Fields of Blood

by Karen Armstrong

  One of these later hymns also gave sacred endorsement to the new stratification of Aryan society.29 Another rishi meditated on the ancient myth of the king whose sacrificial death had given birth to the cosmos and whom the rishi called Purusha, the primordial “Person.” He described Purusha lying down on the freshly mown grass of the ritual arena and allowing the gods to kill him. His corpse was then dismembered and became the components of the universe: birds, animals, horses, cattle, heaven and earth, sun and moon, and even the great devas Agni and Indra, all emerged from different parts of his body. Yet only 25 percent of Purusha’s being formed the finite world; the other 75 percent was unaffected by time and mortality, transcendent and illimitable. There would always be something in the human experience of the natural world that would elude our comprehension. In Purusha’s self-surrender, the old cosmic battles and agonistic sacred contests were replaced by a myth in which there was no fighting: the king gave himself away without a struggle.

  The new social classes of the Aryan kingdom also sprouted from Purusha’s body:

  When they divided Purusha, how many portions did they make?

  What did they call his mouth, his arms?

  What do they call his thighs and feet?

  The priest [Brahmin] was his mouth; of both of his arms was the warrior [rajanya] made.

  His thighs became the commoner [vaishya], from his feet the servant [shudra] was produced.30

  Thus the newly stratified society, the hymn claimed, was not a dangerous break with the egalitarian past but was as old as the universe itself. Aryan society was now divided into four social classes—the seed of the elaborate caste system that would develop later. Each class (varna) had its own sacred “duty” (dharma). Nobody could perform the task allotted to another class, any more than a star could leave its path and encroach on a planet’s circuit.

  Sacrifice was still fundamental; members of each varna had to give up their own preferences for the sake of the whole. It was the dharma of the Brahmins, who came from Purusha’s mouth, to preside over the rituals of society.31 For the first time in Aryan history, the warriors now formed a distinct class called the rajanya, a new term in the Rig Veda; later they would be known as Kshatriya (“the empowered ones”). They came from Purusha’s arms, chest, and heart, the seat of strength, courage, and energy, and their dharma was daily to put their lives at risk. This was a significant development, because it limited violence in the Aryan community. Hitherto all able-bodied men had been fighters and aggression the raison d’être of the entire tribe. The hymn acknowledged that the rajanya was indispensable, because the kingdom could not survive without force and coercion. But henceforth only the rajanya could bear arms. Members of the other three classes—Brahmins, vaishyas, and shudras—now had to relinquish violence and were no longer allowed to take part in raids nor fight in their kingdom’s wars.

  In the two lower classes we see the systemic violence of this new society. They came from Purusha’s legs and feet, the lower and largest part of the body; their dharma was to serve, to run errands for the nobility, and bear the weight of the entire social frame, performing the productive labor on which the agrarian kingdom depended.32 The dharma of the vaishya, the ordinary clansman, now forbidden to fight, was food production; the Kshatriya aristocracy would now confiscate his surplus. The vaishya was thus associated with fertility and productivity but also, being taken from a place close to Purusha’s genitals, with carnal appetite, which, according to the two upper classes, made him unreliable. But the most significant development was the introduction of the shudra: the dasa at the base of the social body was now defined as a “slave,” one who labors for others, performing the most menial tasks and therefore stigmatized as impure. In Vedic law, the vaishya was to be oppressed; however, the shudra could be removed or slain at will.33

  The Purusha Hymn thus acknowledged the structural violence that lay at the heart of the new Aryan civilization. The new system may have limited fighting and raiding to one of the privileged classes, but it implied that the forcible subjugation of vaishya and shudra was part of the sacred order of the universe. For the Brahmins and Kshatriyas, the new Aryan aristocracy, productive work was not their dharma, so they had the leisure to explore the arts and sciences. While sacrifice was expected of everybody, the greatest sacrifice was demanded of the lower classes, condemned to a life of servitude and stigmatized as inferior, base, and impure.34

