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Deities and Devotees: Cinema,
Religion, and Politics in South India

Uma Maheswari Bhrugubanda
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Deities and Devotees
Cinema, Religion, and Politics
in South India
Uma Maheswari Bhrugubanda
1
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For my late father, Venkata Rama Sarma
and my mother, Sakuntala who dreamed big for their daughter
Genealogy does not pretend to go back in time to restore an unbroken
continuity that operates beyond the dispersion of forgotten things; its duty is
not to demonstrate that the past exists actively in the present, that it secretly
continues to animate the present, having imposed a predetermined form to all
its vicissitudes. Genealogy does not resemble the evolution of a species and does
not map the destiny of a people. On the contrary, to follow the complex course of
descent is to maintain passing events in their proper dispersion; it is to identify
the accidents, the minute deviations—or conversely, the complete reversals—the
errors, the false appraisals, and the faulty calculations that gave birth to those
things that continue to exist and have value for us; it is to discover that truth
or being do not lie at the root of what we know and what we are, but the
exteriority of accidents.
—Michel Foucault, Language, Counter-Memory, Practice:
Selected Essays and Interviews (1977)
Figures
I.1 Prabhat Films, Led by Damle and Fatehlal,

Is Best Known for Its Saint Films 16
I.2 Print Advertisement for Prabhat’s
Sant Dnyaneshwar (1940) 17
I.3 Advertising Early Mythologicals: One Promises
Romance and the Other Promises History 19
I.4 First Telugu Talkie, 1931: The Mythological
Bhakta Prahlada 28
I.5 Print Advertisement for Maya Machindra (1945):
An Early Telugu Mythological 29
1.1 S.V. Ranga Rao Playing Ghatothkacha

Enjoys the Wedding Feast in Mayabazaar (1957) 51
1.2 NTR as Krishna in Mayabazaar (1957) 53
1.3 Star as God: Framed for Worship
in Sri Krishna Pandaveeyam (1966) 61
1.4 NTR as Duryodhana in Sri Krishna
Pandaveeyam (1966) 65
1.5 NTR’s Triple Roles: Krishna, Duryodhana,
and Karna in Dana Veera Soora Karna (1977) 65
1.6 NTR Confronts the God Yama in the
Socio-fantasy Yamagola (1977) 74
1.7 Many NTRs: Still from Yamadonga (2007) 84
2.1 Nagaiah in and as Bhakta Ramadasu (1964) 93

2.2 Nagarjuna in and as Sri Ramadasu (2006).
ANR as Kabir Displays His Rama Bhakti 101
x 2.3 Nagaiah in Bhakta Potana (1942) 111
2.4 Nagaiah as Saint Tyagaraja in Tyagayya (1946) 112
Figures
2.5 Nagaiah in Yogi Vemana (1947) 113

2.6 Playing Ramadasu as Ethical and Political
Citizen–Devotee in Sri Ramadasu (2006) 114
3.1 A Benign Goddess Appears Amidst

the Ruins of the Patala Bhairavi Idol
in Patalabhairavi (1951) 126
3.2 The Crowd Demands the King Worship
Their Goddess in Nagula Chavithi (1956) 128
3.3 The King Tries to Persuade the Crowd
of Devotees in Nagula Chavithi (1956) 129
3.4 Jamuna as Sati Vipula in Nagula Chavithi (1956) 130
3.5 Janaki as the Malevolent Goddess Manasa
in Nagula Chavithi (1956) 130
3.6 Driven Out of the House, Sakhu Walks Towards
the Group of Bhajan Singers in Sant Sakhu (1941) 134
3.7 Alternating Close-ups of Her Bust and Feet
as She Strides with Determination
in Sant Sakhu (1941) 134
3.8 Lord Vitthala Pounding Grain in Sant Sakhu (1941) 135
3.9 Lord Vitthala Fetching Water in Sant Sakhu (1941) 135
3.10 Lord Vitthala Serving Sakhu’s Mother-in-Law
in Sant Sakhu (1941) 136
3.11 Goddess Film Devi Lalithamba (1973) Starring
K.R. Vijaya 139
3.12 Karuninchina Kanakadurga (1992)
Starring K.R. Vijaya as the Goddess 139
3.13 The Subaltern Goddess Makes an Appearance
in Ammoru (1995) 142
3.14 Computer-Generated Special Effects
3.15 Crowds of Devotees Gather to Acknowledge
the Appearance of the Goddess in Ammoru (1995) 152
3.16 Arundhati (2008), DVD Cover 153
4.1 Poster of a Goddess Film with Possessed xi
Viewer Being Blessed by the Goddess 169
Figures
5.1 Tirumala Temple Set Created for the Film
Sri Venkateswara Mahatyam (1960) Where
Regular Pujas Were Apparently Conducted
during the Period of Shooting 193
5.2 Idol of a Goddess Installed in Bengaluru
Theatre Premises during the Screening
of a Goddess Film in the 1990s 194
5.3 Early Mythological Urvashi (1946)
Promises Music, Spectacle, and Dance 200
C.1 Poster of Sri Venkateswara Mahatyam (1960)

Urging Viewers to Come for Documentary
Footage of Rituals 210
C.2 The Violent Goddess Ramya Krishna
C.3 Painting on the Wall of a Secunderabad
Goddess Shrine Inspired by the Still from
the film Ammoru (1995) 215
Preface
T his book is a genealogical study of the intersections

between popular cinema, popular religion, and politics
in South India. Focusing on the mythological and
devotional genres, it argues that cinema’s mediation of religion
presents us with an opportunity to explore the affective dimen-
sions of citizenship.
The predominance of the ‘religious’ genres was unique to early
Indian cinema. Both in the silent cinema period and well into the
late 1940s, these genres were extremely popular with audiences.
The films participated in elaborating the discourse of nationalism,
albeit by positing a glorious Hindu past. However, they also par-
ticipated in the project of social reform and regeneration. Despite
this, their popularity produced anxiety among the elite that the
Indian masses would remain mere devotees and never fully attain
the status of free citizens.
While the mythologicals and devotional films declined in Hindi
cinema in the 1950s, in Telugu (and Tamil too) they remained
popular well into the later decades of the last century. The politi-
cal success of the film star Nandamuri Taraka Rama Rao (also
referred to as N.T. Rama Rao or NTR), well-known for his
portrayal of gods and kings, posed afresh the problem of cinema’s
mesmerizing power that seemed to persuade viewers of the divin-
ity of film stars. In later decades, the figure of another kind of
viewer haunted the discourses around cinema, that of the female
viewer who got possessed in the film theatre during screenings of
goddess films.
xiv By using the questions around viewership as a focal point, this
book analyses filmic texts to foreground the ways in which they
Preface
mediate questions of mythology, history, and devotion. At the

same time, it also examines the practices of viewership in which
religious practice intersects with entertainment. Using Talal Asad’s
reflections on the concept of habitus, the book seeks to elaborate
the context within which cinema leads to cultivation of new sen-
sory modes and the reorientation of sensibilities. The changing
disciplines of film practice too are made the subject of analysis.
A central argument the book makes is about the production of
the figure of the citizen–devotee through cinema and other media
discourses. Through the use of this word, citizen–devotee, this
study points to the mutual and fundamental imbrication of the
two ideas and concepts. In our times, the citizen and devotee do
not and cannot exist as independent figures, but necessarily shape
each other. On the one hand, the citizen–devotee formulation
indicates that the citizen ideal is always traversed by, and shot
through with, other formations of subjectivity that inflect it in
significant ways. On the other hand, it points to the incontrovert-
ible fact that in modern liberal democracies, it is impossible to
simply be a devotee (bhakta) where one’s allegiance is only to a
particular faith or mode of being. On the contrary, willingly or
unwillingly, one is enmeshed in the discourse of rights and duties,
subjected to the governance of the state, the politics of identity,
and the logics of majority and minority, and so on. Religion as we
know it today is itself the product of an encounter with modern
rationalities of power and the modern media. Hence, the modern
hybrid formation—the citizen–devotee.
The first full-length study of Telugu mythological and
devotional films, this book combines an account of the history
and politics of Telugu cinema with an anthropology of film-
making and viewership practices. It examines a wide variety of
sources—Telugu film texts along with Telugu and English film
journals, media reports, memoirs and biographies of actors and
film-makers, as well as select interviews with film-makers and
viewers. It draws on film and media theory to foreground the
specificity of the cinematic medium and other allied technologies,
such as the gramophone, the radio, tape recorders, and television,
and to describe the new kinds of publics created by these tech- xv
nologies. Anthropological theories of religion, secularism, and the
Preface
formation of embodied and affective subjects are combined with
political theories of citizenship and governmentality to enrich our
understanding of the overlapping formations of film spectators,
citizens, and devotees.
!"
Acknowledgements
I t gives me great pleasure that I can finally place on record

my deep gratitude towards the many people and institutions
who have helped, supported, and sustained me over the many
years it took to complete this book.
First, this book is based on my PhD thesis, and I would like to
thank my dissertation committee members at the Department of
Anthropology in Columbia University—Nicholas Dirks, Partha
Chatterjee, and David Scott—and my external readers Sudipta
Kaviraj and William Mazzarella. Their generous and insightful
engagement with my thesis laid the foundation for this work.
Two fellowships that I received at that time—the SSRC-IDRF
grant and the Columbia University Travelling Grant—allowed
me to do much of the fieldwork for this project. My thanks
are also due to the staff at the National Film Archives of India,
Pune; the Tamil Nadu State Archives, Chennai; the libraries at
the Centre for the Study of Culture and Society, Bengaluru; and
Anveshi Research Centre for Women’s Studies, Hyderabad.
My sincere thanks to my colleagues in the Department of
Cultural Studies at the English and Foreign Languages University,
Hyderabad—firstly to M. Madhava Prasad for his exemplary schol-
arship and warmth and generosity, and to K. Satyanarayana, Satish
Poduval, and M. Parthasarathi, whose intellectual camaraderie and
friendship make the department a nurturing and hospitable place.
I also deeply appreciate the warm friendship of other colleagues at
the university, B.S. Sherin, Asma Rasheed, Madhumeeta Sinha,
Sri Vani, Maya Pandit, and H. Nikhila. I would also like to thank
xviii my students whose enthusiasm and intelligence have enriched my
teaching and research over the years.
Acknowledgements
My special thanks to Yamini Krishna, film studies research

scholar at the English and Foreign Languages University, for her
invaluable help with scanning part of my archival material and
identifying images for the book. I would also like to thank Pritha
Chakrabarti, research scholar in our department, for ready help
with some of the images used in the book.
Many, many years ago, it was the pioneering work of scholars
such as Tejaswini Niranjana, S.V. Srinivas, and Ashish Rajadhyaksha
that sparked a critical interest in the study of cinema. Their
continued support and friendship over the years is something
I highly value.
In Hyderabad, Anveshi has been an intellectual home where
I am constantly reminded of the work that knowledge production
does in the real world. I have learnt so much from the wonderful
friends I gained here that it would be hard to express my grati-
tude. First of all, I wish to mention Susie Tharu for her warmth,
intellectual presence, and constant inspiration to do more and to
do better. I also greatly appreciate R. Srivatsan for reading the
full dissertation and offering invaluable comments and encourage-
ment when I first began working on this manuscript. I would
like to especially mention the deep and abiding intellectual and
emotional bond that I share with A. Suneetha, Vasudha Nagaraj,
and Lakshmi Kutty that has proved especially nourishing over the
last few years. So many other friends have enriched my world
with affection, challenging ideas, and the example of their own
work: K. Lalitha, Rama Melkote, D. Vasanta, Sheela Prasad,
K. Sajaya, Gogu Shyamala, N. Manohar, Shefali Jha, Deepa Srinivas,
and Deeptha Achar.
Parts of this work were presented in different seminars and
conferences at the Centre for the Study of Culture and Society,
Bengaluru; The Sarai Programme at the Centre for the Study
of Developing Societies, New Delhi; the English and Foreign
Languages University, Hyderabad; Centre for Women’s Studies
and Centre for Regional Studies, University of Hyderabad;
Department of Humanities and Social Sciences, Indian Institute of
Technology, Hyderabad; Department of English, M.S. University,
Vadodara; and the Centre for Performance Research and xix
Cultural Studies in South Asia (CPRACSIS), Thrissur. I thank
Acknowledgements
the organizers and the audience at these different places for their
interest and engagement with my work. I hope some of their
insights have found their way into this book.
Some parts of this book have appeared in different versions as
articles in the Critical Quarterly and in BioScope: South Asian Screen
Studies published by SAGE. My heartfelt thanks to Colin Macabe
and Ravi Vasudevan for encouraging me to publish these articles.
The BioScope article has been reprinted in the four-volume set,
Film and Religion, edited by S. Brent Plate and published by
Routledge. My sincere thanks to all these publishers for their kind
permission to use these articles in this book.
My sincere gratitude to Sri Maturi Suri Babu of Creative Links
Publishers and Sri H. Ramesh Babu for images used in this book.
I really appreciate the patience and commitment of the team
at Oxford University Press (OUP), and special thanks to Rachel
Dwyer, who first recommended the manuscript to OUP.
I should mention Kiranmayi Indraganti, my sister-in-law and
fellow cinema enthusiast, whose love, encouragement, and readi-
ness with help of all kinds is something I have come to rely upon
so much over the years. My parents-in-law, Indraganti Janakibala
and Indraganti Srikanta Sarma’s scholarship and creative writ-
ing have been inspiring, and their unconditional love has played
such an important part in my life. Special thanks to Balaram, my
brother-in-law, for constant encouragement.
How can I even begin to thank Singaraju Ramadevi, my
twin sister and soulmate; my brother, Singaraju Sadanand; and
sisters, Varalakshmi and Sarada; and other loving members of
my family—A. Vidyadevi, my sister-in-law, my brothers-in-law,
R. Naganathan and M. Chakradhar, and my lovely nephews and
nieces, Sandeep, Nikki (Parimala), Sruthi, Aishwarya, Karthik,
and Shanmukh. And, of course, I always appreciate the quiet lov-
ing presence of Vadina.
And finally, Mohanakrishna, the music of my life, whose
unfailing love sustains me every day, and whose passion and
enthusiasm are a constant source of energy and inspiration! And
Neelima and Nishanth who fill my life with their wondrous
xx worlds every day and bring so much joy and fulfilment. I wish
I had worried less about work and spent even more time with the
Acknowledgements
two of them.
And last but not the least, thanks dear reader for reading this
book. I hope it will be worth your while.
!"
Introduction
Cinema and Religion—New Genres,
New Publics, and New Subjectivities
A goddess film that does not move the female audience into
a trance, one that does not induce possession among at least
some of them ought to be considered a failure.
—Kodi Ramakrishna, film director
There was no question of God not being elected…. The cinema

