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The Many Faces of a Himalayan Goddess
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The Many Faces of
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Haḍimbā, Her Devotees, and Religion
in Rapid Change
E H U D HA L P E R I N
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Halperin, Ehud, author.
Title: The many faces of a Himalayan goddess : Haḍimbā, her devotees,
and religion in rapid change / Ehud Halperin.
Description: Oxford ; New York : Oxford University Press, [2019] | Significant revision of
author’s thesis (doctoral—Columbia University, 2012, titled Haḍimbā becoming herself :
a Himalayan goddess in change. | Includes bibliographical references and index. |
Summary: “This book offers a portrait of Haḍimbā, a primary village goddess in the Kullu Valley
of the West Indian Himalayan state of Himachal Pradesh, a rural area known as the Land of God.
Drawing on diverse ethnographic and textual materials The Many Faces of a Himalayan Goddess
is rich with myths and tales, accounts of dramatic rituals and festivals, and descriptions of everyday
life in the celebrated but remote Kullu Valley. The book portrays the goddess in varying contexts that
radiate outward from her temple to local, regional, national, and indeed global spheres. The result is
an important contribution to the study of Indian village goddesses, lived Hinduism, Himalayan
Hinduism, and the rapidly growing field of religion and ecology”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019002173 | ISBN 9780190913588 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780190913595 (updf) |
ISBN 9780190913601 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Haḍimbā (Hindu mythological character) | Hindu goddesses—India—
Himachal Pradesh. | Himachal Pradesh (India)—Religious life and customs.
Classification: LCC BL1138.4.H53 H35 2019 | DDC 294.5/2114—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019002173
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America
To all those agents, human and other, who have helped me along the way
Contents
List of Illustrations ix
Acknowledgments xi
A Word on Transliteration xvii
Introduction: In Search of a Viewpoint 1
Chapter 1. Getting There: The Land of the Gods 13
Chapter 2. Assembling the Ritual Core: Haḍimbā as a
Complex Agent 37
Chapter 3. Narrating the Local Web of Associations: The Goddess
of Many Faces 85
Chapter 4. Encountering Epic India: Haḍimbā and the
Mahabharata 119
Chapter 5. Negotiating National Hinduism: The Controversy over
Blood Sacrifice 165
Chapter 6. Confronting the Global: Haḍimbā and Climate Change 211
Conclusion: What is Haḍimbā Devī? 243
References 247
Index 263
Illustrations
1.1. Kullu Valley. A view from the north, 2010. 15

1.2. Map of Himachal Pradesh, administrative divisions. 19
1.3. Kullu Valley’s major locations, towns, villages, and rivers. 21
2.1. Children playing with a mock rath, Old Manali, 2009. 55
2.2. Raths interacting in a village festival, Banarah, 2009. 64
3.1. Haḍimbā’s temple, Dhungri, 2011. 86
3.2. Haḍimbā’s palanquin visiting the king’s palace during the Dasahra
festival, 2009. 111
4.1. Ghatotkaca’s tree shrine, Dhungri, 2009. 132
5.1. Cooking for the public feast held after the buffalo sacrifice, Dhungri, 2011. 176
5.2. Devotees waiting for the communal meal during the buffalo sacrifice,
Dhungri, 2011. 184
6.1. Gurs of several local devtās during consultation, Dhungri, 2011. 217
Acknowledgments
This book draws on research I first conducted while at Columbia University,

and my first thanks go to those there whose guidance and support have been
offered abundantly from the very start. I owe the biggest debt to John Stratton
Hawley, whose involvement and dedication exceeded my greatest expecta-
tions. Jack’s thorough reading of my work, his numerous elaborate comments,
and his thoughtful suggestions on how to better frame and develop various
aspects of my research have been a blessing. His legendary commitment to his
students, which continued long after my graduation, provided a reassurance
that is rarely encountered in an academic setting. Special thanks also to Rachel
Fell McDermott, who helped me navigate the vast waters of goddess studies and
whose kind support and encouragement gave me confidence about what I do.
I am grateful to Mary McGee, who helped me to define the broad questions
and sensibilities that have continued to shape my research and who remained
involved in my project even after relocating from Columbia. For challenging
my conceptions of “lived religion” and pressing me to think deeply about the
broad implications of my research, I am thankful to Courtney Bender. Similarly,
Katherine Pratt Ewing’s insightful comments on my work helped me to contex-
tualize more broadly and to recognize the greater implications of my arguments.
I owe special thanks to Gary Tubb, whose interest in my study of the goddess
Haḍimbā provided the opportunity to pursue it in graduate school and beyond.
In the same spirit, I wish to thank my teachers in Israel—Shlomo Biderman,
David Shulman, and Yigal Bronner—who introduced me to the scholarly study
of India and guided and supported my early steps in the academy.
Throughout the years, I have received endless support, thoughtful advice, and
stimulating comments from many colleagues and friends to whom I am greatly
indebted. William Sax, whose scholarship has inspired me ever since I became
interested in Himalayan religion, has set an ideal I have tried to follow as both
a fieldworker and a writer. Bo, as he is known, provided compelling and inval-
uable comments on this manuscript, for which I am grateful. James Lochtefeld
offered helpful insights into my research, which helped me advance my questions
and better frame my findings. David Haberman, in a certain significant ex-
change, asked me questions about divine presence that motivated me to further
develop this perspective in this book. Frederick Smith invited me to a panel in
Madison, which led to several fruitful conversations and yielded helpful advice
xii Acknowledgments
on different parts of this work. Vasudha Narayanan supported my work in various

venues from very early on and was always interested in hearing about Haḍimbā
and conversing about my findings whenever we met. Special thanks go to Jon
Keune for his long-term friendship, for the ongoing exchanges about my work,
and for the twelve-hour car ride during which we had an extremely stimulating
conversation that helped me identify the strengths of my research and its poten-
tial contribution to the study of Indian goddesses, Hinduism, and religion more
broadly. Luke Whitmore has also been a great conversation partner, who read and
commented on the manuscript and provided useful advice on how to frame and
advance my thoughts. I would also like to thank the following colleagues for the
fruitful exchanges we had throughout the years: Amy Allocco, Andrea Marion
Pinkney, Brian Pennington, Caleb Simmons, Daniela Berti (who kindly shared
unpublished materials which were extremely relevant to my work on sacrifice),
Drew Thomases, Erez Joskovitch, Gil Ben Herut, Hadas Weiss, Hamsa Stainton,
Isabelle Clark-Decès (who tragically and very unexpectedly passed away in 2017),
Joel Bordeaux, Joel Lee, Joyce Flueckiger, Oded Abt, and Patton Burchett.
In the Department of East Asian Studies at Tel Aviv University, where I have
taught and worked in recent years, I am grateful in particular to the following
friends and scholars: Asaf Goldschmidt for his friendship, unwavering support,
and substantial guidance and for making sure I stayed the course—without his
backing and mentorship I would not be where I am now; Meir Shahar for of-
fering guidance at several crucial moments and motivating me to advance in
the process that finally led to the publication of this book; Ori Sela, who has
been my friend and colleague since we first met in a backpackers’ restaurant in
Thailand more than two decades ago and without whose help at several critical
junctures this book may have never come to light; Rafi Peled, for being a good
friend and a brilliant conversation partner on everything related to India and
who was always enthusiastic to hear and comment on my research and help out
with matters relating to Sanskrit and ritual; Roy Tzohar, whose academic path
ran very close to mine, even if usually one step ahead, for his perceptive advice
on navigating academic life. I also thank Arik Moran from Haifa University,
with whom I have so many Himalayan interests in common, for sharing know-
ledge and materials about Pahari matters we both love. I am also indebted to
Eviatar Shulman from the Hebrew University, who involved me in projects that
have advanced my thinking on complex agency and yielded several invaluable
new academic relationships. I am grateful to all my students, whose interest
and questions motivated me to elucidate my thinking and make my arguments
clearer and better structured. I especially thank Michal Erlich; conversing with
her always reminds me how fascinating the study of Hinduism is.
In India, I would like to thank Laxman S. Thakur and Chetan Singh of the
Department of History, Himachal Pradesh University (Simla), for facilitating
Acknowledgments xiii
my affiliation with the department during my PhD research in India and for of-
fering important advice in the initial stages of my fieldwork. Mahesh Sharma
of Punjab University was a great conversation partner about Pahari culture and
religion, for which I am grateful. I am, of course, immensely grateful for the
generosity and hospitality of the people of Old Manali and Dhungri villages of
the Kullu Valley. It is because of their collaboration and assistance that my re-
search project was realized. I greatly thank Tekram and his family members—
Shakuntala, Paramanand and Chandra, Neel and Nisha, and Manorma—who
welcomed me in their home in the 1990s and have become a second family to
me. I am grateful for the numerous hours of conversation, food, and recrea-
tion together; this has left a substantial mark not only on my academic work but
on my life in general. I sincerely thank Haḍimbā’s priests of the Sharma family,
Rohitram (head priest and administrator), Lalchand, and Jitram, and their sons
and relatives—Raju, Ramesh, Raman, Rakesh, Chinulal, Shamlal, Shivkumar,
Amit, Damodardas, Taparam—for making me feel most welcome in Haḍimbā’s
temple, spending many hours answering my endless questions, and generously
sharing information about so many aspects of Haḍimbā’s worship. I also thank
Tirthram (Haḍimbā’s administrator, who has sadly passed away), who was most
welcoming and allowed me access to the rituals performed in Old Manali.