  The Aryan conversion to agriculture continued. By about 900 BCE, there were several rudimentary kingdoms in the Land of the Arya. Thanks to the switch from wheat cultivation to wet rice production, the kingdoms enjoyed a larger surplus. Our knowledge of life in these emerging states is limited, but again, mythology and ritual can throw some light on the developing political organization. In these embryonic kingdoms, the raja, though still elected by his Kshatriya peers like a tribal chieftain, was well on his way to becoming a powerful agrarian ruler and was now invested with divine attributes during his yearlong royal consecration, the rajasuya. During this ceremony, another Kshatriya challenged the new king, who had to win his realm back in a ritualized game of dice. If he lost, he was forced into exile but would return with an army to unseat his rival. If he won, he downed a draught of soma and led a raid into the neighboring territories, and when he returned laden with plunder, the Brahmins acknowledged his kingship: “Thou, O King, art Brahman.” The raja was now “The All,” the hub of the wheel that pulled his kingdom together and enabled it to prosper and expand.

  A king’s chief duty was to conquer new arable land, a duty sacralized by the horse sacrifice (ashvameda), in which a white stallion was consecrated, set free, and allowed to roam unmolested for a year, accompanied by the king’s army who were supposed to protect it. A stabled horse will always make straight for home, however, so the army was in fact driving the horse into territory that the king was intent on conquering.35 Thus in India, as in any agrarian civilization, violence was woven into the texture of aristocratic life.36 Nothing was nobler than death in battle. To die in his bed was a sin against the Kshatriya’s dharma, and if he felt that he was losing his strength, he was expected to seek out death in the field.37 A commoner had no right to fight, however, so if he died on the battlefield, his death was regarded as a monstrous departure from the norm—or even a joke.38

  Yet during the ninth century, some of the Brahmins in the Kuru kingdom began yet another major reinterpretation of ancient Aryan tradition and embarked on a reform that not only systematically extracted all violence from religious ritual but even persuaded the Kshatriyas to change their ways. Their ideas were recorded in the scriptures known as the Brahmanas, which date from the ninth to the seventh centuries BCE. There would be no more crowded potlatches or rowdy, drunken contests. In this entirely new ritual, the patron (who paid for the sacrifice) was now the only layman present and was guided through the elaborate ceremony by four priests. Ritualized raids and mock battles were replaced by anodyne chants and symbolic gestures, although traces of the old violence remained: a gentle hymn bore the incongruous title “The Chariot of the Devas,” and a stately antiphon was compared to Indra’s deadly mace, which the singers were hurling back and forth “with loud voices.”39 Finally, in the reformed Agnicayana ritual, instead of fighting for new territory, the patron simply picked up the fire pot, took three steps to the east, and put it down again.40

  We know very little about the motivation that lay behind this reform movement. According to one scholar, it sprang from the insoluble conundrum that the sacrificial ritual, which was designed to give life, actually involved death and destruction. The rishis could not eliminate military violence from society, but they could strip it of religious legitimacy.41 There was also a new concern about cruelty to animals. In one of the later poems of the Rig Veda, a rishi tenderly soothes the horse about to be slaughtered in the ashvameda:

  Let not thy dear soul burn thee as thou comest, let not the hatchet linger in thy body

  Let not a greedy, clums
y immolator, missing the joints, mangle thy limbs unduly.

  No, here thou diest not, thou art not injured: by easy paths unto the Gods thou goest.42

  The Brahmanas described animal sacrifice as cruel, recommending that the beast be spared and given as a gift to an officiating priest.43 If it had to be killed, the animal should be dispatched as painlessly as possible. In the old days the victim’s decapitation had been the dramatic climax of the sacrifice; now the animal was suffocated in a shed at a distance from the sacrificial area.44 Some scholars, however, contend that the reform was driven not by a revulsion from violence per se; rather, violence was now experienced as polluting, and anxious to avoid defilement, priests preferred to delegate the task to assistants who killed the victim outside the sacred ground.45 Whatever their motivation, the reformers were beginning to create a climate of opinion that looked askance at violence.