has stood the traditional relationship of myth and fact on its head.
Myth has become fact.The film star who plays God has become God.
—Chidananda Dasgupta, film critic
T he genesis of this book lies in a couple of puzzles that

have engaged me for a long time—one is the figure of
the possessed female spectator, which became a subject
of discussion with the popularity of goddess films in the 1990s;
and the second is the role of mythological cinema in the political
success of the film star N.T. Rama Rao (NTR) in the 1980s.
Pondering over these puzzles has led me to consider the history of
genres in Telugu cinema, as well as the practices of film-making
Deities and Devotees: Cinema, Religion, and Politics in South India.

Uma Maheswari Bhrugubanda, Oxford University Press (2018).
© Uma Maheswari Bhrugubanda. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780199487356.003.0001
2 and viewership. It pushed me to reflect upon the links between
religion, cinema, and politics, which subsequently opened up the
terrain of the affective in politics, and helped in understanding

cinema’s centrality in shaping the affective dimension of citizenship.
In the early 1990s, I had just joined university, and had found a
proper name for all the incoherent ideas and the sense of injustice
and outrage that I had felt, thought about, discussed, and debated
intensely; that name was feminism, and among the new set of
friends, teachers, and activists that I met, the question of women’s
agency was a major concern. In the mid-1990s, when the film
Ammoru turned out to be a major success, I initially refused to watch
the film. In fact, I was actually in deep despair about its popular-
ity, worrying about how easily women seemed to participate in
their own subordination. To my secular feminist sensibilities, the
film sounded entirely predictable—an ultra-faithful pativrata, an
avenging goddess, lots of weeping and screaming, and melodrama
at its worst. In any case, the genre had confirmed its low-budget
B movie status a while ago. However, then there were stories
about Ammoru’s special effects, about its success, and the thronging
women viewers, many of whom were supposedly getting possessed
in theatres. This posed a series of questions—how to understand the
appeal of the film? How to approach the question of religion, with-
out simply seeing it as an instrument for women’s oppression? Was
the goddess figure somehow empowering for women? How do we
understand empowerment itself? Was there more to this genre that
needed closer attention? How to study religion in cinema? These
were some of the initial questions that confronted me.
Telugu cinema continued to produce mythological and devo-
tional films based mostly on Hindu myths and legends, many
decades after they ceased to be major genres in Hindi and many
other Indian languages. The period from the 1950s to the late
1970s witnessed the successful production of a number of these
‘religious’ films, and while examining them, it is impossible not to
think of the star NTR, and his association with some of the best-
known films in these genres. Also, it is equally impossible to avoid
the puzzle of his success in politics within months of entering the
field and setting up a political party. In 1982, NTR, a film star
who starred in the roles of Hindu gods like Rama and Krishna in
many mythologicals, set up a political party, contested and won 3
elections, and became the chief minister of the state, all in the
Introduction
space of a year. For many political and social commentators and
film critics like Chidananda Dasgupta cited earlier, this whirlwind
success could only be explained through the power of his cin-
ematic image as god and hero! This kind of argument assumes it
knows the answers to the questions it needs to probe and explore.
It is based on two mistaken views—first, that mythological films
are full of piety, and second, that the film audience is religious
and naive, mistakes the actor for the divine characters he plays on
screen, and, what is more, even votes him to power on that basis.
These films thus came to be seen as major contributing factors in
the unusual and undesirable alliance between cinema, religion,
and politics in this part of the country.
Scholars like Madhava Prasad (2004, 2014) and S.V. Srinivas
(2006, 2013) attempted to move past such explanations to probe
questions of stardom, and the ideological role of cinema in legitimiz-
ing authority. However, it seemed as if in these efforts, mythological
cinema was being set aside as incidental, if not completely irrelevant
to understanding the true ‘political’ nature of NTR’s ascendance to
representative status. So, here was another puzzle, about the contin-
gent ways in which cinema articulated religion and politics.
Implicit in the two instances that I have discussed earlier,
instances that produced an anxiety about the excessive affective
power of cinema, is the question of viewership. How do we
understand the practices of viewership in relation to cinema? If
cinema has a power to persuade people, to mesmerize them, even
induce possessions, how do we understand that power? These are
some of the questions I seek to explore in the following pages.
Hence, this book is a genealogical study of the intersections
between popular cinema, popular religion, and politics in post-
Independence South India which produce, what I call, the figure
of the citizen–devotee. The book argues that the overlaps between
citizens, devotees, and film spectators over the decades need to be
viewed not as non-modern or irrational aberrations that demand
an explanation, but as an opportunity to revise our understand-
ing of citizenship and religiosity itself. Citizenship is not merely
a political subjectivity that overrides all other affiliations and
4 identities, but is an embodied affective way of being that is shaped
crucially by ideas of national belonging and national history (and
even regional and linguistic histories and identities), as well as by

processes of governmentality, and developments and discourses in
cinema and other media. In modern times, the religious mode of
being too, is by no means a private affair as liberal secularism decrees,
but is crucially mediated by modern political formations like the
nation, the state, and mass media. Hence, I use the term, the citizen–
devotee to indicate the mutual imbrications of the two categories.
The primary focus of the book is the discursive field of Telugu
cinema in the period starting roughly from the 1940s to the 2000s,
although I do discuss films from other languages, and debates that
occurred in the decades before the 1940s. By the discursive field
of cinema, I refer to not only filmic texts, but also disciplines of
film-making, practices of publicity, modes of film criticism, as well
as practices of viewership, all of which are an inalienable part of
the institution of cinema. Through tracking the emergence of the
figure of the citizen–devotee, and the transformations, interruptions,
reversals, and challenges that have marked the career of this figure
at different moments, this study also contributes to the project of
mapping the terrain of contemporary politics in South India.
This introductory chapter is divided into four sections. The
first section outlines the theoretical frameworks and conceptual
debates that I draw upon to elaborate my argument. The second
section provides a detailed introduction to the central object of
my research—the mythological and devotional genres in Indian
cinema, and the predominant frameworks within which they
have been understood. The third section has a more specific focus
on the history of these genres in Telugu cinema. It traces the vari-
ous performative traditions, as well as oral and printed texts that
have provided a basis for this cinema. At the same time, by paying
close attention to the formal and narrative aspects of these films,
I argue that cinema’s technology as well as the new political con-
text mediate existing texts and traditions significantly. Therefore,
these films are contemporary films, not simply carriers of ancient
myths and beliefs. The fourth and final section describes briefly
the overall method adopted in the study, and the range of mate-
rials that I have used. It also provides brief descriptions of the
chapters that follow to show how each chapter seeks to extend 5
and elaborate the central thesis of the book.
Introduction
***
Citizenship and Politics in Heterogeneous Times

Two important lines of thinking emerged from the critical work
that was produced in the wake of the crisis in secularism in India.
The first was an attempt to unpack the dominant secular ideology
to reveal that the abstract citizen–subject, despite its disavowal
of all particular identities, was invisibly marked as Hindu, male,
and upper caste; and that it was this subject which was rendered
normative (Dhareshwar 1993; Dhareshwar and Srivatsan 1996;
Menon 2006; Nigam 2006; Niranjana 2000; Pandian 2002; Tharu
2000; Tharu and Niranjana 1997). The second line of thinking
was an attempt to interrogate the concept of secularism itself as
it emerged in the Western context, to outline its limitations and
impasses, and to map its particular history in India (Bhargava
1998; Needham and Sunder Rajan 2007; Tejani 2007).
Partha Chatterjee (2004) has recently extended this investiga-
tion to think about the tensions between ‘unbound serialities’ like
citizenship, and ‘bound serialities’ like caste and religious identity.
He proceeds to probe the very dynamics between modernity and
democracy in India by theorizing popular politics in what he calls
‘the heterogeneous time of modernity’. Questioning some funda-
mental assumptions of classic social and political theory, he argues
that the supposed ‘empty homogeneous time’ of modern politics
is merely the utopian time of capital. It is an ideal that sustains the
teleological historicist imagination of identity, nationhood, and
progress. In the actual workings of modern life, according to him,
we find that ‘time is heterogeneous, unevenly dense’ (Chatterjee
2004: 7). While modern political theory has endorsed identities
such as citizens, workers, nations, intellectuals, and so on, as uni-
versal identities, and therefore considers them liberating, it desig-
nates other identities based on ethnic or racial origin or religious
community as constricting and conflict-producing. Benedict
Anderson’s The Spectre of Comparison (1998) is a good example of
6 this faith in the universalist critical thought of the Enlightenment.
Anderson names the former ‘unbound serialities’, and the latter
‘bound serialities’. Chatterjee takes issue with this conception.

He argues, ‘to endorse these “unbound serialities” while rejecting
the “bound” is, in fact, to imagine nationalism [and democratic
politics] without modern governmentality’ (Chatterjee 2004: 23).
He proceeds further to argue that this is the inevitable way in
which democratic politics unfolds in a country like India. Most
often there is a conflict between the demands of modernity and
the demands of democracy. Hence, we find such phenomena
as religious assemblies, cultural festivals, and even film fan clubs
becoming the grounds of political mobilization. As he describes
it: ‘what we see is the importation of the disorderly, corrupt, and
irrational practices of unreformed popular culture into the very
hallways and chambers of civic life, all because of the calculations
of electoral expediency. The noble pursuit of modernity appears
to have been seriously compromised because of the compulsions
of parliamentary democracy’ (Chatterjee 2004: 47–8).
Nevertheless, he argues, we ought to attend to such practices
with seriousness, as they tell us something about the way in which
popular sovereignty struggles against the normalizing practices of
governmentality to create real ethical spaces where the terms of
justice maybe reworked.
I think that it is possible to perceive the new kinds of politics and
citizenship that are forged in the heterogeneous times of Indian
democracy in the intersections between popular cinema, religion,
and politics that I will be exploring through this book.
Cinema and Politics

The cinema–politics link in South India has been recognized for
some time, given the extraordinary phenomenon where in at least
two states—Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh—political leaders
like M.G. Ramachandran and NTR, respectively, emerged from
the field of cinema. Although he never entered active politics,
Raj Kumar of Karnataka was both a superstar of Kannada cinema
as well as the pre-eminent representative of Kannada identity and
pride. This has been the subject of some very important studies
(Elder and Schmitthenner 1985; Pandian 2000; Prasad 2004, 7
2009, 2014; Srinivas 2006, 2009a, 2009b, 2013). These studies
Introduction
have provided rich and complex accounts of the ways in which
cinema is used as a means for propagating political ideologies and
consolidating regional linguistic identities. They give detailed
descriptions of how star images are constructed. They have also
studied the ways in which fan clubs become the basis for political
mobilization, and the overlaps between the identities of a cinema
fan and political subject, namely, the citizen. However, what
remains poorly appreciated and unexplored in these cinema–
politics studies, is another important dimension, namely popular
religion, especially the crucial role it plays in the case of Telugu
cinema and the Andhra Pradesh context. As mentioned earlier,
this book argues that an examination of this dimension will allow
us to appreciate how popular religious and secular traditions are
being constantly shaped and reshaped through different mass media,
especially cinema, and the kinds of ethical and political subjects that
such technologies and related discourses produce. Furthermore,
this examination will have implications for any effort to rethink
some of the most fundamental terms of our contemporary political
vocabularies such as citizenship, representation, and secularism.
Citizenship and Devotion

