utilizing my pure pronunciations as it is considered distancing from my interlocutors. Here I am supposed to speak the ‘language of the masses’ and when I return I am expected to translate their indigenous terms into academically and theoretically sound ideas.

My advisor at Emory, Joyce Flueckiger and I had an interesting conversation on the hill in MalaiKottai (RockFort Temple, Trichy). After spending three days hearing me speak and translate Tamizh around me, Joyce asked me why I said the word “Tamil” differently than the people on the bus. She said “Deeksha, I have never heard anyone say Tamil this trip like you do, pronouncing it with an ‘r’ sound. I recall you telling me that your American Tamil teachers critiqued your pronunciation as Sanskritized Tamil. Is this a Sanskriticized bias?” A great question from Joyce and it does require further investigation. The underlying problem was that my pronunciation of “Ta-mi-l” as “Tha-mi-zh distances me from the people on the bus. It is a pure-Tamizh position that I have exposed to those I speak with on the bus and has nothing to do with a Sanskrit bias. My pronunciation of the ‘l’ as the retroflex ‘zh’ sound is true to the script –the letters for the retroflex ‘l’ and dental ‘l’ both differ significantly from the retroflex sound ‘zh’ pronounced like the ‘r’ in ‘rotten’. Tamil is written as “தமிழ்”. The Sanskrit inclusions to Tamil include ‘s’, ‘h’, ‘sh’, ‘jna’ and ‘ksh’. A lot of such debates on the origin of pronunciation has led to changes such as switching Oriya to Odiya.

I told Joyce that I did consider my pronunciation distancing and different, and that I would look it up and I did. The transliteration of the word can be written as Thamizh/Tamil/ Tamizh. The answer to Joyce’s question is two-fold. On the one hand it concerns my personal pronunciation/ mis-pronunciation of the local language, but it is also an ethical concern, one that reveals my upbringing and presuppositions. The question of distancing oneself is a matter of speaking the popular language and I’m not so sure it is imperative to speak the ‘language of the masses’ while doing ethnography. In thinking further about it, I have begun to wonder if it is insincere of me to translate my sounds into the ‘language of the masses,’ be it Sanskritized or purist. While it may be appropriate to critique my incorrect usage of grammar or pronunciation of a word, it is rather inappropriate to correct the native social baggage that accompanies my usage of a language. Switching my pronunciations is a white lie. Like youngsters speak popular lingo to fit in, my American Tamil teachers only want me to “fit-in” with the masses, an honest plea. But then can I lie about other aspects of my identity too to become a participant? Lying that I am Christian just so that I could do fieldwork with church-goers would be severely unethical, but some lies are less-pronounced than others which are implied in what we wear and how we wear it – ornaments/ clothing. What level of ethical commitment do we expect from our ethnographers? Should we critique a foreign researcher in India, who speaks Hindi in an accent and who wears a conservative but western outfit, of distancing themselves from their interlocutors? Is it okay to imitate pronunciations to “fit-in” with those you write about? People come in all shapes and sizes and with all sounds and accents. Aren’t we expected to also be authentic to the people we study, bare our souls to them so that we can catch a glimpse of theirs? I do understand when elitism of Sanskritized or pure- Tamizh becomes a means to cause prejudice against speakers of non-Sanskritized or “impure” Tamizh, but whether I am an elitist when I use a literary/ academic pronunciation while conducting ethnography,  is rather the trigger of this post. Especially when you are both understood and you have communicated with your interlocutors, is it wrong to reveal your biases through your language? At least that way, some of who we are is out in the open!

Uppilliappan, also known as the older brother of Tirumala Balaji, has a temple close to Kumbhakonam. I decided to visit it one evening. As an apt conclusion to my day, Mammi had asked me to come over on my way back to listen to her student’s class on Ashtapaadi. Ashtapaadi is the Tamil version of the recitation of the Geeta Govindam (GG). A devotional poem written by the Odishan poet Jayadeva, GG is a story about Krishna’s love and separation from his lover Radha. My professor at the University of Hawaii recently published a ClaySanskrit edition of the translation, a much needed one. Prof.Lee Siegel’s exposure to Sanskrit erotic literature and Vaishnava texts made him an ideal choice for translating this piece. Needless to say, I was quite excited to join Mammi’s class and hear the singing of the GG in verse format, along one other student and her six year old cousin. While Mammi began to sing, Hema her student followed suit. As the song reverberated through her home, I realized how much I could pick up from my three-years of Sanskrit training. Written in simple Sanskrit, this edition was an abridged piece published by the new Vishnu temple in Govindapuram (near Kumbhakonam). Hema’s cousin sister joined in too.

The young girl’s body posture signified her boredom but her lips continued to chant the verses unconsciously, signifying she had been in many such situations and picked up quite a bit of the text aurally.

After the class Mammi asked me to come over for lessons the next afternoon as well. Hema was going to join in. When I returned the next day, Mammi had a text in Sanskrit for me too so that I could join in. It was an honor to be able to learn from her and I will carry that memory with me forever. When we finished that day Mammi decided to tell me a little story about her own recitation of the GG during her visit to the Jagannath Rathyatra. My own visit to Odisha had provoked this conversation. Mammi then proceeded to tell me two stories about devotion:

In the olden times, there was a devoted Vaishnavite who had spent his days going to temple every evening. He used to pray to Vishnu and donated a lot of money to the temple as well. Much later in his adult life after performing a lot of puja this devotee was finally able to behold Krishna. When he did, he asked the lord, “Why don’t you ever come to see me? I wait for you every evening and I have selflessly devoted to your cause and yet you don’t come to see me.” To that request Krishna responded, “Oh foolish devotee, I came to you and yet you didn’t recognize me. I came to you three times and you paid no heed to me. First I came as a dog and you chased me away. Next I came as a cow and you shoved me aside. Lastly I came as a beggar and you shunned me. It is not I who didn’t come to see you; it is you who chose not to see me!”