Special thanks also go to several individuals who provided a wealth of infor-
mation and became good friends along the way. Parasram, with whom I spent
hours watching the goats graze as we talked about everyday stuff; Amarnath,
who was always happy to see me and made sure I was informed about everything
going on in association with Haḍimbā; Chaman, who became a close companion
and opened many doors for me, was never tired of my questions, and ensured that
my social life among Manali’s youth thrived (often in the company of his close
friends Pankaj, Sanju, and Amit, whose contribution to my research was always
refreshing); and Gopal, who lent me a motorbike, challenged my thinking on
every subject, and taught me how to “figure things out as they come.” Among the
many other individuals with whom I hung out on an almost daily basis and who
provided the raw material for this research, I would like to especially thank the
following: Ramuram, Lotram, Neel P. K. (Pankaj Kumar), Dunichand, Hiralal,
Tarachand, Kimi, Sunita, Dulheram, Jog Raj, Anup, Guptram, Sukharam, Meher
Singh (Singu), Thakur, Hukamram, Beluram, Tuleram, Puran, Govind, Rakesh
Thakur, Kamalram (Kamlu), Haridas, Boderam, Khubram, Lotram, Ramnath,
Murli, Sheshram (Sisu), Shivdial, Raju, Mano, Simpi Mehta, Anthony, Shay,
Swati, Khimraj, Prem, Dushyant Sharma, and Amar Varma. I am in great debt
to them all. Last, but not least, I thank the Joshi family—Sheshram, Vidya, Shital,
Dikshant, and Shalini—with whom I resided for more than two years. Their hos-
pitality, support, and ongoing sharing of information on all aspects of family and
village life proved invaluable. Of the Joshi family I particularly miss Shalini, who
xiv Acknowledgments
died of heart failure in 2010 when she was only fourteen. She was a unique friend
and my most talented Pahari teacher.
Several institutions and organizations provided generous financial and
logistic support for various stages of my research. Columbia University’s
Graduate School of Arts and Sciences and Department of Religion collabora-
tively provided two summer travel grants to India. The American Institute for
Indian Studies (AIIS) supported two periods of language study in Jaipur and
granted me a junior fellowship that funded substantial time in the field. I par-
ticularly want to thank Elise Auerbach (AIIS Chicago) and Purnima Mehta
(AIIS Delhi) for logistic and bureaucratic support that was crucial in enabling
me to conduct significant parts of my field research. I thank also the American
Academy of Religion (Selva J. Raj Endowed International Dissertation Research
Fellowship); Columbia University’s Institute of Religion, Culture and Public Life
(Graduate Research Fellowship); and the Woodrow Wilson National Fellowship
Foundation (Charlotte W. Newcombe Doctoral Dissertation Fellowship in
Religion and Ethics) for grants that supported my research. I am grateful for
funding given by the Israeli Science Foundation (grant no. 1205/15), which has
supported travels to the field and other aspects of my research since 2015, and to
Hanadiv Humanities Initiative, whose funding supported several stages of the
editing and preparation of this manuscript.
At Oxford University Press, I would like to thank Robert Yelle, the editor of
this series, for being the first to endorse my manuscript and for his attentive-
ness in the early stages of the process; Cynthia Read, for her great encourage-
ment, support, and efforts in making this publication come to light; and Salma
Ismaiel and Aishwarya Krishnamoorthy, for taking care of all the administrative
aspects and for ongoing help in the process. Before the manuscript went to OUP,
it was read and edited carefully by Gilly Nadel, whose comments, corrections,
and insights were always illuminating and on the mark. I am grateful for her part
in the process, as well as to Rachel Sur, who contributed in a similar manner to
earlier versions of my work.
This whole journey could not have been possible without the support of my
family, to whom I cannot adequately express my gratitude. From the bottom of
my heart I thank my parents, Bracha and Yossi Halperin, who share my love for
India and who continuously encouraged me to pursue my academic quest while
providing emotional and, when necessary, material support. Deepest thanks
go to my brothers, Yuval Halperin and Yoav Halperin, for their encouragement
and support throughout the years. To Yoav, I am grateful for his reading large
sections of this book and for providing very insightful comments. And I express
my undying gratitude to my wife and life companion, Rotem Geva, who has la-
bored endlessly over my writings, offered numerous insights and ideas, and ded-
icated hours and days to discussing my project while simultaneously pursuing
Acknowledgments xv
her own research. I thank Rotem for pondering the nature of it all with me.
Without her, it would not be worth it. I also lovingly thank our daughter, Noya,
who grew up together with this book and who was a great listener to the tales
of the Mahabharata. Noya has always demanded that I continue to expand my
command of epic and Puranic stories so that I could share them with her on a
regular basis, for which I am grateful.
Finally, I am particularly grateful for all that I have received from studying
Haḍimbā, the complex agent who is the main protagonist of this book, and from
her people, who have been central to my life in so many ways. I thank them sin-
cerely and dedicate this book to all of them and ask their forgiveness for any
mistakes I may have made along the way. Of course, any faults or errors found in
this work are wholly my own responsibility.
Chapter 2 contains a revised version of my article “A Vehicle for Agency: Rath
Rituals and the Construction of Himalayan Devtas as Complex Agents,” which
appeared in the European Bulletin of Himalayan Research 48 (2016): 5–42.
Chapter 6 is a slightly revised version of my article “Winds of Change: Religion
and Climate in the Western Himalayas,” which appeared in the Journal of the
American Academy of Religion 85.1 (2017): 64–111. Chapters 1, 3, and 5 contain
a few paragraphs from my article “Is the Goddess Haḍimbā Tantric? Negotiating
Power in a Western Himalayan Sacrificial Arena,” which appeared in the
International Journal of Hindu Studies 23.2 (2019):195–212. All are reprinted here
with the kind permission of the EBHR, Springer, and Oxford University Press.
A Word on Transliteration
For ease of reading by an international audience, I refrain from using diacritics

as much as possible. Thus, for example, names of people (e.g., Tekram), places
(e.g., Simla), festivals (e.g., Dasahra), and goddess and gods (e.g., Sharbari,
Shiva), are neither spelled with diacritics nor italicized. One major exception
here is the spelling of Haḍimbā, who is the protagonist of this book and whose
name, I felt, should be spelled accurately and in accordance with how it sounds.
Names of classical texts (e.g., Mahabharata) and concepts (e.g., Vaishnavism),
which are typically familiar to a general audience, appear without diacritics
but are italicized. Names of famous characters from such texts, which in many
publications are spelled with a concluding vowel so as to reflect their Sanskritic
pronunciation (e.g., Arjuna), are spelled here with this vowel omitted in order to
stay closer to how the name is pronounced by Hindi speakers (e.g., Arjun).
I use both diacritics and italics for terms in Hindi (e.g., śakti) and Pahari (e.g.,
mohrā), names of local deities (e.g., nāg devtā) and castes (e.g., lohār), and titles
of less familiar texts (e.g., Vaṃśāvalī), which are less likely to be known to a ge-
neral readership. I do this in order to give interested readers a better grasp of how
these terms sound in common use.
It is also worth noting that, in translating conversations that were originally
held in either Hindi or Pahari, I underline English expressions that were used by
the speakers themselves (e.g., “People today are very busy, they have no time.”).
The Many Faces of a Himalayan Goddess
Introduction
In Search of a Viewpoint
A few weeks after arriving in Manali in the spring of 2009 to study the goddess
Haḍimbā, I learned that a grand buffalo sacrifice was to be offered to her in sev-
eral weeks. I was quite enthusiastic about this opportunity to explore such a major
event in the goddess’s ritual repertoire and decided to dedicate the intervening
weeks to gathering as much information as possible about it. I spent hours every
day in Haḍimbā’s temple in conversation with her priests; I talked to devotees of
different ages, castes, and genders; and I meticulously wrote everything down
in my field diary. I was very excited, both academically and personally. Never in
my life had I participated in something remotely like what people promised the
grand sacrifice would be.
Devotees revealed that the buffalo usually arrives in the village only a few
days before the event, during which time it is fed and tended by several villagers
who are in charge of this task. On the day of the sacrifice the animal is taken
to the temple ground, where thousands of people from around the area gather,
bringing with them sacred objects that represent their respective village gods.
The police are also present, making sure that everything proceeds according to
plan and that order is maintained. Haḍimbā’s gur (medium), devotees promised,
gets into an especially intense trance and sticks out his tongue just like the god-
dess Kali. I also learned that the sacrifice is named aṭhārah bali (eighteenfold sac-
rifice), since, aside from the buffalo, other offerings are also given to the goddess,
such as sheep, a pig, a water crab, coconuts, and a pumpkin. At the time, I could
barely imagine what this elaborate ritual would look like. Devotees pumped up
my excitement, promising a huge thrill and an intense performance. I was so
preoccupied with the approaching event and so emotionally invested in it that
I even dreamed about it at night. In these dreams I would find myself standing in
the middle of Haḍimbā’s temple ground, directly facing the buffalo. Behind the
animal, the sacrificer would lift a huge sword as the crowd around him cheered
frantically. It felt like a scene from some Hollywood production of a grand bib-
lical tale. And I was there, in the middle of it all, perfectly positioned to take it
all in.
Then a foreign tourist in his late twenties asked me some questions that made
me reconsider my position. “So the buffalo just stands there,” he asked, “waiting
The Many Faces of a Himalayan Goddess: Haḍimbā, Her Devotees, and Religion in Rapid Change. Ehud Halperin,
Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190913588.001.0001
2 Introduction
to be sacrificed?” No, I clarified, the buffalo must be tied with long ropes and
pulled by twenty to thirty men. The man’s eyes lit up. “Oh man. This is crazy.
I can’t imagine it. A wild buffalo tied down by dozens of men holding ropes be-
fore it is sacrificed to a goddess. Unbelievable. Say, will you hold the ropes too?”
I had never thought about this possibility, and now it was as if the question
had pulled me physically into the arena. This tourist made me realize how pro-
foundly embodied the undertaking would be and forced me to think about my
own bodily presence. This was a ritual ground, not a theater performance, and
I would be part of it. Where would I position myself? How close would I be to
the center of the action? What should I do during the event? Would I, in fact,
hold the ropes? I could feel the cords rubbing against my hands. “I don’t know,”
I answered. “That’s a very good question. I don’t think so. But we’ll see.” We left it
at that. In hindsight, I should have paid more attention to this conversation.
Before I continue, some background is in order. The temple of the goddess
Haḍimbā, the center of her cult, is located near the town of Manali in the upper
part of the Kullu Valley of the West Indian Himalayan state of Himachal Pradesh.