What is the relationship between citizenship and devotion? The
term deshbhakti in many Indian languages, for example, gives us
a sense of this modern demand for bhakti, that is, devotion and
willing submission towards the nation, and by extension, the
state. Hence, earlier forms of bhakti towards a divine authority
(daiva bhakti), or towards an earthly master or lord (swami bhakti),
or in the case of the woman, devotion towards her husband (pati
bhakti), are now to be subordinated to this new deshbhakti, which
is towards the nation. However, as I try to demonstrate in the
pages that follow, in our times, citizenship and the various forms
of devotion do not and cannot exist as independent categories,
but necessarily shape and mould each other.
Recent work in political theory has sought to rework the Kantian
lineages of the citizen as a free, individual, reasoning sovereign
8 agent.1 This work has attempted to show that people act as political
subjects not merely as reasoning agents, but also as embodied and
affective beings, who are shaped by particular histories and con-

texts. As the political theorist Chantal Mouffe argues, the problem
with many theories of democracy today, including the deliberative
model of democracy, is that they presume a certain kind of demo-
cratic subject who is imagined to be either a bearer of natural rights,
or a rational subject, or a utility-maximizing agent. This subject is
believed to be free of history, language, culture, and religion, all
conditions which crucially shape the kind of democratic subject
that emerges in particular contexts.2
Commenting on the importance of cultivating certain attri-
butes in the historical formation of the citizen figure, David
Burchell argues that citizens are socially and historically shaped.
He points out that Michel Foucault’s work on governmental-
ity demonstrates this by focusing both on the social discipline
imposed from the outside by governments as well as the internal
techniques of self-discipline and self-formation undertaken by
individual subjects themselves (Burchell 1995).
The cultural politics of cinema gives us a glimpse into the
terrain of struggle between governmental disciplines, the ambigu-
ous effects of mediatization, and the counterpractices of different
individuals and groups. The Indian citizen is then the creation of
different discourses—some complementary but others which are
conflicting. Therefore, despite her enmeshment in governmental
practices, the subject of religion and cinema remains a citizen but
a citizen of a particular kind, the citizen–devotee.
The term ‘citizen–devotee’ allows me to demonstrate that the
abstract ideal of the citizen never remains untouched by other
modes of subjectivity like religiosity. The religious mode of
being affects citizenship, at the same time, in a modern liberal
democracy, the religious beliefs and practices of citizens are not
outside the purview of the government. Despite, freedom to
practice one’s religion, one has to submit to the state’s discourse
1 For an illuminating discussion of this idea, see Balibar (1988, 1991).

2 Chantal Mouffe (2000), in The Democratic Paradox, cited in Laclau
(2005).
of rights and duties, to its politics of identity, and the logics of 9
majority and minority. In the modern world, religion itself is
Introduction
conditioned by existing power structures and the forms of media.
The formulation, citizen–devotee, captures this process well. The
book tracks the genealogies of this figure, both on-screen and
off-screen, through examining changing practices of film-making
and viewing in South India. It tries to reveal the particular media
and discourse networks that engender it and make it visible. An
important part of the effort is also to trace the class, caste, and
gendered contours of this figure as it is articulated in different
instances.
Anthropologies of Religion and Media

Talal Asad’s very important reflections on the modern catego-
ries of religion and secularism are some of the most insightful to
emerge over the last decade. Asad begins by asserting that ‘there
cannot be a universal definition of religion, not only because its
constituent elements and relationships are historically specific, but
because that definition is itself the historical product of discursive
processes’ (Asad 1993: 29). He argues further that the modern
concept of religion has emerged out of ‘a modern restructuration
of practical times and spaces, a rearticulation of practical knowl-
edges and powers, of subjective behaviors, sensibilities, needs
and expectations in modernity’ (Asad 2001: 146). In short, it has
emerged alongside the doctrine of secularism. Therefore, in his
later work, Formations of the Secular: Christianity, Islam, Modernity
(2003), Asad calls for a simultaneous consideration and under-
standing of the concepts of the religious and the secular.
A number of other studies produced in anthropology over
the last two decades have tried to understand the relationship
between religion and media. They have especially engaged with
issues of sensory perception and the embodied corporeal nature
of engagement with modern forms of media, be it calendar art or
photography in India ( Jain 2002, 2003; Pinney 2004), the dif-
ferent technologies of audio-visual media in the Western world
(Buck-Morss 1994; Seremetakis 1994), media technologies in
Nigeria (Larkin 2008), cassette sermons in Egypt (Hirschkind
10 2006), or censorship in Indian cinema (Mazzarella 2013). These
works provide important conceptual tools with which we can
approach the overlap between the spectator and the devotee.

A decade ago, Hirschkind and Larkin (2008) put together an
important and interesting collection of new work on media and
the political forms of religion. In their introduction, they make
a very significant observation: ‘[T]he availability of new media,
with their particular forms of circulation and use, impinges on
practices of religious mediation, knowledge, pedagogy, and
discipline, and thereby shapes the making of religious subjects’
(Hirschkind and Larkin 2008: 5). They point to two lines of
inquiry that the volume’s contributors pursue. The first of these
is concerned with the ways in which new forms of media are
put to use in the preservation and dissemination of tradition, and
in the individual cultivation of religious sensibilities. In the films
that I examine, and the practices of film-making, publicity, and
consumption that are associated with these genres, there are
certainly practices that one might describe as having a major role
in shaping and conditioning the sensory experience of people.
Some of the new audio-visual technologies have also been used
by people in the individual cultivation of piety or in establishing
a community. Dwight Friesen’s (2012) work on the use of the
Telugu devotional film Karunamayudu as an evangelical tool is a
case in point.
However, the public nature of the film viewer’s engagement
with cinema in theatres has been a matter of greater discussion and
concern for the secular elite. There are popular press reports and
film histories that mention instances of the viewers of mythologi-
cal and devotional films either praying to the gods on the screen,
singing along and swaying during songs, or even being possessed
by the power of the deity on screen.3 Many of the embodied
responses to these films would affirm what Christopher Pinney
(2004) has called ‘corpothetics’: the ways aesthetic forms demand
a full corporeal engagement from the viewer and listener, acting
on the body itself to produce intense affective states. Indeed, it
3 See Chapter 4 for detailed discussion of viewer responses.

would be necessary to get a fuller and better understanding of the 11
embodied aesthetic responses that film viewers have cultivated in
Introduction
other contexts, and now bring to the reception of the cinema. In
this respect, Asad’s reflections on the notion of habitus provide us
with a very useful framework.
Thinking About Agency and Habitus

In Asad’s view, an exploration of the idea of habitus and its rela-
tion to human actions, opens up the possibility ‘of enquiring
into the ways in which embodied practices (including languages-
in-use) form a precondition for varieties of religious (and secular)
experience’. He argues further that ‘authority itself comes to be
understood not as an ideologically justified coercion but as a
predisposition of the embodied self’ (Asad 2003: 252).
In a fine explication of Asad’s work on the relation between
habitus and agency, Scott (2006b) comments that for Asad,
agency cannot be thought of outside of habitus. It is the space of
sedimented and embodied practices and cultivation of particular
sensory abilities. Habitus is ‘an embodied capacity that is more
than physical ability in that it also includes cultivated sensibilities
and passions, an orchestration of the senses’ Scott (2006b: 150).
Asad clarifies further in an interview,
I employ habitus to refer to the predisposition of the body, to its
traditional sensibilities.There’s a crucial difference between habit as
the disposition the body acquires through repetition and inertia,
through the generally unconscious and uncontrollable circuits of
energy, emotion, feeling, and habitus, that aspect of a tradition in
which specific virtues are defined and the attempt to cultivate and
enact them. (Scott 2006a: 289)
The work of scholars like Asad and Scott alerts us to the prob-
lematic assumptions that govern secular modern conceptions
of agency as disembodied reflexive reason. They also thereby
challenge a particular conception of what constitutes the prop-
erly ‘political’ derived from liberal notions of the individual.
Asad’s notion of habitus is a productive opening for thinking of
viewer responses to cinema. What kinds of embodied modes of
12 apprehension do spectators bring to mythological or devotional
cinema? What problems does this involved/corporeal mode pose
for the liberal conception of a rational spectator?4
New Publics and New Modes of Circulation

At the same time, I think it is important to remember that these
affective responses are understood and rendered intelligible or
problematic by different discourses that circulate in and around
films. These include film criticism, film publicity, and censor-
ship, to name just a few of the more institutionalized discourses.
The printed calendars examined by Pinney (2004) and Jain (2002,
2003), and the sermon cassettes examined by Hirschkind (2006)
are both cheaply produced goods, and due to their specific nature
are amenable to individual private use and circulation. Unlike
these, film production is an altogether more expensive proposi-
tion, and is primarily meant for public and collective viewing.
Despite recent private modes of circulation of films, they remain
capital-intensive commodities that are produced by an industry
that needs to identify a logic, a structure, and elements within
them that can be named, branded, and reproduced every time, in
order to make them saleable and successful.
Therefore, our attention to habitus and embodiment needs to
be tempered by attention to the new forms of virtual and anony-
mous publics created by the new audio-visual forms. Hence, there
is a second line of inquiry that Hirschkind and Larkin identify in
their study of media and religion, which examines the circula-
tory modes through which religious publics are constituted. They
4 There is no doubt that film theory, drawing on psychoanalysis, con-

tests precisely this kind of an understanding by introducing the question
of the unconscious and desire. (For a representative selection of essays see
Kaplan [1990]. In Indian film studies, Madhava Prasad (1998) combines a
Marxist theoretical framework with concepts drawn from psychoanalysis.
Feminist scholars like Tejaswini Niranjana also draw upon psychoanalytic
concepts in their work [Niranjana 2007]). My own framework combines
a historical analysis of changing narrative and formal aspects of cinema
with an anthropology of viewing and film-making practices.
state that ‘these modes of circulation are less about the complex 13
cultivation of pious sensibilities—the fashioning of individual
Introduction
religious subjectivities—and more about the constitution of
religious identity within the broader public arenas’ (Hirschkind
and Larkin 2008: 5). They also emphasize that ‘this shift from the
rubric of “religious subjectivity” to that of “publics” is not a move
from “religion” to “politics” ’ (Hirschkind and Larkin 2008: 6).
They clarify:
Rather our focus on circulatory modes, public forms, and relation-

al identities aims to flesh out some of the conditions that shape the
possibilities of religious subjectivity and action but that don’t take
the form of the exercises of self-cultivation … These conditions
are political, but no more so than those we identified as pertaining
to the fashioning and organization of sensory experiences.
(Hirschkind and Larkin 2008: 6)
Following these indicative remarks, I seek to explore the ways

in which cinema and other media create mass religious identities
that are yoked together with other social and political identities to
produce particular kinds of subjects.
Apart from Pinney’s (2004) and Jain’s (2002, 2003) work
which I have already mentioned, in the Indian context, there
have been some important studies that explore the relations
between religion and media. The important collection edited
by Babb and Wadley (1997) was an early pioneering effort at
mapping the new field of religion and media in South Asian
studies. The work of Mankekar (1999) and Rajagopal (2001)
provided complex accounts of television viewing in India, and
the particular kinds of identities it produced. However, there
has not been any major work that seriously engages with popu-
lar cinema and religion. Rachel Dwyer’s book (2006) and Philip
Lutgendorf’s articles (2002, 2008, 2012) are very important
exceptions but both are largely confined to a discussion of Hindi
cinema. Therefore, this book is the first full-length study of the
mythological and devotional genres in Telugu cinema, and their
relation to religion and politics.
***
14 The Citizen–Devotee in Indian Cinema
Cinema spectatorship turned out, during the 1930s to be one of
the practices through which a new, generalized relation between

sensuous enjoyment and citizenship could be imagined—several years
before citizenship in the independent nation-state of India actually
had to be enacted.
—Mazzarella (2013: 206)
Silent cinema began in India in 1913, and the talkies came in