Mammi was deeply moved by this narration. She then continued to tell me her own story. As we had recognized in class that afternoon, every major verse of the GG ended with a benediction to Krishna and Jayadeva, citing him as the eternal devotional poet.

Late into the evening on the eve of the Rathyatra Mammi was standing beside the inner sanctum singing her Ashtapaadi. The verses of the GG are engraved on the walls surrounding the shrine of the Odishan temple and Mammi was following along with them. However since she was only familiar with the Tamil version she had continued to add her verses on the benediction to Jayadeva at the very end of each stanza, even though it was not in the inscriptions. However as she reached the last verse, she decided to follow the engraved verses and stopped where the inscriptions did. Suddenly she heard a voice in Hindi command her, “Sing the last stanza! You missed the one to Jayadeva!” As she turned to see where the voice came from, she noticed a beggar mendicant sitting beside the wall watching her motioning her to continue. Mammi said, “It was then that I realized it was no beggar but Krishna himself who was commanding me to finish the appropriate conclusion to the song. Even now when I think of that moment, my hair stands up. I know what I experienced that day was different and the Lord had come in the form of the beggar to see me.” While Mamma candidly refuted her theory, Mammi seemed tightlipped and convinced.

There are experiences such as Mammi’s encounter that evening in the Jagannath temple, which validate one’s belief in the divine. Hinduism per se doesn’t require an open or a vocal profession of one’s faith. Most Indian’s will tell you that you are born a Hindu because your parents are Hindu. However, stories like these do signal to a type of faith that exists in Hinduism too, through experiencing something out of the ordinary and validating one’s existence in relation to the divine.

Among the many friends I made in Kumbhakonam, one home in the agraharam of the area stood out. Devoted primarily to Vishnu and still active devotional singers in local temples, Mamma and Mammi, a seventy year old couple, eagerly invited me into their homes and lives. I had been referred to them by a distant cousin in Chennai, when I asked if I could meet older women who perform Bommai Golu. Kumbhakonam will be a hotspot for my research of Golu as everyone I spoke to knew of the ritual and even the local temple hosts a large festival during Navarathiri which houses several hundred year old dolls, collected by the temple and its preceding officers.

Mammi is a great cook, a ritual specialist, and in the few days I spent with her, I was able to witness her varalakshmi nonbu –  a vrattam or vow ritual performed by women in the home to the Goddess Lakshmi. A colleague of mine in Atlanta who studies vowing rituals of Muslim women will find my experience fodder for contrasting with her own work. Varalakshmi nonbu is not only about the puja(worship) and the accompanying shlokas (chanting of Sanskrit verses), but it is also about the community of women who gather and sing to the goddess during the evening of the celebration. Visiting each other’s homes, much like they do on the nine days of Golu, to see each other’s decorated goddess image, mothers and their daughters take great pains to ensure that everything is conducted appropriately. The night before the goddess’ image is placed in the rice sack of the home. The morning of the puja, the woman performing the vow wakes up to wear her madi saree (ritually pure saree only work on ritual days) and begins her decoration of the altar space with specially knotted leaves and finishes by adorning Lakshmi with a new paavadai (stitched saree) and jewels. Satisfied with her adornment the woman then proceeds to read the vow shlokas from a ritual manual. In earlier times Brahmin priests visited homes to perform this function but today each woman performs this in her domestic space, by herself, and for immediate family. In the evening the celebrations really begin. Women sing to Lakshmi, exchange gossip, and gape at one another’s adornment of Lakshmi. Each woman tells the other when the celebrations will be in her home so that their timings don’t overlap. The householder offers each guest betel leaves, turmeric and betel nuts along with sandal paste and vermillion, and a piece of blouse cloth or a comb with a mirror, and a small donation. Sundal/ sprouted dal tossed in shredded coconut will also be served in every home.

That evening after they sang their songs, the women’s conversation slowly drifted to Mammi’s adornment of Lakshmi.  One aunty praised her usage of tiny threads and a supporting stick to hold up the paavadai that made it look like Lakshmi’s skirt billowed out around her. Another commented on someone’s innovative use of placing the wick precisely into the puja lamp so that it stayed lit longer. Several young girls had also accompanied their mother for the celebrations that evening. They took in this information too, however unconsciously, adding to their understanding of an efficacious puja. Mammi had learned in the same way too, attending varalakshmi nonbu’s in neighboring homes as a young girl. Spending varalakshmi nonbu with Mammi and her friends I realized that these occasions of vowing were not solitary acts. Usually vowing rituals are understood as an individual act – where the petitioner makes a pledge or takes a vow on behalf of her children, husband or brother and then proceeds to perform worship, recite prayers, fast, etc. and usually completes the vow with a marker/ signifier of having accomplished the vow. While the solitary functions of the vowing ritual of varalakshmi nonbu still hold true, the congeniality shared among the group of women in the exchanges that occur after the puja say something more. Vowing also serves a social function wherein women discuss and display their performance of puja, sharing cultural information on the efficacy of the ritual.