A mountainous, rural area considered peripheral even in indigenous eyes—a
traditional Sanskrit text calls it “the end of the (habitable) world” (Kulāntapīṭh)—
the valley is home to an elaborate system of local deities, rituals, and beliefs. Its
indigenous religious system has been shaped for centuries by encounters with
regional and extraregional powers and ideas. These encounters have deepened
and accelerated in recent years as the region has been integrated into the na-
tional highway system and, concomitantly, the world of modernity, capitalism,
tourism, and mainstream Hindu values and ideals. The goddess Haḍimbā has
been intimately involved with these processes for a long time.
I first learned about Haḍimbā when traveling in the region as a backpacker
in 1995. Residing with a local family for several months as part of a rudimen-
tary home-stay tourism that was developing in the area at the time, I learned
that the goddess was one of the Kullu Valley’s most powerful and respected
deities. Haḍimbā, family members told me, is a manifestation of Kali. She is also
Hiḍimbā, a fierce forest demoness who appears in the Mahabharata. She reg-
ularly possesses her human medium and, through him, delivers messages and
converses with her devotees. Like other deities in the region, she occasionally
manifests in a rath—a ritual vehicle carried on devotees’ shoulders—and is
transported through the area to visit other village gods. I later learned that she
is believed to control the weather and to manipulate it in times of drought and
harsh rains. In short, while a relatively minor goddess in the scheme of Indian
religion, unknown outside the Kullu Valley until quite recently, Haḍimbā was
an important Himalayan village goddess who had never been comprehensively
explored.
Introduction 3
What would we gain from studying a goddess like Haḍimbā? Why is this pe-
ripheral village goddess, who has no substantial presence outside her region,
noteworthy? Why should we dedicate time and effort to study a cult with only
several thousand devotees?
First, Haḍimbā offers a comprehensive case study of a village goddess,
the likes of which remain understudied despite their popularity and prev-
alence throughout India. The study of female divinities in general, and of
Indian goddesses more specifically, has burgeoned since the 1970s, princi-
pally owing to new interest brought about by feminist scholarship and by area
studies (McDermott 2005: 3607). This was an especially welcome develop-
ment given that the worship of goddesses is more widespread in India than
that of male deities because of their centrality in village settings. Publications
on the subject began to appear in the mid-1980s, and new studies continue
to draw extensive interest and readership (Dempsey 2006; Flueckiger 2013;
McDermott 2011; Padma 2014). Whereas early publications in the field were
mostly of a textual nature—studies of scriptures (Pintchman 1994) and fem-
inine theologies (Kinsley 1986; Kinsley 1997)—ethnographic works have re-
cently become more common. All of these studies, however, tend to focus on
well-known female deities who have a pan-Indian (McDermott and Kripal
2003) or pan-regional (Erndl 1993; Caldwell 1999; Sax 1991) presence, elab-
orate and well-documented traditions (McDermott 2001), explicit theologies
(Pintchman 1994), and systematic ritual traditions (Rodrigues 2003). Studies
of more minor goddesses—whose worship is confined to one or a few villages
and who retain their local identity and character even if they are identified, on
some level, with major goddesses like Durga, Kali, or Mariamman—are much
less common and usually limited to short articles (e.g., Padma 2014; Humes
1996). Book-length studies of such goddesses are almost nonexistent in recent
scholarship. This study of the goddess Haḍimbā seeks to contribute to filling
this gap.
Second, since Haḍimbā is a peripheral mountain goddess who has been
in contact with the central Indian plains, she serves as a good example of
Brahmanization and Sanskritization processes, by means of which indigenous
deities, ritual systems, and beliefs have been reconfigured and integrated into
a broader “Hindu” fold over centuries. Haḍimbā’s case is somewhat unusual in
this regard, since the recent transformations she has undergone are rapid and
quite intense. However, she is by no means alone in this, as other goddesses in
India have also experienced such rapid transformations.1 Moreover, the rapidity
of the change helps us to identify the essential elements of these processes, which
have taken place all over India throughout history. And because in recent years
Haḍimbā’s reach has grown beyond her immediate locality, she also illustrates
4 Introduction
the historically complex process in which major goddesses of transregional scale

have consolidated and become visible to Hindus as a whole.
Third, Haḍimbā’s location in the Himalaya makes her especially relevant
to contemporary scholarly interest. From ancient times, Hindu tradition has
held the Himalaya in great esteem. It is considered the abode of the great god
Shiva, the place where legendary sages and ascetics performed practices of
self-abnegation, and the location of celebrated mythical events. Yet the region
is remote and hard to access, and as a result it has been a fertile ground for
the development of unique traditions and ritual systems, many of which are a
product of the ongoing encounter between indigenous faiths and the Hinduism
of the plains. Whereas the central region of the Indian Himalaya—that of the
modern Indian state of Uttarakhand—has already received some scholarly atten-
tion (Berreman 1993; Sax 1991, 2009; Taylor 2011), the West Himalayan region
in general and the Kullu Valley in particular remain unjustly underexplored.
A few recent contributions (Berti 2001; Elmore 2016; Hingorani 2013; Luchesi
2006) only begin to bring to light this stream of mountain Hinduism. My study
of the Kullu-based cult of the goddess Haḍimbā sheds important light on our un-
derstanding of the religion and culture of the West Himalaya as well.
Fourth, Haḍimbā’s cult is a prime example of what could be termed “lived
Hinduism,” a field of study that has been drawing much scholarly and public
interest in recent years. The concept of lived religion, first forcefully artic-
ulated in the late 1990s (Hall 1997), turned attention away from official repre-
sentatives of religious traditions—and their texts—to the thinking and practice
of lay practitioners. Lived religion criticizes the hierarchizing distinction be-
tween canonical and popular religion by showing how official and lay theologies
and practices combine and blend in the everyday lives of devotees. Similar
sensitivities have been employed by Indologists, who have called for the study of
“on the ground” (Narayanan 2000), “practical” (Fuller 1992), or “prosaic” (Grieve
2006) aspects of Indian religions. Several widely popular publications have
appeared which, unlike the general run of earlier anthropological studies, attempt
to situate local Hindu practices in a pan-Indian perspective without perpetuating
the earlier Indological dependence on classical Sanskrit texts and elite Brahmanic
viewpoints (e.g., Gold 2015; Haberman 2013; Lochtefeld 2010; Sax 2009). The cult
of the goddess Haḍimbā serves as a perfect example of lived village Hinduism in
contemporary India. As we will see, devotees contend with a host of issues: the
place of religious practice in communities’ and individuals’ everyday lives; the
effects of modernity, capitalism, and tourism on traditional faiths and practices;
the implications on the ground of the politicization of Hinduism under the rule
of the right-wing Hindu government; and the engagement of Hindus with global
changes, including climatic and environmental challenges.
Introduction 5
My commitment to studying the lived aspects of Haḍimbā’s cult has shaped

much of my research interests and sensibilities, as well as the way I analyze and
present my findings here. I take my cue from Vincent Crapanzano (1986), spe-
cifically his analysis of Goethe’s description of the Roman carnival, which begins
around New Year and culminates on Ash Wednesday.2 Crapanzano criticizes
Goethe for a number of shortcomings, but particularly for describing the car-
nival from an external, aloof position. For the sake of bringing order to the “mad-
ness” on the ground, he writes from an allegedly transcendent and omniscient
perspective that is held by almost no one on the ground. Goethe, Crapanzano
writes,
preserves his distance, an order-bestowing theatrical distance, and only occa-

sionally does he identify with the spectators—not with the huge lively mass of
sensuous beings, but with an elite who watch the crowd from their benches and
chairs. . . . He does not phenomenologically or rhetorically assume the subjec-
tivity of the participants. . . . Goethe is interested in display, the external, das
Aussere, in what he can see—and not in the Innerlichkeit [inner meaning]3 of
the participants. (66–67)
Goethe’s description, while comprehensive, detailed, and orderly, is dismissive of

the experience of the participants themselves and thus offers a perspective which
is no one’s but Goethe’s own.
The speciousness of an allegedly transcendent point of view is also effec-
tively pointed to by Michel de Certeau (1984) in his oft-quoted The Practice
of Everyday Life. In c hapter 7 of this famous book, titled “Walking in the City,”
de Certeau looks down at Manhattan from the 110th floor of the World Trade
Center and reflects on the nature of space as experienced by the habitants of
urban environments. The all-encompassing vision of the city revealed to those
who look at it from above is, according to de Certeau, a fictional vision, one that
doesn’t incorporate the real space in which the people “down there” live. The real
space of the city is experienced, revealed, and thus also produced by those who
walk its streets daily, who navigate its lanes, and who occupy its spaces in their
everyday lives. The same is true, I argue, for the goddess Haḍimbā, whose reality
should be sought in the myriad ways she manifests on the ground.
When preparing for my research in the Kullu Valley, I thought a lot about the
scholar’s point of view. I was determined to tell the story of the goddess Haḍimbā
and her cult from a perspective that would be loyal to that of her devotees.
Instead of producing a narrative told from an allegedly all-knowing, bird’s-eye
point of view, I hoped to account for how things were experienced, perceived,
and understood on the ground. Furthermore, I hoped not only to document the
6 Introduction
views held by relatively knowledgeable experts but also to capture the breadth of
opinions held by ordinary devotees, whose knowledge may be partial, uneven,
and at times even mistaken.
So the answer to the young tourist’s question about whether I would hold the
ropes during the buffalo sacrifice was clear. I knew I must move as close to the ac-
tion as possible, take part in the ritual as it unfolded on the ground, and mingle
with the people. This would be the only way to get the perspective I hoped for,
to look at everything from the bottom up. And yet, when the aṭhārah bali finally
took place, I found myself seeking an elevated position from which to get good
photos of the ritual. Chamman, a villager in his late twenties who had become one
of my closest informants, suggested that the roof of the storehouse in Haḍimbā’s
temple ground would be perfect for this task. He said that he had sat there him-
self once or twice as a child, and that this was the best spot for a photographic
overview. It never occurred to me, and Chamman never mentioned it, that once
I climbed the roof I would not be able to come down until the ritual was over,
since my way down would be blocked by the other spectators sitting next to me.