1931. The first four decades of film-making witnessed the
production of innumerable Hindu mythological and devotional
films. The mythological films, called pauranik in Hindi, and pau-
ranikam or pauranika chitram in Telugu, were films that drew upon
stories from the two grand epics of India, the Ramayana and the
Mahabharata, and other Puranic literature. The devotional films
in Hindi, Marathi, and other languages were mostly biographies
of Hindu saints or exemplary devotees. Often, they could be
biographies of particular deities or regional shrines, and usually
focused on recounting the miraculous powers of the deity and the
glory of the shrine. In contrast, the social film (a genre which dealt
with contemporary themes revolving around ordinary human
beings in a broadly realist or melodramatic form) struggled to
establish itself.
The statement by the father of Indian cinema, Dadasaheb
Phalke, that it was his desire to see Indian images on screen, more
specifically Indian gods and goddesses on screen, that inspired him
to set up the Indian film industry, is by now too well known to bear
repetition here. However, what is worth revisiting in that period
of cinema is the fact that mythological cinema was not merely an
early phase which revealed the Indian obsession with religion, and
which fortunately, was gradually overcome by the golden age of
the reforming, nationalist social films. This account fortunately
is no longer the journalistic and academic cliché it once was.5
Instead, recent studies have re-evaluated mythological cinema’s
5 Dharap (1983) and Dasgupta (1989) are two good examples of this
‘common sense’ that is slowly being displaced.
centrality to a variety of theoretical issues—history, modernity, 15
the formation of the national community, and the constitution
Introduction
of the media public (Dwyer 2006; Hansen 2006; Hughes 2009;
Kapur 2000; Rajadhyaksha 1993; Vasudevan 2011).
In Phalke’s Shri Krishna Janma (1918), an early silent mytho-
logical film, a crucial sequence depicts devotees belonging to
different castes gathering to worship the frontal iconic figure of
the god Krishna/Vishnu. As each caste group enters the frame,
and bows before the god, inter-titles announce their caste. Dress
and other accessories too serve as visual markers of caste identity.
Scholars have remarked on this early aesthetic attempt at imag-
ining the nation as an assembly of castes gathered around the
authority of the Hindu deity. Vasudevan argues that indeed it
is the cinematic frame that unites all the caste groups as citizens,
and in that sense, it is cinema itself that provides the glue for
nationalism. He states:
This is an important ur-text for images of intercommunity mingling

and self-transcendence. The transcendence is accomplished through
the figure of Vishnu, and the Vaishnavite porousness of self. It is
also accomplished through the cinematic frame as the basic unit
of perception, in which the simple, single shot setup is organized
to create a dynamic of reconstitution. But at another level, it is
also rendered as a form of direct address, aimed at the spectator.…
The spectator, rather than figures on-screen, becomes the primary
reference point for the presentation. (Vasudevan 2011: 140)
Thus, it is that the spectators are addressed as devotees, and as

future citizens of the nation that is being imagined, and cinema
becomes the means of assembling them into a community.
Many mythological films positioned themselves as records of
the glorious past of the nation. Vijay Bhatt’s 1943 Hindi film
Ramrajya,6 for example, opens with a song that is in praise of
the ideal kingdom of Rama, where joy and contentment reign
among the people. One of the visual images the song presents
6 Ramrajya has the distinction of being the only film that Mahatma
Gandhi, the father of the nation, despite his disapproval of cinema in
general, had ever seen.
16 is the modern-day map of the Indian subcontinent as it was in
1943, a map of pre-partition India. On to the map are inscribed
the words, Ramarajya. The ancient mythical kingdom of Rama

is literally mapped onto the soon-to-be independent nation.
Further, Rama’s polity itself is imagined as a democracy of sorts
with great determining value attached to the voice of the people.
When a local washerman accuses Sita of not being a chaste wife
for she has lived in another man’s house for many months, Rama
is forced to call a meeting of the loksabha, which turns out to be
an assembly of male members of all castes. People enter the hall
and sit in four groups according to the four varnas—Brahmin,
Kshatriya, Vaishya, and Sudra. Phalke’s idea of Indian society,
and by extension the Indian nation, as an assembly of Hindu caste
groups, is once again echoed here. The all-male assembly decides
that Sita, despite the agnipariksha (the test of fire to prove her
chastity) cannot be truly considered chaste, and that no man in
the loksabha would ever take back such a wife. Therefore, Rama,
ideal king that he was, bows to the people’s decree and decides to
abandon his wife.
The Marathi films made by Damle and Fatehlal for Prabhat
Films need special mention for their attempt to reimagine the
national community through the
transformative philosophies of
the medieval bhakti poets. Sant
Tukaram (1936) received plenty
of well-deserved critical attention.
However, lesser-known films like
Sant Sakhu (1941) and other Prabhat
films like Dharmatma (1935) and
Sant Dnyaneshwar (1940) directed
by V. Shantaram, too are worthy of
equal attention (Figures I.1 and I.2).
Even K.A. Abbas, progressive
FIGURE I.1 Prabhat Films,
film critic turned film-maker of the
Led by Damle and Fatehlal,
1940s and 1950s commented, ‘[t]he Is Best Known for Its Saint
popularity of early mythologicals, Films
aesthetically crude as they might Source: filmindia. 1939. Pune:
have been, was a manifestation of National Film Archives of India.
17
Introduction
FIGURE I.2 Print Advertisement for Prabhat’s Sant Dnyaneshwar (1940)
Source: filmindia. 1940. Vol. 6, no. 2: 17. Available at https://ia800704.
us.archive.org/8/items/filmindia194006unse/filmindia194006unse.pdf;
accessed on 23 June 2018.
growing national consciousness. These popular legends of the gods

and goddesses, familiar even to the commonest and poorest Indian,
provided an oblique affirmation of the national sentiment against
the threatened domination of alien culture’ (Abbas 1961: 10).
Expressing similar sentiments, pre-eminent Telugu film
critic, Kodavatiganti Kutumba Rao (popularly known as Koku)
wrote three articles about S.S. Vasan’s Tamil film, Avvaiyyar in
September and October 1953.7 In one of these, he compares
7 Kutumba Rao, ‘ “Avvaiyyar”: Review’ (1953, 2000), Kutumba Rao,

‘Malli “Avvaiyyar” ’ (1953, 2000), Kutumba Rao, ‘Itu “Avvaiyyar”, Atu
“Do Bigha Zameen” ’ (1953, 2000).
18 Avvaiyyar and Do Bigha Zameen, and comments that these two
films, very different from each other—one, a realist film narrat-
ing the life story of an ordinary poor peasant, Shambu, and the
second, a devotional film recounting the legends of an extraor-
dinary Tamil saint–poet, Avvaiyyar—are nevertheless both great
films. Having watched the Telugu dubbed version of the Tamil
Avvaiyyar, Koku remarks,
Gemini movies ought to be congratulated for bringing this
film to the Telugu audiences. Our leaders have been able to
accomplish the political unity of all Indians in a relatively short
period of time. However, cultural unity is not easily achieved.
Although Tamil, Telugu, Kannada and Malayalam people have
been under one rule, they are not acquainted with each other’s
culture. The Tamilians do not know about our Vemana and
Potana and we know nothing about their Avvaiyyar and their
Tiruvalluvar. It is a matter of debate whether national unity
is possible without creating mutual cultural awareness and
understanding. No other medium has, or can succeed as much as
cinema has in promoting cultural harmony. Vidyapati, Mahatma,
Tulasidas, Tukaram, Potana, Vemana, Avvaiyyar are all undertaking
this task admirably.8
Despite positing modern, social films as the desirable genre, influ-

ential early film critics like K.A. Abbas and Koku recognized the
popularity of the mythological and devotional films, and their role
in the cultural integration of the nation.
Cinema’s Promise of the Real

Besides its nationalist promise, the cinematic medium’s primary
appeal lay in its ability to record and document the real. Its abil-
ity to capture reality as it exists was one of its chief attractions.
Therefore, irrespective of genre, realism of a certain kind was
promised. Advertisements for two different films produced in
1937, one an action film, and the second, a saint film, claim to
8 Kutumba Rao, ‘Itu “Avvaiyyar”, Atu “Do Bigha Zameen” ’ (1953,

2000: 423).
have captured reality. The adver- 19
tisement for Toofani Tarzan claims
Introduction
‘a 100% Real Jungle Thriller taken
in real jungles with live Jungle
Animals—Scores of Wild Beasts,
Wild Elephants. Hundreds of Savages
and A gorilla’.9
In a similar vein, the advertisement
for Saint Arunagiri claims ‘coming to
life realistically amidst actual scenes
of the South Indian temples in telling
reels of tears, sorrow and the unfor- FIGURE I.3 Advertising
gettable philosophy of the saint wor- Early Mythologicals: One
shipped and admired by all’. All this, Promises Romance and the
the advertisement claims, in addi- Other Promises History
tion to the musical performances of Source: filmindia. 1945 (December).
great musicians like T.M. Manickar Vol. 11 no. 12: 54. Available
Bagavathar, T.K. Ramaswamy at https://archive.org/stream/
filmindia194511unse#page/
Pattar, and Narayan Iyengar (see 54; accessed 21 November 2017.
Figure I.3 for other examples).10
This ability of cinema to record the real helps us appreciate
the crucial point that the social film is not more realistic simply
by virtue of being set in a modern, secular space; neither is the
mythological film less realistic for dealing with mythical charac-
ters and situations. Indeed, as Ashish Rajadhyaksha has remarked
in relation to the early mythologicals of Phalke and other silent
films of the 1920s, what we find in these is a cinematic realism:
‘not realism as plausibility but in its different guise, of realization:
making it happen before your eyes’ (1994: 37). He proceeds
to quote from Phalke who stated: ‘Mountains, rivers, oceans,
houses, human beings, animals, birds, everything on the screen is
real. The miracle of the visual appearance of objects is sometimes
caused by the play of light and shadow. This is the magic of
the filmmaker’.11 Rajadhyaksha argues further that for Phalke
9 Talk-a-Tone: A Film Journal in English, 17 September 1937, II(8).

10 Talk-a-Tone: A Film Journal in English, 17 September 1937, II(8): 28.
11 Phalke (1917), cited in Rajadhyaksha (1994: 37).
20 they were also real because they could specifically be ‘recog-
nized’ as Indian! Therefore, even though the early non-Phalke
films that Rajadhyaksha examines could be divided following

conventional genre classifications such as the ‘reform social’, the
‘pauranic mythological’, and the ‘fantasy film’, what holds them
together, according to him, is an understanding of realism as
something that can be realized on screen, and as something that
is recognizable as nationalist Indian. ‘What brings them together,
and allows for consistent overlaps that two decades after sound
came to be ideologically inflected into the nationalist “All-India
film”, is precisely the version of realism that Phalke argues for
when he says that “everything on the screen is real”. I might
add, it is real because you can see it and, further, recognize
it’ (Rajadhyaksha 1994: 37). The cinematic codes most often
deployed by these films were iconic framings of God, woman,
landlord, and frontal tableaus picturing the god facing his devo-
tees in Shri Krishna Janma, or the family with the woman at the
centre of it in Pitru Prem.
Hence, I will be trying not so much to identify the differences
in formal or narrative codes between the social and mythological/
devotional genres, but to historicize the deployment and appro-
priation of various formal techniques to produce and authorize
certain forms of subjectivity. In other words, what I will be
attempting is a historicization of the cinematic tradition of engag-
ing with mythic material.
If the film on the screen is one dimension of the problem at
hand, the viewer sitting in front of the cinema screen and his or
her responses to it as well as the various discourses that regulate it,
form another dimension to be examined. As we have seen, there
was hope and belief that these films inspired nationalist sentiments,
and often fuelled anti-colonial feelings. Yet on the other hand,
there was also an anxiety that the films promoted religiosity among
a population that was already believed to be devout, even super-
stitious. Therefore, in the discourse generated by film-makers,
film critics, and government experts, there is a tension between
the desire to create modern citizens and the fear that Indians fed
on such films might remain mere devotees. Hence, there was
no dearth of critics who condemned this excessive attention to
religion and tradition that was often exclusively Hindu, and its 21
potential to create communal disharmony.
Introduction
The Citizen–Devotee as a Subject of Governance
The British colonial perception of Indian audiences as igno-
rant, illiterate, and superstitious has persisted long after the end
of British rule. The ideas about the nature of audiences in India
that were expressed in the 1920s, continue to play a role well
into the present. The Indian Cinematograph Committee Report
(1927–8) that was commissioned by the colonial government is
one of the richest sources on the state of cinema of that decade.12
The Committee’s task was to assess the nature and demograph-
ics of Indian audiences, the grounds for film censorship, and the
possibilities of creating a quota to promote ‘Empire films’ (that is,
British films) to counter the onslaught of American films in India.
To this end, the Committee interviewed around 353 ‘witnesses’
including film actors, producers, distributors, exhibitors, film
censors, newspaper editors, and educationists. It published this
‘evidence’ in four volumes. As scholars who studied the Report
have commented, the subaltern spectator of Indian cinema was a
source of much concern for the colonial rulers as well as for the
nationalist elite. This spectator was described variously as illiter-
ate, uneducated, rural, ignorant, uninformed, religious, supersti-
tious, or as working class, lower class, youth, and so on. This
particular characterization of the Indian audiences has informed
not only modern film criticism, but also film policy and academic
writing on Indian cinema. Therefore, the view expressed in the
Indian Cinematograph Committee Report that illiterate masses
prefer to watch mythological and folklore films echoed in film
criticism for many decades to come. Talk-A-Tone, an English film
periodical published from Madras and focusing on South Indian
cinema wrote in 1949: ‘Why is it that these gentlemen (film-
makers) go after mythological stories for the themes of their play?
… They run after money and the best way to extract money from
12For more details on the Indian Cinematograph Committee

