Emerging from the colonial crucible

This is not just a study of the past but also a reflection of the present and a vital contribution to our understanding of modern Hindu identity, writes Ananya Singh.

Written in prose brimming with wit and vivid detail, Gods, Guns, And Missionaries by Manu S Pillai is a meticulous exploration of the historical origins of modern Hinduism. Spanning four centuries of colonial rule, Pillai embarks on a journey through the shifting terrain of Hindu identity in the context of India’s encounter with European powers. In tracing this evolution, one observes a continuum of reform, revival, and regimentation, wherein fluidity gave way to more rigid and politicised constructs and coalesced into a more assertive, ethno-nationalist iteration of Hindutva.

Pillai introduces us to a wide variety of characters, and the narrative starts with the Portuguese missionaries in Goa, where early encounters with Hinduism were marked by relative accommodation.

However, as the Catholic Church in Europe came under siege from the Protestant Reformation, this pluralistic engagement gave way to violent persecution. Under pressure to assert their legitimacy, Catholic authorities in Goa increasingly targeted Hindus as idolaters, using them as a foil to solidify their own embattled Christian identity. The critique of Hinduism by the missionaries mirrored the arguments used by Protestants against Catholicism in Europe.

Central to this was an attempt to drive a wedge between the scriptural foundations of Hinduism and its actual practices, presenting the latter as corrupted by an elite minority. In the Indian context, this elite class were the Brahmins, the gatekeepers of religious knowledge and those with institutional dominance. Just as the Protestant Reformation emphasised scriptural primacy and the removal of ecclesiastical mediation in Christianity, missionary critiques attempted to elevate textual authority over centuries of evolving traditions and regional customs. The result was the construction of a dichotomy within Hinduism: a “legitimate” philosophically rigorous version based on ancient texts and an “illegitimate” corrupted version shaped by superstition and ritualism.

As the Age of Reason gained momentum, traditional theism faced challenges from both sceptics and devout believers seeking to reconcile faith with science. Could another civilisation, deemed “barbaric” possess a purer, more unadulterated form of monotheism? India, with its ancient texts and “enigmatic Brahmins”, became the focus of this quest.

Those who were otherwise quick to dismiss contemporary Hindu society as degenerate started romanticising its past, creating a myth of Ancient India as the golden age of philosophical and spiritual purity. However, this shift was not an embrace of Hinduism in its lived, diverse forms but rather a selective appropriation, similar to what Hindu nationalists would later do. Vedas were elevated as the only holy scripture while condemning the more popular Puranic narratives as corruption.

The Vedas represented a reserved, Brahmanical ideal—a sanitised, elite version of Hinduism that could be valorised without engaging with the messy realities of caste, sectarianism, or regional diversity. What emerged from this colonial gaze was a reductive framework that sought to impose European theological categories onto Indian religiosity. Sanskrit emerged as the liturgical language par excellence, as the sole legitimate medium through which Hinduism could be accessed and understood. Even Hastings’ attempts to engage with Indian society were framed by pre-existing European conceptions, which struggled to reconcile with the complex and fluid realities of the subcontinent.

The European mind was accustomed to categorisation and rigid labels and found itself baffled by the messiness of Indian identities. The paternalistic outlook mirrored the mistakes made earlier by the Portuguese in Goa and these actions elicited a reaction among Indians, especially Hindus, who began to forge a nationalism that drew strength from what the foreign rulers could never entirely strip away—religion.

As Manu points out, the British “viewed Hindus, borrowing a line from our Mughal critic, like pictures on a wall.” Yet, those same Hindus would begin to portray themselves as a nation awakening from a long slumber. Various reform movements, such as the Arya Samaj, and the Brahmo Samaj, and the initiatives led by social reformers like Mahatma Phule, sought to reshape it.

With the emergence of figures like Bal Gangadhar Tilak and, later, Vinayak Damodar Savarkar, Hindu society witnessed an intensified effort at mobilisation. Resulting in a sense of regimentation within the community, blending socio-religious identity with political aspirations. Hindutva, as a more fervent, chest-thumping expression of Hindu identity, crystallised in this milieu as a muscular and exclusionary form of nationalism.

One disappointing aspect was the exclusion of the further evolution of Hindutva. This restriction appears logical, as it aligns with the intent to analyse the evolution within the specific historical timeline. What makes it stand out is its refusal to succumb to simplistic binaries—tradition versus modernity, coloniser versus colonised, etc. This is not just a study of the past but a reflection of the present, as the ideological currents the author explores continue to ripple through Indian society today. One of the book’s most remarkable achievements is its ability to resonate across the ideological spectrum, albeit in distinct ways. It is an important contribution to our understanding of the modern Hindu identity and the fraught journey of a tradition amidst the demands of nationalism.