More important, what drove me to climb up was precisely the urge I was trying to
avoid: the ambition to observe things from as high above as possible, the assump-
tion that such a perspective would provide the most complete and encompassing
impression of the ritual and the best understanding of what was really going on.
It was only after I was embarrassingly pushed by my rear end up the store-
house wall and found myself sitting rather uncomfortably on the pointed roof
that I realized the position I had chosen was indeed far from ideal. I was too
far away from the intense activities on the ground and felt detached and unin-
volved. As people below shouted, pushed, and clung to each other in an attempt
to better position themselves within the crowd, I sat far away on my roof, dis-
appointed, as if kept out of the party. I could hardly tell where the buffalo was.
I could hear almost nothing. And I got into an argument with the person sitting
next to me, who was very unhappy that I wanted to take pictures. “This is not
allowed,” he threatened me with an upraised finger, thereby pulling the rug out
from under my main motivation for being there in the first place. While I did
get a good sense of how the whole grounds looked and who was doing what and
where, I could not avoid feeling that I had become a mere spectator in the ritual
I had been so eager to participate in for almost two months. I even tore my pants
coming down from the roof and lost my recorder in the process. I was miserable.
Parasram, a resourceful thirty-five-year-old lumberjack from Dhungri village,
who had just beheaded the buffalo and was apparently swimming in adrenalin,
could not believe that I had refused to accompany him earlier and had gone to
sit on the roof. I had met Parasram that morning in the temple ground when
he showed me the big blade that would be used in the sacrifice. Instead of fol-
lowing the blade and the blade holder, I took off and climbed the storehouse.
Introduction 7
“Where have you been?” Parasram shouted at me. “Why didn’t you stick with
me? You could have seen everything from so close. How could you have missed
this? What is wrong with you?”
The experience strengthened my resolve to move as far “down” as possible
from such elevated positions. In the future, I would occupy different locations in
the ritual arena; I would talk to lay people and even actively seek the less knowl-
edgeable devotees; I would avoid generalizations and refrain from looking for
broad, all-encompassing schemes. In short, I would tell the story of Haḍimbā as
nearly as possible the way it is told by her devotees.
This approach, of course, had its own share of problems. While it drove me
to document the diverse experiences, views, and practices of devotees from dif-
ferent walks of life, the materials I gathered were often quite fragmented and
incoherent. In renouncing the bird’s-eye view and a fictitiously orderly repre-
sentation, I was left with discrete pieces of information that did not add up to
one coherent account. In resisting a narrative that would be no one’s but my
own, I ran the risk of telling a messy story, simply reproducing the complexities
I documented without putting them into any order or endowing them with
much sense.
Throughout my research I tried to answer a seemingly simple, but in reality
a rather complicated, question: Who is Haḍimbā Devī? Since Haḍimbā is a rel-
atively minor village goddess, she lacks a systematic theology, an elaborate tex-
tual tradition, and a well-documented history. While I was able to collect diverse
answers to the question, I had real difficulties interweaving them in a way that
would cohere and make sense. Haḍimbā, so I learned, is a goddess as well as
a demoness; she is the wife of Bhim from the Mahabharata as well as a young
girl from a lake in the upper valley; she is the sister of the demon Tandi yet the
grandmother of the king of Kullu; she is Kali; she is Durga; she is the sister of
the god Manu, but she is also not the sister of the god Manu; she is one of a kind,
and yet she has additional temples throughout the country; she was once a
Buddhist goddess and possibly came from Tibet; she is bloodthirsty; she is not
bloodthirsty; and on and on. Reporting these pieces of information in such a
fragmented and conflicting way would make no sense. But trying to weave them
together into one coherent narrative would amount to inventing it, since no such
narrative presented itself on the ground. Haḍimbā resisted a decisive theolog-
ical categorization, an orderly historical representation, or any straightforward
characterization.
I slowly realized that, even if I could do so, framing Haḍimbā in one of
these ways would mean enforcing on her a coherence that would ignore her
multifacetedness on the ground. I therefore debated not only the methodology
by which to study Haḍimbā but also the way to tell her story as it emerged from
my findings. To put it simply, I struggled to find a way to analyze and present
8 Introduction
the materials about Haḍimbā in a meaningful way, which would retain her
multifacetedness, honor the plurality of opinions about her and her ritual prac-
tice, and at the same time put all these data into a meaningful, generalizing
framework.
I eventually chose a third path. I offer a multiperspective and context-
dependent portrayal of the goddess, which is expansive in orientation and which
tells the story of Haḍimbā from the ground up, or rather, from the center out.
I explore the goddess in varying contexts that expand spatially outward and thus
retain her essential multifacetedness while at the same time placing things in
meaningful analytical contexts.
This approach yields not a portrait of Haḍimbā—a frozen picture that appears
whole, coherent, and complete—but a sort of trail description that introduces
Haḍimbā’s story spatially as it emerges when moving from her center out. This
book is thus more a guide than a portrait and retains the process of its produc-
tion. As de Certeau (1984: 121) reminds us, “The map, a totalizing stage on which
elements of diverse origin are brought together to form the tableau of a ‘state’ of
geographical knowledge, pushes away into its prehistory . . . the operations of
which it is the result or the necessary condition. It remains alone on the stage.
The tour describers have disappeared.” Whereas early maps retained figurations
of the motivations, goals, and itineraries of those producing them—“the sailing
ship painted on the sea,” for example, which “indicates the maritime expedi-
tion that made it possible to represent the coastlines” (de Certeau 1984: 121)—
modern, scientific maps do not. They conceal the processes by which the
information they provide was produced and the trajectories taken by those who
produced it. The account of Haḍimbā offered in this book seeks to retain such
processes rather than concealing them. It thus moves along Haḍimbā’s figure,
highlights key moments in her evolution, and preserves her real-life complexity.
I begin by exploring Haḍimbā’s utterly local manifestations in her moving
palanquin and her temple, then probe the local web of ritual and narrative
associations in which she is embedded, investigate her interactions with pan-
Indian traditions and ideologies, and finally analyze her place in a contempo-
rary, globalized environment. By means of this context-sensitive and broadly
concentric portrayal of the goddess, I capture the diverse perspectives held by
her devotees while at the same time moving toward very general conclusions
about her dynamic, divine figure. The resulting account offers a thick descrip-
tion of this volatile goddess, an account that is meaningful yet not reductive
and restricting.4
From this approach, several general observations about the goddess emerge.
First, it becomes clear that, although Haḍimbā’s devotees speak of her as a single,
unified being, she is in reality a compound entity comprising multiple ritual, nar-
rative, and conceptual elements that coalesce even when they do not cohere.
Introduction 9
Second, these constituting elements are not static and unchanging. They are
constantly reshaped and rearranged as the goddess’s devotees reconstruct her
figure in multiple arenas. What often drive these reconfigurations of the goddess
are the many associations, encounters, and interactions between her and a range
of other entities, powers, and ideas. Thus, for example, ritual connections with
adjacent village deities have highlighted and amplified certain aspects of her per-
sonality. Invading royal powers have recast her as the great goddess Durga so that
she might better fit their own needs. Colonial scholars and state institutions have
foregrounded her pan-Indian epic associations. And tourists, Hindu politicians,
and state policymakers are now trying to impose vegetarian practices on her.
Pan-Indian and global ideologies challenge Haḍimbā’s perceived control of the
weather, a broadside that, if successful, carries the threat of disenchantment.
Importantly, through her spokespersons, Haḍimbā has been resilient and indeed
active in the face of such challenges.
As a complex agent,5 Haḍimbā changes in ways that are deeply intertwined
with her devotees’ concerns about their own identity and belonging. For them,
the goddess serves as a conceptual construct and a practical platform through
which to act in the world. By molding and remolding her figure, Haḍimbā’s
devotees justify and sometimes resist the changing realities that they themselves
face. The goddess does not only mirror these changes but at times also advances
them herself in her capacity to act as a complex agent.
A peripheral Himalayan village goddess whose history is obscure and whose
theology is fragmented and unsystematic, Haḍimbā is also revealed as a flex-
ible deity who is fairly open to change. Though not without conceptual and
practical boundaries, the multifaceted character of the goddess eases her con-
tinuous reconfiguration by the individuals and institutions that surround
her. Haḍimbā is a living goddess who is dynamic, responsive, and reflective
of her community, as well as a force of change within it. The intimate, recip-
rocal, and mutually formative relationships existing between Haḍimbā and her
worshipers slowly surface as an essential feature of her very divinity, as well as
of her followers’ way of life.
The trajectory of the book directly reflects my expansive, context-oriented ap-
proach. I begin by providing necessary background about the Kullu Valley, as
well as the introduction of modernity to the region, which is highly relevant to
the recent reshaping of the goddess. Even in this relatively comprehensive pre-
sentation, I emphasize the importance of context and perspective. Chapter 1
begins by describing a typical bus journey from Delhi to Manali as a means to
introduce the reader to the area experientially and in a way that reproduces the
point of view of visiting outsiders—contemporary tourists and scholars alike. It
also foregrounds the theme of on-the-ground encounters as a central focus of the
study ahead.
10 Introduction
The study of Haḍimbā herself, which begins in the second chapter, takes as
its starting point the vivid core of the ritual embodiment of the goddess, namely
her rath, a palanquin-like structure that is carried on devotees’ shoulders. It is
through the choreographed movements of this ritual vehicle and the sessions of
oracular possession that accompany her appearances that the goddess manifests
and interacts with her devotees and with other local deities. The analysis of these
performances reveals that, in essence, Haḍimbā is an assembled entity, whose
cognition and knowledge are distributed in networks of humans, objects, and
environments, and whose actions are shaped in ritual arenas. Furthermore, the
ritual encounters of her rath with those of other village deities integrate Haḍimbā
into the regional web of ritual associations and establish her as a representa-
tive of her community. These rituals thus contribute to social formations and
transformations of Haḍimbā’s community of followers, and she herself is estab-
lished in them as a complex social agent who is pivotal to both communal sta-
bility and change.