Report, see Jaikumar (2007) and Prasad (2009).
22 religious people is by presenting to them a story with a religious
title’ (Devan 1949: 55).
The Talk-A-Tone essayist even went to the extent of proposing

that religious themes be avoided altogether, because this alienates
people from other religions.
These gentlemen [film-makers] have partiality towards Hindu
Mythology. They select stories from old Hindu Puranas and
Sastras and edit them. It is quite natural that religious people
other than Hindus may not be able to understand or appreciate
the trend of the story and they practically curse the film and
its producers. This reluctance on the part of producers of other
religious mythologies embitters communal feelings which already
exist between different religious sects in our country. And is it not
the best way that producers avoid mythological stories altogether
and adhere to some beautifully written social stories so that no
religion can complain about the selection of the story while the
high objects and utility of films can be realised and appreciated?
(Devan 1949: 56)
This was one kind of secular response to the making of films with
religious and mythological subjects. If religion was kept out of a
public art form like cinema, then there would be no feelings of
bitterness or animosity between different religious communities.
Let religion be a private matter, and one of individual belief; let it
make no intrusion into the public sphere.
Indeed, the Indian Cinematograph Committee had deliberated
on this matter, and wondered whether censorship would be an
appropriate response. In the second part of the report, the Comm-
ittee posed a question about the conditions under which the state
could intervene and censor a film. They asked, ‘[s]hould more
care be taken in censoring films likely to offend religious suscepti-
bilities?’ A written response was given by P.R. Tipnis, Proprietor,
New Royal Cinema, and Secretary, the Great Eastern Corporation
Ltd, Delhi. Tipnis was the producer of the first Indian picture in
1911, Pundalik. The response is very interesting in terms of what it
believed to be the responsibility of a secular liberal state in relation
to ‘excessive’ religious sentiments. Tipnis does not believe that such
care should be taken, and explains why. I quote his answer in full:
26. a) No. On the other hand, religious susceptibilities are now- 23
a-days too much made of. For example, the Muhammadans do not
Introduction
suffer any picture made depicting the life of their Prophet. This
may or may not be reasonable, but that they should resent films
like, ‘The Moon of Israel’, it is most objectionable—when there is
no direct attack on their religion or any deliberate perversion of
their beliefs, they cannot prevent other communities from seeing
such films. As the censors have certified the film, ‘The Life of
Christ’ for Christians only, I think the films like the ‘Moon of
Israel’ etc. should be certified as for ‘all except Muhammadans’.
Otherwise the fanaticism of a particular community will interfere
with the rights of other communities. Take the instance of the
film, ‘The Light of Asia’ depicting the life of Lord Buddha. The
general tenor of the film version is true to the teachings of Lord
Buddha, and other communities on seeing the picture will be
favourably impressed by the life of the Buddhist prophet. However,
the fanaticism of the Muhammadans also caught a small section of
the Buddhists in Ceylon and the Malay states and the government
instead of being strong, yielded to the agitation and banned its
exhibition. Now the question arose there also that to satisfy the
whims of a small section, the whole community was not allowed
to see the film. Not only that but the other communities simply
because they were in Ceylon could not see the film which has
been admired everywhere it was shown. That is why I say that
if the whole community is willing to leave its conscience in the
keeping of its fanatic section, let it, but it should not be allowed to
interfere with the rights of other communities in seeing the film.
Let such films be certified as meant for others than the particular
community.
I think the films should not be deprived of their liberty any
more than the books. If at any particular place, the administration
apprehends any damage to the public peace, let that administration
take the responsibility for the stoppage of a certain film in that
area. But the censor must be left unfettered by such considerations.
(Indian Cinematograph Committee Report 1928)
Several aspects of Tipnis’ statement warrant a comment. First

of all, it is quite clear that Tipnis is very disapproving of the
importance given to such things as religious susceptibilities.
The British government’s committee seems more mindful
24 of them.13 But it needs to be recognized that for both the
Committee (which proposed censorship with the purpose of not
offending religious susceptibilities), and Tipnis (who is opposed

to it in the name of liberty and freedom), these susceptibilities
are a problem for governance. Whether they are taken seriously
or dismissed, it is in the interests of governance that this decision
is made. While the government wishes to avoid any ‘trouble’,
Tipnis argues for preserving the rights of those who are opposed
to such ‘fanaticism’ within the religious community, and the
rights of other religious communities to watch the films that are
made about them. Mohammedans are clearly seen as more prone
to taking offence, and it is believed that this attitude needs to
be discouraged through government action. Tipnis is willing to
concede that in places where ‘public peace’ is threatened, the film
in question could be stopped.
Wendy Brown (2008) has argued that both tolerance and the
withholding of it work as instruments of power, and within a
logic of governmentality. As she remarks,
the invocation of tolerance functions as a critical index of the

limited reach of liberal equality claims. Practices of tolerance are
tacit acknowledgements that the Other remains politically outside
a norm of citizenship, that the Other remains politically other, that
it has not been fully incorporated by a liberal discourse of equality
and cannot be managed through a division of labor suffused with
the terms of its subordination. (Brown 2008: 75)
As we will see in later chapters of this book, the dominant con-
ception of the citizen–devotee is a casteless (read upper-caste),
pan-Indian Hindu which renders the Muslim as Other, and as the
object of tolerance.14
To return to the Talk-A-Tone essayist, South Indian film pro-
ducers seemed not to have heeded his advice about abstaining
13 After the 1857 revolt, the British government was particularly anx-
ious not to offend religious sensibilities. See Nicholas Dirks’ chapter on
the hook-swinging controversy in southern India in his book Castes of
Mind (Dirks 2001).
14 See Chapter 2 in this book.
from religious themes altogether. From the 1950s onwards, the 25
mythological and devotional genres became marginal genres in
Introduction
Hindi; Telugu cinema, however, continued to make films based
on religious myths, and indeed introduced many innovations in
presenting these films in theatres, which I discuss in later chap-
ters. In the 2008 diamond jubilee celebrations of the Telugu film
industry, the mythological film, although a dead genre now,
was proclaimed to be the most unique contribution that Telugu
cinema has made to Indian cinema.
***
Telugu Mythological Cinema and Its Antecedents:

The Puranic Literary Tradition
In his work on Telugu literature and culture, Velcheru Narayana
Rao makes two important points. He observes: ‘Massive retellings
of purana texts, among which the Mahabharata was the first, were
undertaken [in Telugu] by a host of Brahmin poets between the
eleventh and the fourteenth centuries, an activity that has gone
on virtually unabated right into the twentieth century’ (Narayana
Rao 1995: 26). The Puranas were not just translated, they were
performed in temples and other religious establishments for
public hearing, thus bringing the retold Telugu texts closer to the
audience for whom they were intended. The second important
point is that these were not mere translations, but retellings that
involved narrative transformations of various kinds. Narayana
Rao argues, ‘what Nannayya or Tikkana [medieval Telugu
poets] did in retelling the Mahabharata in Telugu was to
create a domestic Mahabharata, transformed to a regional
story of medieval South India, that could happen in any South
Indian kingdom, or for that matter in any large joint family’
(1995: 26–7).
Twentieth-century modern literature in Telugu too displays
varied critical engagements with mythical traditions, especially
the Ramayana. Celebrating them, modernizing and contempo-
rizing them, sometimes critiquing and subverting them—there is
a wide spectrum of engagements. Narayana Rao (2000) identifies
26 a strong ‘anti-Ramayana discourse’ that developed critiques of the
epic from various perspectives like the modernist, Marxist, and
feminist.15 As recently as 2000, Apoorva Puraana Kathalu, a col-

lection of ‘forgotten’ stories that have been retrieved to provide
a feminist and Dalit perspective on classical Telugu and Hindu
mythology, was published (Sauda 2000).
Elsewhere, Rao has pointed out that ‘minor’ subversive folk
traditions of retelling the Ramayana too exist (Narayana Rao
1991). For example, his work on the women’s Ramayana sung
in parts of Andhra Pradesh, presents a radically different perspec-
tive than the one that informs the familiar Rama story. Here the
woman’s point of view is presented prominently. Sita’s experi-
ence of growing up, her experiences of pregnancy and labour
are recounted in great detail. Commenting in general on the
nature of folk Puranas, the well-known folklorist and translator,
A.K. Ramanujan remarks:
In taking the same gods and heroes as in the Sanskritic Epics and
Puranas and making them do, say, and mean different things in
a local milieu, the folk myths domesticate them, incorporate them
in bodies that sweat, stink, defecate and menstruate (which their
Puranic counterparts usually don’t, with a few notable exceptions
like Parvati making Ganesa out of her body dirt), localize them, and
often contemporize them. (Ramanujan 1993: 105)
The folk Puranas in Telugu too conform to a large extent to the

characterization that Ramanujan provides. Thangavelu’s (1998)
important work on lower-caste Puranas of the Telangana region
is an excellent example.
15 Narayana Rao (2000) identifies Viswanadha Satyanaryana (b.1895),