  They also directed the patron’s attention toward his inner world. Instead of inflicting death on the hapless animal, he was now instructed to assimilate death, experiencing it internally in a symbolic rite.46 During the ceremony, his death was enacted ritually and enabled him for a time to enter the world of the immortal gods. A more internal spirituality was beginning to emerge, one closer to what we call “religion”; and it was rooted in a desire to avoid violence. Instead of mindlessly going through the motions of external rituals, participants were required to become aware of the hidden significance of the rites, making themselves conscious of the connections that, in the logic of the perennial philosophy, linked every single action, liturgical utensil, and mantra to a divine reality. Gods were assimilated with humans, humans with animals and plants, the transcendent with the immanent, and the visible with the invisible.47

  This was not simply self-indulgent make-believe but part of the endless human endeavor to endow the smallest details of life with meaning. Ritual, it has been said, creates a controlled environment in which, for a while, we lay aside the inescapable flaws of our mundane existence. Yet by so doing we paradoxically become acutely aware of them. After the ceremony, when we return to daily life, we can recall our experience of the way things ought to be. Ritual is, therefore, the creation of fallible human beings who can never fully realize their ideals.48 So while the day-to-day world of the Aryans was inherently violent, cruel, and unjust, in these new rites participants had the chance to inhabit—if only temporarily—a world from which aggression was rigorously excluded. Kshatriyas could not abandon the violence of their dharma, because society depended on it. But as we will see, some began to become painfully aware of the taint that the warrior had always carried in Aryan society, ever since Indra had been called a “sinner.” Some would build on the experience of the new rituals to create an alternative spirituality that would undermine the aggressive martial ethos.

  But in the new segmented society, very few people now took part in the Vedic rites, which had become the preserve of the aristocracy. Most lower-class Aryans made simpler offerings to their favorite devas in their own home and worshipped a variety of gods—some adopted from the indigenous population—which would form the multifarious Hindu pantheon that would finally emerge during the Gupta period (320–540 CE). But the most spectacular rituals, such as the royal consecration, would make an impression on the public, and people would talk about them for a long time. They also helped to support the class system. The priest who performed the rites was able to assert his superiority over the raja or Kshatriya patron and thus maintain his place at the head of the body politic. In turn, the raja, who paid for the sacrifice, could invoke divine authority to extract more of the surplus from the vaishyas.

  If these infant kingdoms were to become mature states, the king’s authority could no longer depend on a sacrificial system based on reciprocal exchange. In the Punjab all the booty and captured cattle had been ritually redistributed and consumed, so the raja had been unable to accumulate wealth independently. But a more developed state required resources of its own to pay for its bureaucracy and institutions. Now, thanks to the massive increase of agricultural productivity in the Doab, the rajas were becoming rich. They controlled the agrarian surplus and were no longer dependent on booty acquired in a raid and ceremonially distributed among the community. They were, therefore, becoming not only economically but politically independent of the Brahmins, who had once presided over and regulated the distribution of resources.

  By the sixth century BCE, the Aryans had reached the eastern Gangetic basin, a region with higher rainfall and even greater agricultural yield. They were now able to grow rice, fruit, cereal, sesame, millet, wheat, grains, barley, and with this enhanced surplus, support more elaborate states.49 As more powerful rajas conquered smaller chiefdoms, sixteen large kingdoms emerged, including Magadha in the northeast of the Gangetic plain and Koshala in the southwest, all competing with one another for scarce resources. The priests still insisted that it was their rituals and sacrifices that preserved the cosmic and social order,50 but the religious texts acknowledged that in reality the political system depended on coercion:

  The whole world is kept in order by punishment.… If the king did not, without tiring, inflict punishment on those worthy to be punished, the stronger would roast the weaker like fish on a spit. The crow would eat the sacrificial cake and the dog would lick the sacrificial viands, and ownership would not remain with anyone, and the lower ones would usurp the place of the higher ones.… Punishment alone governs all created beings, punishment alone protects them, punishment watches over them while they sleep.… Punishment is … the king.51

  We lack the archaeological evidence to know much about the organization of these kingdoms, however; here too we have to rely on religious texts, especially the Buddhist scriptures, which were composed and preserved orally and not committed to writing until the first century CE.