The third chapter continues to explore the local web of associations in which
Haḍimbā is embedded and the way these associations constitute the goddess and
her community. Whereas the previous chapter examined how such associations
are established in the world of ritual, this chapter highlights their creation and
commemoration in narratives. I critically introduce five major narratives about
Haḍimbā, showing how each sheds a different light on the goddess’s character,
past, and social function. The overall argument of the chapter is that, though
Haḍimbā is explicitly presented by her devotees as a single, unitary being, closer
examination reveals a goddess whose persona is multilayered, multifaceted, and
continuously changing—a storehouse of past events and of encounters with
neighboring deities and communities.
Despite the diversity of Haḍimbā’s character, in recent decades the god-
dess has become primarily identified with a renowned figure from the fa-
mous Indian epic of the Mahabharata. The fourth chapter argues that the
foregrounding of Haḍimbā’s epic face is the result of another set of encounters
and interactions, this time with colonial forms of knowledge and with con-
temporary tourism. Drawing on colonial accounts, twentieth- century
travelogues, official state publications, local oral narratives, and statements
of the goddess herself during oracular possession sessions, the discussion
illustrates how the Mahabharatization of Haḍimbā enables her devotees to re-
cast their own cultural marginality in a new, inclusive, and rather flattering
light. This chapter thus presents yet another layer constituting Haḍimbā’s al-
ready complex persona, which, in this case, is the product of a transformative
encounter between local and extralocal agents and ideas. It also continues to
advance the theme of how the goddess serves as a conceptual arena for her
Introduction 11
devotees to reflect on their self-perception and sense of belonging, in this case

to the larger Hindu and Indian world. The chapter concludes by showing how
the process of Mahabharatization taking place in Manali, which is becoming
the theological and ritual center of Haḍimbā’s spreading cult, projects out-
ward and accelerates the transformation of several additional Haḍimbās in
other places.
The fifth chapter explores a heated controversy that has developed in the Kullu
Valley in recent decades over the legitimacy of animal sacrifice. This practice,
which has been heavily criticized by elite Brahmanic Hinduism throughout
history, is currently under fierce theological, political, and legal attack all over
India. Haḍimbā’s devotees, whose goddess has always been an ardent recipient
of blood offerings, are condemned for this practice by outsiders as well as newly
emergent critical insiders. The chapter describes the great significance of animal
sacrifice to Haḍimbā’s devotees, presents the criticisms leveled against it, and
analyzes strategies employed by practitioners to either fend off or embrace this
attack. Whereas devotees wish to remove obstacles to their effective integration
into the larger Hindu fold, they are reluctant to deprive their goddess of her tra-
ditional blood offerings. This debate becomes particularly charged because it is
at the heart of several other tensions underlying everyday life in this region: be-
tween periphery and center, tradition and modernity, and lay and elite forms of
Hinduism. It has also become closely intertwined with contemporary nation-
alistic Hindu politics and nationwide struggles against the slaughter and con-
sumption of animals.
Finally, as local residents report and scientific evidence shows, the Kullu
Valley is gradually warming up and beginning to experience potentially disas-
trous consequences. The sixth chapter analyzes practitioners’ interpretations of
the changing climate, as well as Haḍimbā’s centrality to their reasoning in this
regard. I present the holistic worldview held by Haḍimbā’s devotees, namely,
their notions about dharma and cosmic interconnectedness, and the ways this
worldview underlies their thoughts about and actions concerning the changing
climate. I also trace how villagers associate the weather irregularities with the so-
cioeconomic transformations that have taken place in their lives in recent years,
following the introduction of modernity, capitalism, and tourism in the region,
as well as their creeping doubts concerning the very validity of their holistic
worldview. The chapter ends with an analysis of two weather-control rituals that
were performed in the region in the past two decades (in 1996 and 2010), which
illustrate both the continuities and the shifts in followers’ perceptions of the god-
dess Haḍimbā, her divine agency, and her command over the weather.
The conclusion provides brief remarks about Haḍimbā as they emerge
from the book as a whole. I offer several final insights about the goddess, her
12 Introduction
associations with her people, and what her study teaches us about Hinduism,
India, and religion more broadly.
Notes
1. See, for example, Humes (1996).

2. Goethe visited the carnival twice, in 1787 and 1789 (Crapanzano 1986: 60–68).
3. This is how Crapanzano himself translates this term later on.
4. My attempt to retain the narrative multiplicity associated with the goddess Haḍimbā
is similar to James Lochtefeld’s (2010) commitment to telling a collection of stories,
rather than a story, about the holy city of Hardwar. Lochtefeld’s “insistence on multiple
narratives comes from the conviction that any one of [the] sources is incomplete—
that each can reveal something the others do not and more fully show the complex
contours of the whole.” He too sees “honoring and evaluating multiple perspectives” as
a fundamental methodological starting point (5–6).
5. See my discussion of this concept in chapter 2.
1
Getting There
The Land of the Gods
The Kullu Valley is one of India’s most prized destinations. Tourist pamphlets
and state agencies promote the region’s breathtaking natural beauty and peace-
fulness. It is called the Valley of Gods (Dev Bhūmi) and is often portrayed as a
land of pristine and authentic religious qualities. In recent decades, the Kullu
Valley has become one of the most popular tourist destinations in India, with
over three million visitors a year.1 These tourists, like myself and (presumably)
most of this book’s readers, are outsiders. Acknowledging this position, and
wishing to adhere to a ground-up point of view, let us enter the Kullu Valley as
many outsiders nowadays do, as travelers on a night bus from Delhi.
1.1 A Bus Ride from Delhi
For many tourists, the journey to the Kullu Valley begins in a gas station on
Delhi’s Janpath Road, across from a gray and somewhat gloomy structure known
as the Chandraloka Building. Here the night buses pick up their passengers
for the ride north at around 5:00 every afternoon. Most of the travelers are do-
mestic tourists, on their way to a several-day vacation in the famous hill town of
Manali, where, if the road is clear, the bus will arrive at around 9:00 the following
morning.
The honeymoon couples—newlyweds on their way to a romantic vacation in
the mountains—are the most frequent riders on this route. The girl, often in her
mid-twenties, is well-dressed. Her palms are decorated with ceremonial henna
patterns, and her arms are covered with shiny red wedding bangles. The boy,
usually a bit older, a little nervous yet struggling to appear in control, inspects
the prepaid receipt provided by the travel agent, consults with someone over the
phone, and asks around for orienting clues. Once he has located the right bus
and ensured the luggage lies safely in the rear trunk, the young man often snaps a
few photos of his bride against the background of the smoggy rush-hour Janpath
Road. Middle-class families are also quite common here—a mother, father, and
two kids, with several carryon bags heavy with snacks, water bottles, blankets,
and a few extra clothes for the night. They relax only after swapping seats with
The Many Faces of a Himalayan Goddess: Haḍimbā, Her Devotees, and Religion in Rapid Change. Ehud Halperin,
Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190913588.001.0001
14 The Many Faces of a Himalayan Goddess
neighboring passengers and making sure they all sit together, within reach of
their bags. They are usually quite noisy at this initial stage.
The third most prevalent group is foreign backpackers, many of them young
Israelis who have just finished their mandatory army service. They stand out
with their colorful, baggy clothes, long hair, and rough English. Most of them
are overly cautious about their luggage and unhappy with their seats. Travel
agents in the city, who make their living off such backpackers, must compete
with each other and often promise things they cannot provide. The bus per-
sonnel, familiar with the situation, remain calm and unimpressed. They tend
to forget their English at crucial moments, when the intensity of complaints
increases. Things always work out in the end. After a few passengers of Tibetan
origin and the occasional red-robed Buddhist monk take their seats, the bus
is ready to leave. A young boy moves up the aisle handing out water bottles,
blankets, and plastic bags—“for the curves,” he explains. Seats are drawn
back, legs are stretched forward, and the sixteen-hour bus ride to the West
Himalaya begins.
The first three hours are spent in Delhi, as the bus sits in traffic and picks up
additional passengers along the route. At 7:30 a Bollywood film is played on a
flat-screen TV at the front of the vehicle. The Indian passengers are completely
absorbed, while the foreigners complain about the noise. At 10:30 the bus stops
for a thirty-minute dinner break in one of the buffet-style roadside restaurants
that have appeared along this route in recent years. Nobody complains when
the film, which was paused before the break, does not resume afterward. The
aisle lights are dimmed and everyone falls asleep, except the driver and his
assistants, who sit at the front and keep chatting and listening to old Hindi music
throughout the night.
A few hours later, the bus leaves the state of Haryana and enters the Punjab.
Having passed Chandigarh—the famous capital of the state, which was designed
in the 1950s by the renowned French architect Le Corbusier—it turns slightly to
the east and reaches Swarghat, where it stops again for refueling, paying taxes,
and a quick open-toilet break, mainly for the male passengers. It is here, where
the road reaches the Shivalik hills—the southernmost east–west mountain chain
of the Himalaya—that the long, hilly climb to Manali begins.
After entering the state of Himachal Pradesh (H.P.), one begins to appreciate
the advantages of Swedish automotive technology. The advanced suspension of
the Volvo bus reduces the nauseating effects of the mountainous curves. Still, the
curves pose a visceral challenge, and those plastic bags become quite handy. Just
before dawn, another break takes place near Sundar Nagar, “the beautiful city.” In
a small, gloomy, neon-lit roadside restaurant, one can enjoy an overpriced cup of
hot chai and get a first glimpse of the still dim mountainous surroundings. A few
hours later, after passing through the ancient kingdom of Mandi, the bus arrives
Getting There 15
in a small town named Bhuntar and finally stands at the gates of the Kullu Valley
of the West Indian Himalaya (see Figure 1.1).