the author of the Ramayana Kalpavruksham, as probably the only writer
of the twentieth century who celebrates the epic. Writings of the anti-
Ramayana discourse include Tripuraneni Ramaswami Chaudari’s
Shambukavadha (1920) and Suta Puranamu (1925), Gudipati Venkata
Chalam’s Seeta Agnipravesam (1935), and Mupalla Ranganayakamma’s
Ramayana Vishavruksham (published in serialized form in the 1970s), to
name the most prominent.
The Puranic Traditions: From Ritual Performative 27
Contexts to Modern Media
Introduction
Even more popular than the literary tradition of engaging with
the epics and Puranic material, was the strong tradition of staging
mythological plays. The stage was an extremely popular medium
of entertainment in Telugu, and the period between the late-
nineteenth and early-twentieth century saw the production of
many successful stage plays. These continued to be staged well
into the 1960s, and later too. Many of these were to provide the
‘content’ for early films. Stories, dialogues, songs, actors, costume,
and set designs, and even narrative conventions were all borrowed
from this rich repertoire. In fact many of the early sound films
in Telugu were no more than recorded plays. See Narasaraju
(2006) and Ranga Rao (1999) for detailed accounts of the drama
companies moving into film production (Figure I.4).
Most popular among the mythological plays (written mostly in
the period between 1890 and 1930) which travelled to cinema as a
whole or in part, were Pandava Udyoga Vijayalu, Satya Harischandra,
Gayopakhayanam, Sati Savitri, Sri Krishna Tulabharam, and Bhakta
Prahlada. All of these plays were famous for their songs and sung
verses, the padyalu. The ability to deliver long monologues consist-
ing of polysyllabic words and alliterative phrases was a skill that was
highly appreciated. Further the ability to sing the dramatic verses
(padyalu) with the right pitch, intonation, and pause, all of which
were necessary to convey the right sense and meaning of the verse,
was considered indispensable. The ability to sustain the tune at the
end of each verse was also an extremely important attribute of the
talented padyam singer of the Telugu stage (Figure I.5).
These traditions of weighty, dramatic monologues and padyam
singing were carried over into the cinematic tradition as well,
and became one of the chief distinguishing features of the Telugu
mythological film. Many films based on stage plays introduced
visual innovations, but more or less retained the aural world of the
stage play. Therefore, most viewers of mythological cinema came
to the theatre with ears that were attuned to the monologues and
padyam-singing traditions. The films revived and refreshed these
aural memories of the plays.
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The best part of the kangaroo is its tail. Talk of ox-tail soup, ye
metropolitan gourmands! Commend us to the superb kangaroo-tail
soup of Australia, made from the tail weighing some 10 or 12 lbs., if
a full-grown forester.
The pademelon, a smaller species of kangaroo, weighs about 9 or
10 lbs., and when cooked like a hare, affords a dish with which the
most fastidious gourmand might be satisfied.
The following is the native mode of cooking a kangaroo steak:—It is
placed in a scooped out stone, which is readily found in the streams,
and pressed down by heavy stones on the top of it; the heat is
applied beneath and round the first top stone; at the critical moment
the stones are quickly removed, and the steak appears in its most
savoury state.
The aborigines of Australia always roast their food; they have no
means of boiling, except when they procure the service of an old
European saucepan or tin pot. ‘It is a very remarkable fact’ (remarks
Mr. Moore) ‘in the history of mankind, that a people should be found
now to exist, without any means of heating water, or cooking liquid
food; or, in short, without any culinary utensil or device of any sort.
The only mode of cooking was to put the food into the fire, or roast it
in the embers or hot ashes; small fish or frogs being sometimes first
wrapped in a piece of paper-tree bark. Such was their state when
Europeans first came among them. They are now extremely fond of
soup and tea.’
A native will not eat tainted meat, although he cannot be said to be
very nice in his food, according to our ideas. Their meat is cooked
almost as soon as killed, and eaten immediately.
The parts of the kangaroo most esteemed for eating are the loins
and the tail, which abound in gelatine, and furnish an excellent and
nourishing soup; the hind legs are coarse, and usually fall to the
share of the dogs. The natives (if they can be said to have a choice)
give a preference to the head. The flesh of the full-grown animal may
be compared to lean beef, and that of the young to veal; they are
destitute of fat, if we except a little being occasionally seen between
the muscles and integuments of the tail. The colonial dish, called a
steamer, consists of the flesh of the animal dressed, with slices of
ham. The liver when cooked is crisp and dry, and is considered a
substitute for bread; but I cannot coincide in this opinion.
The goto, or long bag of kangaroo skin, about two feet deep, and a
foot and a half broad, carried by the native females in Australia, is
the common receptacle for every small article which the wife or
husband may require or take a fancy to, whatever its nature or
condition may be. Fish just caught, or dry bread, frogs, roots, and
clay, are all mingled together.
Mr. George Bennett (Wanderings in New South Wales) thus speaks
of Australian native cookery:—
‘After wet weather they track game with much facility; and from the
late rains the hunting expeditions had been very successful; game
was, therefore, very abundant at the camp, which consisted of
opossums, flying squirrels, bandicoots, snakes, &c.
‘One of the opossums among the game was a female, which had
two large-sized young ones in her pouch; these delicate morsels
were at this time broiling, unskinned and undrawn, upon the fire,
whilst the old mother was lying yet unflayed in the basket.
‘It was amusing to see with what rapidity and expertness the animals
were skinned and embowelled by the blacks. The offal was thrown to
the dogs; but, as such a waste on the part of the natives does not
often take place, we can only presume it is when game, as it was at
present, is very abundant. The dogs are usually in poor condition,
from getting a very precarious supply of provender. The liver being
extracted, and gall-bladder removed, a stick was thrust through the
animal, which was either thrown upon the ashes to broil, or placed
upon a wooden spit before the fire to roast. Whether the food was
removed from the fire cooked, or only half dressed, depended
entirely on the state of their appetites. The flesh of the animals at this
time preparing for dinner, by our tawny friends, appeared delicate,
and was no doubt excellent eating, as the diet of the animals was in
most instances vegetable.’
Another traveller in the Bush thus describes the aboriginal practices
and food:—‘We had scarcely finished the snake, when Tomboor-
rowa and little Sydney returned again. They had been more
successful this time, having shot two wallabies or brush kangaroos
and another carpet-snake of six feet in length. A bundle of rotten
branches was instantly gathered and thrown upon the expiring
embers of our former fire, and both the wallabies and the snake were
thrown into the flame. One of the wallabies had been a female, and
as it lay dead on the grass, a young one, four or five inches long,
crept out of its pouch. I took up the little creature, and, presenting it
to the pouch, it crept in again. Having turned round, however, for a
minute or two, Gnunnumbah had taken it up and thrown it alive into
the fire; for, when I happened to look towards the fire, I saw it in the
flames in the agony of death. In a minute or two the young wallaby
being sufficiently done, Gnunnumbah drew it out of the fire with a
stick, and eat its hind-quarters without further preparation, throwing
the rest of it away.
‘It is the etiquette among the black natives for the person who takes
the game to conduct the cooking of it. As soon, therefore, as the
skins of the wallabies had become stiff and distended from the
expansion of the gases in the cavity of their bodies, Tomboor-rowa
and Sydney each pulled one of them from the fire, and scraping off
the singed hair roughly with the hand, cut up the belly and pulled out
the entrails. They then cleaned out the entrails, not very carefully by
any means, rubbing them roughly on the grass or on the bushes,
and then threw them again upon the fire. When they considered
them sufficiently done, the two eat them, a considerable quantity of
their original contents remaining to serve as a sort of condiment or
sauce. The tails and lower limbs of the two wallabies, when the latter
were supposed to be done enough, were twisted off and eaten by
the other two natives (from one of whom I got one of the vertebræ of
the tail and found it delicious); the rest of the carcases, with the large
snake, being packed up in a number of the Sydney Herald, to serve
as a mess for the whole camp at Brisbane. The black fellows were
evidently quite delighted with the excursion; and, on our return to the
Settlement, they asked Mr. Wade if he was not going again to-
morrow.’
The kangaroo rat, an animal nearly as large as a wild rabbit, is
tolerably abundant, and very good eating, when cooked in the same
manner. The natives take them by driving a spear into the nest,
sometimes transfixing two at once, or by jumping upon the nest,
which is formed of leaves and grass upon the ground.
It is less sought for than its larger relatives, except by thorough
bushmen, owing to the prejudice excited by the unfortunate name
which has been bestowed upon it. Those who have once tried it
usually become fond of it; and to the sawyers and splitters these
animals yield many a fresh meal, during their sojourn amidst the
heavily timbered flats and ranges of Victoria and New South Wales.
The animal is not of the rat species, but a perfect kangaroo in
miniature.
The flesh of the phalangers is of delicate flavor. The large grey
opossum (Phalangista vulpina) forms a great resource for food to the
natives of Australia, who climb the tallest trees in search of them,
and take them from the hollow branches. The flesh is very good,
though not much used by the settlers, the carcase being thrown to
the dogs, while the sportsman contents himself with the skin.
The common opossum (Didelphys Virginiana) is eaten in some of
the states and territories of America; it is very much like a large rat,
and is classed among the ‘vermin’ by the Americans. Their flesh is,
however, white and well-tasted; but their ugly tail puts one out of
conceit with the fare.
The wombat, a bear-like marsupial quadruped of Australia, (the
Phascolomys wombat,) is eaten in New South Wales and other parts
of the Australian Continent. In size it often equals a sheep, some of
the largest weighing 140 lbs.; and the flesh is said by some to be not
unlike venison, and by others to resemble lean mutton. As it is of
such considerable size, attaining the length of three feet, it has been
suggested that it might be worth naturalizing here.
RODENTIA.
Passing now to the rodents or gnawing animals, we find that the
large grey squirrel (Sciurus cinereus, Desm.) is very good eating.
The flesh of the squirrel is much valued by the Dyaks, and it will,
doubtless, hereafter be prized for the table of Europeans.
The marmot (Arctomys Marmotta), in its fat state, when it first retires
to its winter quarters, is in very good condition, and is then killed and
eaten in great numbers, although we may affect to despise it.
The mouse, to the Esquimaux epicures, is a real bonne bouche, and
if they can catch half-a-dozen at a time, they run a piece of horn or
twig through them, in the same manner as the London poulterers
prepare larks for the table; and without stopping to skin them, or
divest them of their entrails, broil them over the fire; and although
some of the mice may have belonged to the aborigines of the race,
yet so strong is the mastication of the natives, that the bones of the
animal yield to its power as easily as the bones of a rabbit would to a
shark.
There is a very large species of rat spoken of as found in the island
of Martinique, nearly four times the size of the ordinary rat. It is black
on the back, with a white belly, and is called, locally, the piloris or
musk rat, as it perfumes the air around. The inhabitants eat them;
but then they are obliged, after they are skinned, to expose them a
whole night to the air; and they likewise throw away the first water
they are boiled in, because it smells so strongly of musk.
The flesh of the musk rat is not bad, except in rutting time, for then it
is impossible to deprive it of the musky smell and flavour.
So fat and sleek do the rats become in the West Indies, from feeding
on the sugar cane in the cane fields, that some of the negroes find
them an object of value, and, with the addition of peppers and similar
spiceries, prepare from them a delicate fricassée not to be
surpassed by a dish of French frogs.
There is a professional rat-catcher employed on each sugar
plantation, and he is paid so much a dozen for the tails he brings in
to the overseer. Father Labat tells us that he made his hunters bring
the whole rat to him, for if the heads or tails only came, the bodies
were eaten by the negroes, which he wished to prevent, as he
thought that this food brought on consumption! The health of the
negroes was then a matter of moment, considering the money value
at which they were estimated and sold. A rat hunt in a cane field
affords glorious sport. In cutting down the canes, one small patch is
reserved standing, into which all the rats congregate, and the
negroes, surrounding the preserve, with their clubs and bill-hooks
speedily despatch the rats, and many are soon skinned and cooked.
The negroes in Brazil, too, eat every rat which they can catch; and I
do not see why they should not be well-tasted and wholesome meat,
seeing that their food is entirely vegetable, and that they are clean,
sleek, and plump. The Australian aborigines eat mice and rats
whenever they can catch them.
Scinde is so infested with rats, that the price of grain has risen 25
per cent. from the destruction caused to the standing crops by them.
The government commissioner has recently issued a proclamation
granting head-money on all rats and mice killed in the province. The
rate is to be 3d. a dozen, the slayer having the privilege of keeping
the body and presenting the tail.
In China, rat soup is considered equal to ox-tail soup, and a dozen
fine rats will realize two dollars, or eight or nine shillings.
Besides the attractions of the gold-fields for the Chinese, California
is so abundantly supplied with rats, that they can live like Celestial
emperors, and pay very little for their board. The rats of California
exceed the rats of the older American States, just as nature on that
side of the continent exceeds in bountifulness of mineral wealth. The
California rats are incredibly large, highly flavoured, and very
abundant. The most refined Chinese in California have no hesitation
in publicly expressing their opinion of ‘them rats.’ Their professed
cooks, we are told, serve up rats’ brains in a much superior style to
the Roman dish of nightingales’ and peacocks’ tongues. The sauce
used is garlic, aromatic seeds, and camphor.
Chinese dishes and Chinese cooking have lately been popularly
described by the fluent pen of Mr. Wingrove Cooke, the Times’
correspondent in China, but he has by no means exhausted the
subject. Chinese eating saloons have been opened in California and
Australia, for the accommodation of the Celestials who now throng
the gold-diggings, despite the heavy poll-tax to which they have
been subjected.
Mr. Albert Smith, writing home from China, August 22, 1858, his first
impressions, says:—
‘The filth they eat in the eating houses far surpasses that cooked at
that old trattoria at Genoa. It consists for the most part of rats, bats,
snails, bad eggs, and hideous fish, dried in the most frightful
attitudes. Some of the restaurateurs carry their cook-shops about
with them on long poles, with the kitchen at one end, and the salle-à-
manger at the other. These are celebrated for a soup made, I should
think, from large caterpillars boiled in a thin gravy, with onions.’
The following is an extract from the bill of fare of one of the San
Francisco eating houses—
Grimalkin steaks 25 cents.
Bow-wow soup 12 ”
Roasted bow-wow 18 ”
Bow-wow pie 6 ”
Stews ratified 6 ”
The latter dish is rather dubious. What is meant by stews rat-ified?
Can it be another name for rat pie? Give us light, but no pie.
The San Francisco Whig furnishes the following description of a
Chinese feast in that city:—‘We were yesterday invited, with three
other gentlemen, to partake of a dinner à la Chinese. At three o’clock
we were waited upon by our hosts, Keychong, and his partner in
Sacramento-street, Peter Anderson, now a naturalized citizen of the
United States, and Acou, and escorted to the crack Chinese
restaurant in Dupont-street, called Hong-fo-la, where a circular table
was set out in fine style:—
‘Course No. 1.—Tea, hung-yos (burnt almonds), ton-kens (dry
ginger), sung-wos (preserved orange).
‘Course No 2.—Won-fo (a dish oblivious to us, and not mentioned in
the cookery-book).
‘No. 3.—Ton-song (ditto likewise).
‘No. 4.—Tap-fau (another quien sabe).
‘No. 5.—Ko-yo (a conglomerate of fish, flesh, and fowl).
‘No. 6.—Suei-chon (a species of fish ball).
‘Here a kind of liquor was introduced, served up in small cups,
holding about a thimbleful, which politeness required we should
empty between every course, first touching cups and salaaming.
‘No. 7.—Beche-le-mer (a dried sea-slug, resembling India rubber,
worth one dollar per pound).
‘No. 8—Moisum. (Have some?)
‘No. 9.—Su-Yum (small balls, as bills of lading remark, ‘contents
unknown’).
‘No. 10.—Hoisuigo (a kind of dried oyster).
‘No. 11.—Songhai (China lobster).
‘No. 12.—Chung-so (small ducks in oil).
‘No. 13.—Tong-chou (mushrooms, worth three dollars per pound).
‘No. 14.—Sum-yoi (birds’ nests, worth 60 dollars per pound).
‘And some ten or twelve more courses, consisting of stewed acorns,
chestnuts, sausages, dried ducks, stuffed oysters, shrimps,
periwinkles, and ending with tea—each course being served up with
small china bowls and plates, in the handiest and neatest manner;
and we have dined in many a crack restaurant, where it would be a
decided improvement to copy from our Chinese friends. The most
difficult feat for us was the handling of the chop sticks, which mode
of carrying to the mouth is a practical illustration of the old proverb,
‘many a slip ’twixt the cup and lip.’ We came away, after a three
hours’ sitting, fully convinced that a China dinner is a very costly and
elaborate affair, worthy the attention of epicures. From this time,
henceforth, we are in the field for China, against any insinuations on
the question of diet à la rat, which we pronounce a tale of untruth.
We beg leave to return thanks to our host, Keychong, for his elegant
entertainment, which one conversant with the Chinese bill of fare
informs us, must have cost over 100 dollars. Vive la China!’
Mr. Cooke, in his graphic letters from China, speaks of the fatness
and fertility of the rats of our colony of Hong Kong. He adds: ‘When
Minutius, the dictator, was swearing Flaminius in as his Master of the
Horse, we are told by Plutarch that a rat chanced to squeak, and the
superstitious people compelled both officers to resign their posts.
Office would be held with great uncertainty in Hong Kong if a similar
superstition prevailed. Sir John Bowring has just been swearing in
General Ashburnham as member of the Colonial Council, and if the
rats were silent, they showed unusual modesty. They have forced
themselves, however, into a state paper. Two hundred rats are
destroyed every night in the gaol. Each morning the Chinese
prisoners see, with tearful eyes and watering mouths, a pile of these
delicacies cast out in waste. It is as if Christian prisoners were to see
scores of white sucking pigs tossed forth to the dogs by
Mahommedan gaolers. At last they could refrain no longer. Daring
the punishment of tail-cutting, which follows any infraction of prison
discipline, they first attempted to abstract the delicacies. Foiled in
this, they took the more manly course. They indited a petition in good
Chinese, proving from Confucius that it is sinful to cast away the
food of man, and praying that the meat might be handed over to
them to cook and eat. This is a fact, and if General Thompson
doubts it, I recommend him to move for a copy of the
correspondence.’
A new article of traffic is about to be introduced into the China
market from India, namely, salted rats! The genius with whom the
idea originated, it would appear, is sanguine; so much so, that he
considers himself ‘on the fair road to fortune.’ The speculation
deserves success, if for nothing else than its originality. I have not,
as yet however, observed the price that rules in Whampoa and Hong
Kong nor the commodity quoted in any of the merchants’ circulars,
though it will, doubtless, soon find its place in them as a regular
article of import.
A correspondent of the Calcutta Citizen, writing from Kurrachee, the
chief town of the before mentioned rat infested province of Scinde,
declares that he is determined to export 120,000 salted rats to
China. The Chinese eat rats, and he thinks they may sell. He says:
—‘I have to pay one pice a dozen, and the gutting, salting, pressing,
and packing in casks, raises the price to six pice a dozen (about
three farthings), and if I succeed in obtaining anything like the price
that rules in Whampoa and Canton for corn-grown rats, my fortune is
made, or rather, I will be on the fair road to it, and will open a fine
field of enterprise to Scinde.’
Rats may enter into consumption in other quarters, and among other
people, than those named, when we find such an advertisement as
the following in a recent daily paper at Sydney:—
‘Rats! Rats! Rats!—To-night at 8 o’clock, rattling sport; 200
rats to be entered at G. W. Parker’s Family Hotel.’
Query.—What ultimately becomes of these rats, and who are the
persons who locate and take their meals at this ‘Family Hotel?’
Probably they are of the rough lot whose stomachs are remarkably
strong.
Some classes of the Malabars are very fond of the bandicoot, or pig
rat (Perameles nasuta, Geoff. Desm.), which measures about
fourteen inches in length from head to tail, the tail being nearly as
long as the body. They are much sought after by the coolies, on the
coffee estates in Ceylon, who eat them roasted. They also eat the
coffee rat (Golunda Ellioti of Gray), roasted or fried in oil, which is
much smaller, the head and body only measuring about four or five
inches. These animals are migratory, and commit great damages on
the coffee tree, as many as a thousand having been killed in a day
on one estate. The planters offer a reward for the destruction of
these rodents, which brings grist to the mill in two ways to the coolies
who hunt or entrap them, namely, in money and food.
The fat dormouse (Myoxus glis, Desm.) is used for food in Italy, as it
was by the ancient Romans, who fattened them for the table in
receptacles called Gliraria.
Dr. Rae, in his last arctic exploring expedition, states, that the
principal food of his party was geese, partridges, and lemmings
(Arvicola Hudsonia). These little animals were migrating northward,
and were so numerous that their dogs, as they trotted on, killed as
many as supported them all, without any other food.
There is another singular little animal, termed by naturalists the
vaulting rat, or jerboa. On an Australian species, the Dipus Mitchelli,
the natives of the country between Lake Torrens and the Great
Creek, in Australia seem chiefly to subsist. It is a little larger than a
mouse, and the hind legs are similar to those of the kangaroo.
Captain Sturt and his exploring party once witnessed a curious
scene. They came to a native who had been eating jerboas, and
after they met him they saw him eat one hundred of them. His mode
of cooking was quite unique. He placed a quantity, for a few
seconds, under the ashes of the fire, and then, with the hair only
partially burnt off, took them by the tail, put the body in his mouth,
and bit the tail off with his teeth. After he had eaten a dozen bodies,
he took the dozen tails, and stuffed them into his mouth.
The flesh of the beaver is looked upon as very delicate food by the
North American hunters, but the tail is the choicest dainty, and in
great request. It is much prized by the Indians and trappers,
especially when it is roasted in the skin, after the hair has been
singed off; and in some districts it requires all the influence of the fur-
traders to restrain the hunters from sacrificing a considerable
quantity of beaver fur every year to secure the enjoyment of this
luxury. The Indians of note have generally one or two feasts in a
season, wherein a roasted beaver is the prime dish. It resembles
pork in its flavour, but it requires a strong stomach to sustain a full
meal of it. The flesh is always in high estimation, except when they
have fed upon the fleshy root of a large water lily, which imparts a
rank taste to it.
The flesh of a young porcupine is said to be excellent eating, and
very nutritious. The flavour is something between pork and fowl. To
be cooked properly, it should be boiled first, and afterwards roasted.
This is necessary to soften the thick, gristly skin, which is the best
part of the animal. The flesh of the porcupine is said to be used by
the Italians as a stimulant; but, never having tasted it myself, I
cannot speak from experience as to the virtue of this kind of food.
The Dutch and the Hottentots are very fond of it; and when skinned
and embowelled, the body will sometimes weigh 20 lbs. The flesh is
said to eat better when it has been hung in the smoke of a chimney
for a couple of days.
The flesh of the crested porcupine (Hystrix cristata) is good and very
agreeable eating. Some of the Hudson Bay trappers used to depend
upon the Hystrix dorsata for food at some seasons of the year.
Rabbits, which form so large an article of consumption with us, are
not much esteemed as an article of food by the negroes in the West
Indies, resembling, in their idea, the cat. Thus, a black who is
solicited to buy a rabbit by an itinerant vendor, would indignantly
exclaim, ‘Rabbit? I should just like to no war you take me for,
ma’am? You tink me go buy rabbit? No, ma’am, me no cum to dat
yet; for me always did say, an me always will say, dat dem who eat
rabbit eat pussy, an dem who eat pussy eat rabbit. Get out wid you,
and your rabbit?’
And yet, with all this mighty indignation against rabbits, they do not
object, as we have seen, to a less dainty animal in the shape of the
rat.
Although the negroes in the West Indies do not care for rabbits, yet
their brethren in the American States are by no means averse to
them. A field slave one day found a plump rabbit in his trap. He took
him out alive, held him under his arm, patted him, and began to
speculate on his qualities. ‘Oh, how fat. Berry fat. The fattest I eber
did see. Let me see how I’ll cook him. I’ll broil him. No, he is so fat he
lose all de grease. I fry him. Ah yes. He so berry fat he fry hisself.
Golly, how fat he be. No, I won’t fry him—I stew him.’ The thought of
the savory stew made the negro forget himself, and in spreading out
the feast in his imagination, his arms relaxed, when off hopped the
rabbit, and squatting at a goodly distance, he eyed his late owner
with cool composure. The negro knew there was an end of the stew,
and summoning up all his philosophy, he thus addressed the rabbit,
at the same time shaking his fist at him, ‘You long-eared, white-
whiskered rascal, you not so berry fat arter all.’
I need not here touch upon hare soup, jugged hare, or roasted hare,
from the flesh of our own rodent; but the Arctic hare (Lepus glacialis)
differs considerably from the English in the colour and quality of its
flesh, being less dry, whiter, and more delicately tasted; it may be
dressed in any way. When in good condition it weighs upwards of 10
lbs.
The capybara, or water hog (Hydrochœrus capybara), an ugly-
looking, tailless rodent, the largest of the family, is hunted for its flesh
in South America, and is said to be remarkably good eating. It grows
to the size of a hog two years old.
The flesh of the guinea pig (Cavia cobaya, Desm.) is eaten in South
America, and is said to be not unlike pork. When he is dressed for
the table his skin is not taken off as in other animals, but the hair is
scalded and scraped off in the same manner as it is in a hog.
The white and tender flesh of the agouti (Dasyprocta Acuti, Desm.),
when fat and well dressed, is by no means unpalatable food, but
very delicate and digestible. It is met with in Brazil, Guiana, and in
Trinidad. The manner of dressing them in the West Indies used to be
to roast them with a pudding in their bellies. Their skin is white, as
well as the flesh.
The flesh of the brown paca (Cœlogenus subniger, Desm.), a nearly
allied animal, is generally very fat, and also accounted a great
delicacy in Brazil.
Another South American rodent, the bizcacha, or viscascha
(Lagostomus trichodactylus), is eaten for food. It somewhat
resembles a rabbit, but has larger gnawing teeth, and a long tail. The
flesh, when cooked, is very white and good.
EDENTATA, OR TOOTHLESS ANIMALS.