  An entirely different polity, however, had emerged in the foothills of the Himalayas and on the edge of the Ganges plain: the gana-sanghas or “tribal republics” that rejected monarchy and were ruled by assemblies of clan chieftains. They may have been founded by independent-minded aristocrats, who were unhappy with the autocracy of the kingdoms and wanted to live in a more egalitarian community. The tribal republics rejected Vedic orthodoxy and had no interest in paying for expensive sacrifices; instead they invested in trade, agriculture, and warfare, and power was wielded not by a king but by a small ruling class.52 Because they had no priestly caste, there were only two classes: a Kshatriya aristocracy and the dasa-karmakaru, “slaves and laborers,” who had no rights or access to resources, although it was possible for enterprising merchants and artisans to achieve higher social status. With their large standing armies, the tribal republics were a significant challenge to the Aryan kingdoms and proved to be remarkably resilient, surviving well into the middle of the first millennium CE.53 Clearly their independence and at least nominal egalitarianism appealed to something fundamental in the Indian psyche.

  The kingdoms and sanghas were both still mainly reliant on agriculture, but the Ganges region was also experiencing a commercial revolution, which produced a merchant class and a money economy. Cities linked by new roads and canals—Savatthi, Saketa, Kosambi, Varanasi, Rajagaha, and Changa—were becoming centers of industry and business. This challenged the structural violence of the class system, since most of the nouveau riche merchants and bankers were vaishyas, and some were even shudras.54 A new class of “untouchables” (chandalas), who had been thrown off their land by the incoming Aryans, now took the place of these aspiring workers at the bottom of the social hierarchy.55 City life was exciting. The streets were crowded with brightly painted carriages and huge elephants carrying merchandise from distant lands. People of all classes and ethnicities mingled freely in the marketplace, and new ideas began to challenge the traditional Vedic system. The Brahmins, therefore, whose roots were in the countryside, began to seem irrelevant.56

  As often in times of flux, a new spirituality emerged, and it had three interrelated
themes: dukkha, moksha, and karma. Surprisingly, despite this prosperity and progress, pessimism was deep and widespread. People were experiencing life as dukkha—“unsatisfactory,” “flawed,” and “awry.” From the trauma of birth to the agony of death, human existence seemed fraught with suffering, and even death brought no relief because everything and everybody was caught up in an inescapable cycle (samsara) of rebirth, so the whole distressing scenario had to be endured again and again. The great eastward migration had been fueled by the Aryans’ experience of claustrophobic confinement in the Punjab; now they felt imprisoned in their overcrowded cities. It was not just a feeling: rapid urbanization typically leads to epidemics, particularly when the population rises above 300,000, a sort of tipping point for contagion.57 No wonder the Aryans were obsessed by sickness, suffering, and death and longed to find a way out.

  Rapid change of circumstance also made people more conscious of cause and effect. They could now see how the actions of one generation affected the next, and they began to believe that their deeds (karma) would also determine their next existence: if they were guilty of bad karma in this life, they would be reborn as slaves or animals, but with good karma, they might become kings or even gods next time. Merit was something that could be earned, accumulated, and finally “realized” in the same way as mercantile wealth.58 But even if you were reborn as a god, there was no real escape from life’s dukkha, because even gods had to die and would be reborn to lower status. In an attempt to shore up the now-vulnerable class system, perhaps, the Brahmins tried to reconfigure the concepts of karma and samsara: you could enjoy a good rebirth only if you strictly observed the dharma of your class.59