Bhuntar lies on the banks of the Beas River, which drains the Kullu Valley
from the north. Originating from Beas Kund (Beas Pond) at the upper end of
the valley, the river runs sixty kilometers to the south, where it passes Bhuntar
and continues on its four-hundred-kilometer journey southwest, at the end of
which it merges into the Sutlej River. In Bhuntar, the Beas is joined from the east
by one of its largest tributaries, the Parvati Nala (Parvati Stream), and several
of the foreigners usually get off here. They hire taxis that travel up the Parvati
Valley to Kasol—a tiny township surrounded by small, scattered villages—which
has become a popular hub for foreign backpackers in recent years. Newly built
guesthouses offer basic lodging and simple food alongside breathtaking views, a
quiet, alpine atmosphere, and occasional trance music parties in the surrounding
woods. They also offer what many of the travelers are mainly after: a taste of the
local charas, the legendary high-end Himalayan hashish, the area’s most lucra-
tive cash crop.
The Parvati Valley offers other attractions as well. Backpackers trek to Khir
Ganga, a hot spring in the mountains that is a favorite hangout for Himalayan
sādhus (wandering ascetics) and foreign tourists alike. They tour the crumbling,
steamy village of Manikaran, where, according to legend, Parvati, the consort of
Lord Shiva, lost one of her earrings while sporting in the river. The jewel fell in
Figure 1.1. Kullu Valley. A view from the north, 2010. Photo by Ehud Halperin.
the lap of Sheshnag, the underworld serpent-master of jewels and gems. Shiva,
however, made him give the earring back, which he did by blowing a hot stream
of water that surged up and carried Parvati’s ornament to the surface. The boiling
water, rising from the belly of the earth, formed here a number of hot springs.2
Himalayan sādhus like to come here and cook their rice, packed in little cloth
bags, in the boiling sulfur water. Manikaran Sahib, a gurudvārā (Sikh temple)
located at the end of the village, is a popular pilgrimage destination, mainly for
Sikh devotees, who tour the region while riding their motorcycles in large groups.
A rather unique place is located on the ridge between the Parvati and Kullu
valleys. The “strange” village of Malana, as it is perceived by outsiders and nearby
villagers alike, was, until quite recently, one of the most secluded communities in
the region. Its 1,100 residents are famous for their distinct language (Kanashi),
which is different from the Pahari (mountain) dialect spoken in the rest of the
region. The village is also known for its idiosyncratic system of governance, the
endogamous practice of its inhabitants, and their avoidance of physical contact
with all other social groups in the region (Rosser 1960).3 The Malana villagers
are also the cultivators of the world’s most celebrated cannabis, known as Malana
Cream. This high-quality charas debuted on the world stage in the 1980s and has
since ranked first on Amsterdam’s best-hashish charts. Malana’s fierce and pow-
erful god Jamlu, whom many identify with the Vedic seer Jamadagni, vehemently
guards the village from the outside world. Through his possessed medium, he
prohibits the construction of a drivable road to the village, making it difficult for
the state authorities to impede this illegal activity (Elmore 2016: 207–10).
Still in Bhuntar, waiting for the passengers heading for the Parvati Valley to
disembark, the bus travelers can glimpse a distant temple located on the tip of
the mountain overlooking the confluence of the Beas and Parvati. This famous
temple is dedicated to Bijli Mahadev (Shiva of Lightning), one the most pow-
erful and highly respected deities in the region. Locals say that, every once in
a while, lightning strikes the temple and smashes the piṇḍī inside. (Piṇḍī is a
non-anthropomorphic form of a divine being—in the case of Bijli Mahadev, a
śivaliṅga-like natural rock). The broken pieces are said to be glued back together
with butter in a secret ritual performed behind closed doors.
Leaving Bhuntar, the bus continues its journey up the valley. About half an
hour later and only ten kilometers away—the average driving speed in this
mountainous area is no more than thirty-five kilometers per hour—it stops again
in the town of Kullu, the administrative headquarters of the Kullu District. With
a population of 18,536 (Government of India, Ministry of Home Affairs 2011),
the town is the biggest in the valley, comprising residential areas, a central mar-
ketplace, and a large vacant ground called Dhalpur, where hundreds of local
deities camp during the famous annual Dasahra festival. The festival is celebrated
every October in honor of Raghunath Ji, the presiding deity of the valley. It is a
Getting There 17
very popular event, visited by many thousands of villagers, tourists, and media
crews from all over the country.
Previously known as Sultanpur, Kullu is referred to by present-day villagers
simply as “the city” (shahar). It has been the capital of the valley since 1660, when
King Jagat Singh moved the seat of power here from Nagar. The Rupi Palace—the
historical and contemporary seat of the traditional royal family—is located in
the upper part of town. Like many other royal dynasties across India, the rājās
(kings) of Kullu lost their official title and privileges after India gained indepen-
dence but retained a unique sociopolitical and religious status in the valley, as
well as residential rights in the palace. Maheshwar Singh, the oldest living male
member of the family, is still referred to here as the Kullu rājā. He is an active pol-
itician, a former member of the Lok Sabha, and now the chief of Himachal Lokhit
Party and a member of the Himachal Pradesh Legislative Assembly. He is partic-
ularly known for the ritual role he plays during the Dasahra, when he dresses
in traditional royal attire and is carried in a palanquin on people’s shoulders,
circumambulating the Dhalpur ground.
As the bus continues climbing north alongside the Beas River on the forty-
kilometer road to Manali, one can begin to appreciate the pristine beauty of the
valley: snow-clad peaks high above; mountain slopes covered with lush, green
deodar forests and dotted with villages and glades; terraced fields and apple
orchards; and a gushing stream below, just a few feet from the road. In other
seasons, this scenery looks strikingly different. Tourists who visit the valley out-
side the high-season months of May and June may encounter dark gray skies,
near-zero visibility, heavy rains, landslides, and even floods. During the winter-
time, the mountains—and sometimes the road as well—are covered with a beau-
tiful snow blanket. A cold and adventurous vacation in Manali at that time of
year is also quite popular. Lowlanders come to see and touch the snow, slip as
they walk to their hotels on the icy ground, and take ski lessons on the slopes of
nearby Solang Nala.
When the weather is good and the bus windows are clear, passengers can
glimpse quite a bit of early morning mountain life in the area’s tiny towns and
villages. Little children walk down the hills on their way to school wearing all
sorts of colorful uniforms. Women, clad in their traditional woolen blankets,
carry heavy straw baskets on their backs as they head to the fields or to the sur-
rounding forests to gather grass for the cows or wood for the stove. Men, wearing
traditional caps and heavy, suit-like collared jackets known as Kullu coats, sit
in small tea shops, drinking chai and smoking their morning bīḍīs, the cheap
Indian cigarettes filled with tobacco flakes, wrapped in a leaf, and tied with a
string at one end. The men, like the bus passengers, stare at an occasional shep-
herd leading a flock of hundreds of sheep on the bumpy, at times muddy road
that is marked National Highway 21 on official maps.
Even before reaching Manali, the bus riders encounter frequent marks
of tourism. Shops appear along the route, with big signs advertising the “best
quality” famous Kullu shawls that are sold inside, as well as Kullu caps and
jackets, woolen blankets and socks, Kashmiri carpets, and other handicrafts.
Fancy tourist resorts and multistory hotels can be seen on both sides of the road,
and signboards reveal that additional ones are located farther up or along the
lanes that branch off the main route. The bus moves slowly and stops every few
hundred meters. Names of hotels are announced, and passengers who booked
their rooms in advance get off at every stop. At last, the long ride ends at an un-
paved, muddy parking lot, where the passengers are surrounded by dozens of
hotel guides as soon as they disembark. Cards are handed over, help with luggage
is offered, and promises are made about beautiful rooms with great views, hot
running water, and affordable prices. Tired and a bit overwhelmed, the tourists
go their separate ways. They will spend the next few days visiting temples around
Manali, ambling through the town’s market, dining, shopping, and exploring the
many attractions of the Kullu Valley. They have finally arrived at the End of the
(Habitable) World (Kulāntapīṭh),4 famously known as the Land of the Gods (Dev
Bhūmi) (see Figure 1.2).
1.2 Mountain Religion: The Devtā System
The aptness of its designation quickly becomes clear to those spending some
time in Dev Bhūmi. One soon realizes how much gravity religious practice
wields in locals’ lives and how distinct are several of its features. This stream of
mountain Hinduism, which can be found throughout the Central and Western
Indian Himalaya, is first and foremost centered on the worship of the devī-devtā
(goddesses and gods). Referred to as “hamārā pahārī devī-devatā system (our
mountain system of goddesses and gods)” (Sutherland 2004: 89),5 “devīdevatā
saṇskṛti” (religious culture of goddess and gods; Elmore 2016: 10), devtā kā rāj
(government by deity; Moran 2007: 149; Sutherland 1998),6 or simply the devtā
system, this fascinating institution has been observed by scholars across the
region.7
Devtās in the Kullu Valley appear in various forms and in multiple arenas.
Their most intimate manifestation is in the household. Many families have their
own kul devtā (lineage deity), who is usually enshrined in the upper story of
the house in the form of a small earthen mound or some other sacred object.
The devtā is worshiped in his shrine by family and extended family members
on different occasions, such as sāzā (a modest festive occasion marking the be-
ginning of each solar month), at times of village festivals, and in the course of
weddings and other important familial events. Out-married daughters of lower
Getting There 19
Figure 1.2. Map of Himachal Pradesh, administrative divisions. The Kullu Valley
of the West Indian Himalaya is located in the Kullu District of the Indian state of
Himachal Pradesh (H.P.). The district, whose total area measures 5,503 square
kilometers, is bound by Lahul and Spiti districts to the north and northeast, Kinnaur
to the east and southeast, Simla to the south, Mandi to the southwest and west, and
Kangra District to the northwest. Map created by the author based on data from
OpenStreetMap. © OpenStreetMap contributors.
castes occasionally carry the devtā’s image with them to their new home, where
they worship him alongside their husband’s deity (Sax 2009: 77–79). Should
the whole family migrate, members carry the kul devtā with them and estab-
lish him in their new home after settling down. Kul devtās are also known to
manifest through humans, that is, by possessing family members and expressing
demands, bestowing blessings, or delivering advice. The devtās are consulted on
matters concerning health, livelihood, and children and about family tensions
and disputes.