Wallace, in his travels on the Amazon, tells us that the Indians
stewed a sloth for their dinner, and as they considered the meat a
great delicacy, he tasted it, and found it tender and very palatable.
Among other extraordinary animals for which Australia is proverbial,
is the Echidna hystrix, or native porcupine, which is eaten by the
aborigines, who declare it to be ‘cobbong budgeree (very good), and,
like pig, very fat.’ Europeans who have eaten of them confirm this
opinion, and observe that they taste similar to a sucking pig. There
appear to be two species of this animal, the spiny echidna and the
bristly echidna; the first attains a large size, equalling the ordinary
hedgehog. It has the external coating and general appearance of the
porcupine, with the mouth and peculiar generic character of the ant-
eater.
The flesh of the great ant-eater (Myrmecophaga jubata, Linn.) is
esteemed a delicacy by the Indians and negro slaves in Brazil, and,
though black and of a strong musky flavour, is sometimes even met
with at the tables of Europeans.
The armadillo, remarkable for its laminated shell, when baked in its
scaly coat is a good treat, the flesh being considered delicate eating,
somewhat like a rabbit in taste and colour. The flesh of the large
twelve-banded Brazilian one (Dasypus Tatouay) is said to be the
best of all. In South America there are several species of armadillo,
all of which are used for food when met with.
Mr. Gosse states, that this animal feeds upon soft ground fruits and
roots, and also on carrion, whenever it can find it; and a large
proportion of the sustenance of this, as well as of other species, is
derived from the numberless wild cattle which are caught and
slaughtered on the Pampas for the sake of their hides and tallow, the
carcases being left as valueless to decay, or to become the prey of
wild animals. Notwithstanding the filthy nature of their food, the
armadillos, being very fat, are eagerly sought for by the inhabitants
of European descent, as well as by the Indians. The animal is
roasted in its shell, and is esteemed one of the greatest delicacies of
the country; the flesh is said to resemble that of a sucking pig.
PACHYDERMATA, OR THICK-SKINNED
ANIMALS.
What do our African brethren consider tit-bits? Ask Gordon
Cumming. He will enumerate a list longer than you can remember.
Study his ‘Adventures,’ and you will become learned in the mystery
of African culinary operations. What are sheep’s-trotters and insipid
boiled calves’ feet compared to baked elephants’ paws?
Listen to his description of the whole art and mystery of the process
of preparing them:—
‘The four feet are amputated at the fetlock joint, and the trunk, which
at the base is about two feet in thickness, is cut into convenient
lengths. Trunk and feet are then baked, preparatory to their removal
to headquarters. The manner in which this is done is as follows:—A
party, provided with sharp-pointed sticks, dig a hole in the ground for
each foot and a portion of the trunk. These holes are about two feet
deep and a yard in width; the excavated earth is embanked around
the margin of the holes. This work being completed, they next collect
an immense quantity of dry branches and trunks of trees, of which
there is always a profusion scattered around, having been broken by
the elephants in former years. These they pile above the holes to the
height of eight or nine feet, and then set fire to the heap. When these
strong fires have burnt down, and the whole of the wood is reduced
to ashes, the holes and the surrounding earth are heated to a high
degree. Ten or twelve men then stand round the pit and take out the
ashes with a pole about sixteen feet in length, having a hook at the
end. They relieve one another in quick succession, each man
running in and raking the ashes for a few seconds, and then pitching
the pole to his comrade, and retreating, since the heat is so intense
that it is scarcely to be endured. When all the ashes are thus raked
out beyond the surrounding bank of earth, each elephant’s foot and
portion of the trunk is lifted by two athletic men, standing side by
side, who place it on their shoulders, and, approaching the pit
together, they heave it into it. The long pole is now again resumed,
and with it they shove in the heated bank of earth upon the foot,
shoving and raking until it is completely buried in the earth. The hot
embers, of which there is always a great supply, are then raked into
a heap above the foot, and another bonfire is kindled over each,
which is allowed to burn down and die a natural death; by which time
the enormous foot or trunk will be found to be equally baked
throughout its inmost parts. When the foot is supposed to be ready, it
is taken out of the ground with pointed sticks, and is first well beaten,
and then scraped with an assagai, whereby adhering particles of
sand are got rid of. The outside is then pared off, and it is transfixed
with a sharp stake for facility of carriage. The feet thus cooked are
excellent, as is also the trunk, which very much resembles buffalo’s
tongue.’
Elephants’ petit(?) toes, pickled in strong toddy vinegar and cayenne
pepper, are considered in Ceylon an Apician luxury. As soon as it is
known that an elephant has been killed in Africa, every man in the
neighbourhood sets off with his knife and basket for the place, and
takes home as much of the carcase as he can manage to carry. The
flesh is not only eaten when fresh, but is dried and kept for months,
and is then highly esteemed.
The manner in which the elephant is cut up is thus described by the
author and sportsman I have already quoted:—‘The rough outer skin
is first removed, in large sheets, from the side which lies uppermost.
Several coats of an under skin are then met with. The skin is of a
tough and pliant nature, and is used by the natives for making water-
bags, in which they convey supplies of water from the nearest vey,
or fountain (which is often ten miles distant), to the elephant. They
remove this inner skin with caution, taking care not to cut it with the
assagai; and it is formed into water bags by gathering the corners
and edges, and transfixing the whole on a pointed wand. The flesh is
then removed in enormous sheets from the ribs, when the hatchets
come into play, with which they chop through and remove
individually each colossal rib. The bowels are thus laid bare; and in
the removal of these the leading men take a lively interest and active
part, for it is throughout and around the bowels that the fat of the
elephant is mainly found. There are few things which a Bechuana
prizes so highly as fat of any description; they will go an amazing
distance for a small portion of it. They use it principally in cooking
their sun-dried biltongue, and they also eat it with their corn. The fat
of the elephant lies in extensive layers and sheets in his inside, and
the quantity which is obtained from a full-grown bull, in high
condition, is very great. Before it can be obtained, the greater part of
the bowels must be removed. To accomplish this, several men
eventually enter the immense cavity of his inside, where they
continue mining away with their assagais, and handing the fat to
their comrades outside till all is bare. While this is transpiring with the
sides and bowels, other parties are equally active in removing the
skin and flesh from the remaining parts of the carcase.
‘In Northern Cachar, India, the flesh of the elephant is generally
eaten. The Kookies encamp in the neighbourhood of the carcase
until they have entirely consumed it, or are driven away by the
effluvia of decomposition. Portions of the flesh that they cannot
immediately eat are dried and smoked to be kept for future
consumption.
‘Fat of any kind is a complete godsend to the Bechuana and other
tribes of Southern Africa; and the slaughter of an elephant affords
them a rich harvest in disembowelling the carcase, and mining their
way into the interior of the huge cavity to remove the immense layers
furnished by such a large animal if in good condition.’
Galton, the African traveller, in his hints for bush cooking, tells us:—
‘The dish called beatee is handy to make. It is a kind of haggis made
with blood, a good quantity of fat shred small, some of the tenderest
of the flesh, together with the heart and lungs of the animal, cut or
torn into small shivers, all of which is put into the stomach and
roasted, by being suspended before the fire with a string. Care must
be taken that it does not get too much heat at first, or it will burst. It is
a most delicious morsel, even without pepper, salt, or any
seasoning.’
In all the large rivers of Southern Africa, and especially towards the
mouths, the hippopotami abound. The colonists give them the name
of sea-cows. The capture of one of these huge beasts, weighing, as
they sometimes do, as much as four or five large oxen, is an
immense prize to the hungry Bushman or Koranna, as the flesh is by
no means unpalatable; and the fat, with which these animals are
always covered, is considered delicious. When salted it is called zee-
koe speck, is very much like excellent fat bacon, and is greatly
prized by the Dutch colonists, not only for the table, but for the
reputed medicinal qualities which are attributed to it. In Abyssinia,
hippopotamus meat is commonly eaten.
The hog is one of those animals that are doomed to clear the earth
of refuse and filth, and that convert the most nauseous offal into the
nicest nutriment in its flesh. It has not altogether been unaptly
compared to a miser, who is useless and rapacious in his life, but at
his death becomes of public use by the very effects of his sordid
manners. During his life he renders little service to mankind, except
in removing that filth which other animals reject.
A delicate sucking pig, a Bath chap, or a good rasher of bacon are,
however, tit-bits not to be despised.
Lord Brougham hoped to see the day when every man in the United
Kingdom would read Bacon. ‘It would be much better to the
purpose,’ said Cobbett, ‘if his lordship would use his influence that
every man in the kingdom could eat bacon.’
In British India, only Europeans and the low Hindoos eat pork, but
wild hogs are very abundant, and afford good sport to the hunter.
The avoidance of pork arises as much from religious scruples as the
deep-rooted aversion to the domestic swine all must imbibe who
have only seen it in the East, where it is a tall, gaunt, half famished,
and half ferocious-looking brute, which performs the office of
scavenger.
The legend which ascribes to the eating of human flesh the origin of
one of the most loathsome of diseases, scarce offers a more horrible
picture to the imagination than is presented by a letter recently
published in the Ceylon Examiner. The beautiful islands of Mauritius
and Bourbon are largely supplied with pork from Patna, a province of
Hindostan that has been over-run by the cholera. Both there and at
Calcutta the bodies of the natives are consigned to the Ganges,
instead of being interred. ‘Let any person,’ says the writer in the
Ceylon paper, ‘at daybreak start from the gates of Government
House, Calcutta, and, whether his walk will be to the banks of the
river or to the banks of the canals which on three sides surround the
city, he will see pigs feeding on the dead bodies of the natives that
have been thrown there during the night. During the day the river
police clear away and sink all that remains of the bodies. Bad as is
the metropolis of India it is nothing compared to Patna. Hundreds
upon hundreds of human corpses are there strewed along the
strand; and fattening, ghoule-like, upon these are droves upon
droves of swine. These swine are slaughtered, cut up, and salted
into hams, bacon, and pickled pork, and then despatched to
Calcutta.... The great market for this poisonous swine produce is the
Mauritius and Bourbon, where it is foisted on the inhabitants as the
produce of Europe. Moreover, as these swine are sold in Calcutta at
3s. or 4s. each carcase, it is stated that the inferior class of
homeward-bound vessels are provisioned with them, and thus this
human-fed pork is introduced into Europe and America.’
Pork-eaters may believe as much of the following remarks as they
please. ‘It is said that the Jews, Turks, Arabians, and all those who
observe the precept of avoiding blood and swine’s flesh, are infinitely
more free from disease than Christians; more especially do they
escape those opprobria of the medical art, gout, scrofula,
consumption, and madness. The Turks eat great quantities of honey
and pastry, and much sugar; they also eat largely, and are indolent,
and yet do not suffer from dyspepsia as Christians do. The swine-fed
natives of Christendom suffer greater devastation from a tubercular
disease of the bowels (dysentery) than from any other cause. Those
persons who abstain from swine’s flesh and blood are infinitely more
healthy and free from humors, glandular diseases, dyspepsia, and
consumption; while in those districts, and among those classes, of
men, where the pig makes the chief article of diet, tubercle in all its
forms of eruptions, sore legs, bad eyes, abscesses, must prevail.’
These are the remarks of an American journalist, which, however,
have not, I conceive, the shadow of foundation.
‘It appears somewhat singular,’ remarks Mr. Richardson, in his
history of the pig, ‘that the flesh of the hog was prohibited in the
ceremonial of the Jewish law; the same prohibition being afterwards
borrowed by Mahomet, and introduced into the Koran.’ Great
difference of opinion prevails as to the cause of this prohibition;
some alleging that this food was unsuited to the land inhabited by
the Jews. As, however, the kinds of food to be eaten and rejected—
doubtless to prevent that luxurious epicurism unsuited to a growing
and prosperous nation—were to have a limit, this limit was fixed by
two distinctive marks: they must ‘divide the hoof, and chew the cud;’
that principle of restriction admitting only a limited range to the food
permitted. The pig, the horse, and the camel were excluded. It was
only in a state of low nationality, or in times of great degeneracy, that
the Jew ever tasted pork.
The food of the hog varies in different localities, and probably
materially influences the flavour of the meat. In the River Plata
provinces they feed them on mutton. After describing the purchase—
8,000 at eighteen-pence per dozen (?)—by a Mr. M. Handy, a
traveller adds, ‘As soon as the sheep became fattened on his own
lands, he killed about a thousand, sold the fleeces at five shillings
per dozen, and with the mutton he fed a herd of swine. Mentioning
this fact to a large party of Europeans, at the dinner table of Lord
Howden, when in Buenos Ayres, my statement was received with a
murmur of scepticism; but I offered to accompany the incredulous to
the pastures, where the remainder of the sheep were then
feeding.’—(Two Thousand Miles’ Ride through the Argentine
Provinces.) But the Yankees beat this, according to a late American
paper. In North America they generally feed them on maize, but in
some of the States, apples form a principal portion of their food, and
the ‘apple sauce’ thus becomes incorporated with the flesh. A
gentleman travelling down East, overtook a farmer dragging a lean,
wretched-looking, horned sheep along the road. ‘Where are you
going with that miserable animal?’ asked the traveller. ‘I am taking
him to the mutton mill, to have him ground over,’ said the farmer.