Outside the household, the simplest seat of divine presence is the devtā sthān
(seat, place). These may take the form of a tree surrounded by a small stone
platform on which a number of sacred objects are placed, a rock marked with
paint and geometric drawings, or a small statue situated in a special location ei-
ther within or outside the village. At times, such devtā sthāns house statues that
are believed to have miraculously emerged out of the ground, a river, or even a
tree trunk. Sometime during the 1990s, for example, two Nepali workers were
reported to have carried wood through the forest above the village of Nasogi.
As one of them sat down for a short rest on a chopped tree stump, he suddenly
began hearing a strange voice saying, “A-Yo.” Immediately after that, as his fellow
laborer reported, the Nepali began shaking and trembling and was subsequently
thrown in the air, only to crash to the ground some ten meters from where he was
sitting. Upon inspecting the stump, the Nepalis discovered a statue of a devtā,
which was later identified as Shank Narayan, the chief deity of nearby Nasogi
village. This statue of the devtā, a villager explained, was probably worshiped in
a village that was covered by a landslide several thousand years ago. For some
reason, he now decided to reappear and make himself available to the people.8
Such devtās may sometimes also appear in people’s dreams and convey messages
and demands, or they may take the form of human beings, usually young girls
or children, who appear at strange times and locations and then mysteriously
disappear.
The larger, more elaborate seats of divine power in the Kullu Valley are
the temples (mandir) housing the village devtās. Almost every settlement in
the region has its own devtā, though sometimes several hamlets may share a
single devtā, whose worship they will jointly maintain. In the broadest sense,
the devtā system designates the organization of various aspects of life in the
Indian Himalaya around the figures of village deities. Shank Narayan is the
devtā of Nasogi, located not far from Manali. The presiding devī of Shuru vil-
lage is Sharbari Ma, who is considered a manifestation of the goddess Parvati.
And Bijli Mahadev is a highly respected devtā in the valley who is nowadays
identified with the pan-Indian god Shiva. Such deities are closely affiliated
with their villages and are often called after them. Goshali Nag, for example,
is the serpent devtā of a nearby village named Goshal. Haḍimbā, who is espe-
cially dominant in the upper parts of the Kullu Valley, is also called Dhungri
Mātā, the “mother goddess” of the village Dhungri, which is where her temple
is located (see Figure 1.3).
These village devtās influence the religious, sociopolitical, economic, agricul-
tural, and even environmental dimensions of life in the area. Consider the fol-
lowing incident, which took place in 1977 and was told by Rohitram Sharma,
Haḍimbā’s head priest. In accordance with her supreme status in the valley, the
goddess plays a key role:9
Figure 1.3. Kullu Valley’s major locations, towns, villages, and rivers. Map created by
the author based on data from OpenStreetMap. © OpenStreetMap contributors.
It was in the time of the Emergency [the Emergency Rule imposed by Indira
Gandhi between 1975 and 1977]. At that time, the men used to run away from
their homes during daylight [fearing forced sterilization by the government].
Only women and children stayed at home. Someone in the village targeted me.
He said: “He has five kids, so first do his operation.” But I said: “Friends, I have
no children at all. That man has no children of his own so he wants to pre-
vent me from having any too.” But they said: “No! We will forcefully do your
operation.” . . . There was one officer here. A magistrate. Police. He caught
people and did [the sterilization] by force. . . . I kept a gun with me—a double
barrel. I thought: “If the officer comes, the police—these bastards—I will fire
at them!” . . . I did not want to sit like a coward and hide from them. . . . Then
people thought: “What should we do?” They called everyone here, just like
nowadays we sometimes convene. They said: “Come. Let’s go and ask the Mātā
[Haḍimbā]. . . . The father of Tulerm was there [the medium of Haḍimbā at the
time]. The devī used to come on him [possess him] properly. She said [through
the medium]: “I am giving [the government] only three days and then the
Emergency will be over! Those who are in power now, I will change them my-
self. Everything is about to change.” I thought to myself: “She is lying. How can
this be? Will she kill Indira Gandhi? How can this be?” Everybody said: “Such
a big thing. She [Haḍimbā] will be arrested. They will arrest the medium too.”
And then the medium left. We later heard on the radio: “The Emergency is over.
There are going to be elections.” This happened after exactly three days!
This story illustrates the great power ascribed to the gods in Kullu and the reach
of their ability to manipulate reality for the benefit of their devotees. They are
involved in individual and household matters, as well as in those of the village,
region, and kingdom. Emerging in a region whose mountainous topography
encouraged the formation of small, scattered village communities, the devtās
have been instrumental in maintaining the internal integrity of these small so-
ciopolitical units and in binding them together in all sorts of ways. I will explore
more such instances in greater depth in the coming chapters.
When not conducting diplomacy with other villages and occasionally
toppling the national regime, the gods reside peacefully in their temples.
Stylistically, the temples in this region are divided by scholars into four main
groups: ancient śikhara (curvilinear tower) temples dating from the seventh
to eighth centuries; chalet-style temples made of a stone base and wooden top;
chalet-style temples made entirely of wood; and pagoda-style temples with a
succession of increasingly smaller pent roofs (Chetwode 1968).10 Haḍimbā’s
temple, which is considered one of the most prominent in the valley, belongs to
the fourth group. It is a pagoda-like structure made of wood and whitewashed,
mud-covered stonework, situated in the midst of a deodar forest just outside the
Getting There 23
village Dhungri. It has three square roofs covered with timber tiles and a fourth,
cone-shaped copper one on top with a round metal ball and a small royal um-
brella as pinnacle. The structure is surrounded by wood and stone balconies, and
the front façade is covered with wooden carvings. The entrance gate, situated
behind a newly installed metal grill, is fairly small and made of heavy wood. It is
without doubt the most famous temple in the region, frequented by thousands of
visitors every day.
Inside the local temples, the devtās appear either in aniconic form, as a piṇḍī
(non-anthropomorphic stone) or triśūl (trident), or in an iconic form, as an an-
thropomorphic stone, metal mūrti (statue), or mohrā (metal mask-like face). In
earlier periods, many of these temples remained closed most of the time and were
opened by the officiating priest only for morning and evening pūjās (homage,
worship), during festivals, or upon special request made by devotees who wished
to worship the god. Nowadays, however, with the growth of the local popula-
tion and the rise of tourism in the area, the larger temples are opened daily and
pujārīs (priests) are available throughout the day. During festivals, villagers and
visitors from across the region gather in the temples to celebrate, and it is often
on these occasions that the deities manifest in their moving, material forms.
Literally a “chariot” but in reality a palanquin, the rath is a much-loved man-
ifestation of Himalayan devtās. Whereas the manifestation of the devtā in a
temple—as a piṇḍī, statue, or mask—is static, the rath is quite dynamic. Raths
come in different styles, but they all share a basic shape comprising a wooden
structure called kursī (chair) and attached long polls (boi), which devotees carry
on their shoulders when transporting the devtā around. This wooden base is
decorated with additional materials and objects, such as jewelry, fabric, flowers,
and silver or gold umbrellas. Especially important, and probably the most dis-
tinguishable feature of local raths, are the mohrās—metal, mask-like faces that
are affixed to the chair and that give the devtās their human-like appearance.
In other places in India, the mūrti of the devtā is taken out of the temple and
placed in the rath, but in Kullu that is not the case. Instead, the whole assembled
complex is itself considered the manifestation of the deity. Once assembled and
pervaded by the devtā’s presence through a series of evocative rituals, the rath
dances in the temple compound, marches through the village, circumambulates
it on certain occasions, and travels to visit neighboring devtās during their an-
nual village festivals. Devotees insist that it is the devtās themselves, and not their
human carriers, who control the movements of the raths. At times, especially in
charged ritual moments, the rath may start running unexpectedly, spiral around
as if out of control, or even attack startled bystanders.
Another popular venue though which devtās manifest in the region is their
human mediums (gur, chela). Almost every devtā has his own human oracle,
whom he possesses and through whom he communicates with members of
the community.11 Whereas possession events (khel, play) may take different
forms, one can identify several characterizing elements and sequences. The gur,
wearing traditional white dress called cholā, sits in front of the temple or the rath
and inhales the smoke of burning juniper rising from a censer (dhauḍch) placed
in front of him. Accompanied by rhythmic drumbeats, he pronounces mantras,
throws grains of rice into his mouth, and begins to shake. At some point he raises
his head, and his ṭopī (cap) falls down and is grabbed by an appointed assistant.
This signals that the gur is now possessed and that he is channeling the words
of the devtā. Speaking through his medium, the devtā may raise his voice or
whisper, talk rapidly or calmly, and deliver brief or lengthy messages, which may
be straightforward or decidedly unclear. Most often the session takes the form of
a conversation between the gur/devtā and the temple committee members, com-
munity elders, and other occasional speakers. Once the exchange is over, the gur
closes his eyes and lowers his head, and the musicians begin beating their drums
again. This indicates that the devtā has now left.
While village devtās do occasionally manifest through ordinary devotees,
who jump, tremble, and scream rather than speak clearly and converse, gurs
are the main mouthpieces of the village devtās, and they usually perform this
role for life. The gur is not elected by his fellow villagers through any offi-
cial procedure but is believed to be chosen by the devtā himself. The new or-
acle often belongs to the extended family of the previous one, but the exact
individual is marked by the gods. Tuleram, Haḍimbā’s present gur, is a fine
example.12 For ten years after the death of the previous oracle, Tuleram’s fa-
ther, Kahlua Ram, no gur emerged. Community members performed many
rituals requesting the goddess to choose her new mouthpiece, but no one
stepped up. At some point, Tuleram, who did not want to become a gur at all,
fell seriously ill. He was sick for quite a while until, as he reports, “One day,
I felt an electric current going through me. I ran like a madman to the temple.
Over there my cap was thrown off by a palanquin. And I became a gur.”13 The
emergence (nikalna) of Haḍimbā’s new medium, though the son of her pre-
vious gur, took a fairly long time. The reluctant Tuleram was first marked by
sickness and then, publicly and officially, by the rath, which knocked down his
ṭopī and sealed the matter.14
In this case it was not Haḍimbā herself whose rath threw Tuleram’s ṭopī, but
her close ally Shank Narayan, the devtā of the adjacent village who is considered
the goddess’s śiṣya (student) and who often delivers messages concerning her.