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Deities and Devotees: Cinema,

Religion, and Politics in South India

Uma Maheswari Bhrugubanda

© Oxford University Press 2018

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in

You must not circulate this work in any other form

ISBN-13 (print edition): 978-0-19-948735-6

ISBN-13 (eBook): 978-0-19-909327-4

Typeset in Bembo Std 11/13.5

I.1 Prabhat Films, Led by Damle and Fatehlal,

1.1 S.V. Ranga Rao Playing Ghatothkacha

2.1 Nagaiah in and as Bhakta Ramadasu (1964) 93

2.5 Nagaiah in Yogi Vemana (1947) 113

3.1 A Benign Goddess Appears Amidst

C.1 Poster of Sri Venkateswara Mahatyam (1960)

T his book is a genealogical study of the intersections

mediate questions of mythology, history, and devotion. At the

I t gives me great pleasure that I can finally place on record

My special thanks to Yamini Krishna, film studies research

There was no question of God not being elected…. The cinema

T he genesis of this book lies in a couple of puzzles that

Deities and Devotees: Cinema, Religion, and Politics in South India.

terrain of the affective in politics, and helped in understanding

even regional and linguistic histories and identities), as well as by

Citizenship and Politics in Heterogeneous Times

‘bound serialities’. Chatterjee takes issue with this conception.

Cinema and Politics

Citizenship and Devotion

affective beings, who are shaped by particular histories and con-

1 For an illuminating discussion of this idea, see Balibar (1988, 1991).

Anthropologies of Religion and Media

approach the overlap between the spectator and the devotee.

3 See Chapter 4 for detailed discussion of viewer responses.

Thinking About Agency and Habitus

for the liberal conception of a rational spectator?4

New Publics and New Modes of Circulation

4 There is no doubt that film theory, drawing on psychoanalysis, con-

Rather our focus on circulatory modes, public forms, and relation-

Following these indicative remarks, I seek to explore the ways

the practices through which a new, generalized relation between

Silent cinema began in India in 1913, and the talkies came in

This is an important ur-text for images of intercommunity mingling

Thus, it is that the spectators are addressed as devotees, and as

the words, Ramarajya. The ancient mythical kingdom of Rama

growing national consciousness. These popular legends of the gods

7 Kutumba Rao, ‘ “Avvaiyyar”: Review’ (1953, 2000), Kutumba Rao,

Despite positing modern, social films as the desirable genre, influ-

Cinema’s Promise of the Real

8 Kutumba Rao, ‘Itu “Avvaiyyar”, Atu “Do Bigha Zameen” ’ (1953,

9 Talk-a-Tone: A Film Journal in English, 17 September 1937, II(8).

films that Rajadhyaksha examines could be divided following

12For more details on the Indian Cinematograph Committee

The Talk-A-Tone essayist even went to the extent of proposing

Several aspects of Tipnis’ statement warrant a comment. First

offending religious susceptibilities), and Tipnis (who is opposed

the invocation of tolerance functions as a critical index of the

Telugu Mythological Cinema and Its Antecedents:

feminist.15 As recently as 2000, Apoorva Puraana Kathalu, a col-

The folk Puranas in Telugu too conform to a large extent to the

15 Narayana Rao (2000) identifies Viswanadha Satyanaryana (b.1895),

EDENTATA, OR TOOTHLESS ANIMALS.

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