Manifested in his palanquin, Shank Narayan thus publicly appointed Haḍimbā’s
new gur, Tuleram, in a sort of cooperation between gods that is quite common
in the region. Devtās here often speak for each other and announce each other’s
demands, concerns, and messages. It is important to notice that one form of di-
vine manifestation (the rath) was intimately involved in sanctioning another
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table, with which it was furnished, were located centrally, and so
crossed each other exactly under the spindle. It was therefore
impossible to use a boring-bar in this tool, and its usefulness was
ridiculously disproportioned to its size. The contrast between it and
the Smith & Coventry drill, which was set in its place, was really
wonderful. We had no trouble in disposing of this and all other
rejected tools to parties who were delighted to get them cheap. It
took us about six months to get rid of all the rubbish and fill the
works with the best tools then obtainable, though still deficient in
many respects, as, for instance, the great planer, which had only one
cutting tool on the cross-slide, whereas a planer of that size should
be provided with four cutting tools—two on the cross-slide and one
on each upright, and should be twice as heavy.
One of the first engines we sold was to D. M. Osborne & Co., the
celebrated makers of mowers and reapers in Auburn, for driving their
rolling mill. This was 18×30-inch engine, making 150 revolutions per
minute, and was the fifth engine I had furnished to different
industries in my native town.
Twenty-five years afterwards I saw this engine running. They had
increased its speed. By means of a large ball on projections of the
forked lever they were able to vary the speed from 200 revolutions to
250 revolutions per minute, according to the sizes they were rolling.
I observed that, as our facilities for doing work were increased, the
belief that I was unable to execute orders became general through
the country, and applications, at first numerous, dwindled to almost
nothing. United and well-directed action would soon have put a new
face on matters, but now I was to meet with obstacles that time could
not overcome.
Mr. Merrick was an amiable and high-toned gentleman, whose
sole aim was to do his duty; but he was exactly the wrong man for
the place. He was not an engineer or mechanic. In the firm of S. V.
Merrick & Sons he had been the office man. He was entirely a man
of routine. He seemed obtuse to a mechanical reason for doing or
not doing anything. Of course he knew nothing about my business.
He was impressed with the idea of the omnipotence of the president,
which in his case was true, as the directors would unanimously
approve of whatever he might do. He at once deprived me of the
power of appointment and discharge in my own department,
arrogating all authority to himself. In addition he was naturally a very
reserved man, I may say secretive. He consulted me about nothing. I
never knew what he proposed to do or was doing until I found out
afterwards. He had grandly confessed his first two blunders, but
unfortunately he continued to make mistakes equally serious to the
end of the chapter.
About the first order we had was from a company formed for
lighting the streets in Philadelphia with arc lights, of which Thomas
Dolan, a prominent manufacturer in Philadelphia, was president. Our
order was for eight engines, 8×16 inches, to drive eight Brush
dynamos each of 40-light power. The order was given to Mr. Merrick.
I never saw Mr. Dolan; his own mill was at the northern end of the
city, and he met Mr. Merrick by appointment at lunch in the business
center, to which conferences I was never invited. When the plant
was in operation I heard incidentally that they had a new engineer at
the electric-light works, and I thought I would go up and make his
acquaintance. I went the same evening. I was met at the door by a
stranger who politely showed me the plant. I did not introduce
myself. He asked me if I were interested in electric lighting. I told him
I was not but might be. He said it was his duty to warn me against
the use of high-speed engines; he should not have advised these,
but found them already installed when he took charge of the place,
and he was doing the best he could to make them answer for the
present, but the works would be greatly enlarged after a while, when
these engines would be gotten rid of and proper engines substituted
in place of them. He called his assistant to corroborate his statement
of the difficulty they had in getting along with them. I listened to these
outrageous falsehoods and looked around and saw the eight
engines running smoothly and silently at 280 revolutions per minute,
each engine exerting the power of four engines of the same size, at
the old maximum speed of 70 revolutions per minute, and giving
absolutely uniform motion without a fly-wheel, and said nothing.
The next morning I made an early call on Mr. Dolan at his office. I
introduced myself to him, although I think he knew me by sight. I told
him the state of affairs I found at the electric-light station and
received from him in reply the following astounding statement. He
said: “Mr. Porter, when this company was formed I selected the
Southwark Foundry as our engineers. I had previously become
acquainted with the running of some of your engines and had come
to the conclusion that they were just what we needed; accordingly I
ordered our first engines from you. I assumed the engineering
department of this enterprise to be in your hands, and that you would
be represented here by an engineer selected by yourselves and
devoted to your interest. Accordingly, when your men had finished
their job I applied to your president to send me an engineer. He sent
me a workman. That was not the kind of man I asked him for; the
engines were in charge of workmen already from your own works. I
wanted an educated man who could represent us in the courts and
before the city councils—in short, an engineering head for this
business, now in its infancy, but which was expected to grow to large
proportions. He ought to have known what I wanted, or if he did not
he should have asked me; his whole manner was entirely indifferent,
he seemed to take no interest in the enterprise.
“Seeing I could get no help from Mr. Merrick, I applied to William
Sellers for an engineer. He sent me a young man from his drawing-
office, and I soon found out he was not the man I wanted; he knew
nothing about a steam-engine—was merely a machine-tool
draftsman—so I found I must rely upon myself. The only man I could
think of was this man I have. He had done some good work for me
two or three years ago in repairing one of my engines, so I offered
him the position, which he accepted. I knew nothing of his
engineering preferences; he seems to be doing very well, and I am
afraid he will have to stay;” and stay he did.
The result was most remarkable. A demand for electric-lighting
plants was springing up in all parts of the country. This became
widely known as a pioneer plant, and was visited daily by parties
who were interested in such projects. These visitors were met at the
door by the engineer and his assistant and were warned, just as I
was, to have nothing to do with a high-speed engine. They were
always business men, quite ignorant of machinery, and with whom
the testimony of two practical men who had experience with the
engines and were actuated in their advice by a sense of duty was
conclusive. The result was that we never had a single application to
supply engines for electric lighting. Yes, we did have one application;
a man came into the office when I was there alone and gave me an
order for his mill and apologized to me for giving it. He said the place
where he was obliged to locate his lighting plant was so limited, he
found he could not get in the engine he wanted.
This result I felt especially exasperated at when a year afterwards
the secretary of the lighting company, who had his office at the
station, told me that he had done something of which he knew his
directors would not approve; he had sold every light they were able
to furnish. He had felt safe in doing this, because no one of the
engines had failed them for an instant. For his part he could not see
what those men were there for—they had absolutely nothing to do
except to start and stop the engines as required and attend to the
oiling. Their principal occupation seemed to be waiting on visitors.
This great disaster would have been avoided if Mr. Merrick had
conferred with me with respect to Mr. Dolan’s most important
request. We should have had a man there who would have told the
truth about the engines, and would have impressed every visitor with
the enormous advantage of the high-speed engine, not only for that
service, but also for every use to which steam power can be applied.
It will be observed that this disaster was widespread and
continuous. It not only caused a great immediate loss, but its
ultimate injury was beyond all computation. Its effect was that the
Porter-Allen engine was shut out of the boundless field of generating
electricity for light and power purposes, a field which was naturally its
own.
The following story is too good to keep, although the incident had
no effect that I am aware of to accelerate my downward progress.
While in Newark I had built for Mr. Edison an engine for his
experimental plant at Menlo Park. The satisfaction this engine gave
may be judged by what follows: One day I had a call from Mr.
Edison, accompanied by Charles L. Clarke, his engineer. They had
been walking very rapidly, and Mr. Edison, who was rather stout, was
quite out of breath. As soon as they were seated, without waiting to
recover his wind Mr. Edison began, ejaculating each sentence while
catching his breath: “Want a thousand engines.” “Thousand
engines.” “Want you to make the plans for them.” “Have all the shops
in New England working on the parts.” “Bring them here to be
assembled.” “Thousand engines.” In the conversation that followed I
gently let Mr. Edison down, not to the earth, but in sight of it. The
result was that two or three weeks afterwards I was injudicious
enough to accept from him an order for twenty-four engines, luckily
all of one size and type. This was to be a rush order, but it called for
new drawings and patterns, as he wanted a special proportion of
diameter and stroke, larger diameter and shorter stroke than those in
my table. Before the drawings and patterns were completed, Mr.
Edison, or the people associated with him, discovered that they had
no place to put more than six of these engines, so the order was
reduced to six. These were for a station which was being prepared
on the west side of Pearl Street, a few doors south of Fulton, New
York City. Three of these engines were finished first. After they had
been running a few days a defect of some kind, the nature of which I
never knew, was discovered, and Mr. Edison’s attention was called
to it. He charged it to the engine, and exclaimed impetuously, “Turn
them out, turn them out!” It was represented to him, however, that
they could hardly do this, as they were under contract for a
considerable amount of light and power, and the current was being
furnished satisfactorily. “Well,” said he, “we’ll have no more of them
at any rate,” so the order for the remaining three engines was
countermanded, and three Armington & Sims engines were ordered
in place of them. When these were started the same difficulty
appeared with them also. A fresh investigation disclosed the fact that
the difficulty was entirely an electrical one, and the engines had
nothing to do with it. Mr. Clarke claimed that had been his belief from
the beginning. So the thousand engines dwindled to three engines
sold and three thrown back on our hands. The two triplets ran
together harmoniously until in the development of the electrical
business that station was abandoned.
Directly after we began to do work, Mr. E. D. Leavitt brought us the
business of the Calumet and Hecla mine. This was then the largest
copper mine in the country, owned by a Boston company of which
Mr. Agassiz, son of the great naturalist, was president. He brought it
to me personally on account of his admiration for the engine, and
also for the character of work which I had inaugurated. His first order
was for an engine of moderate size. While that was building he
brought us a small order for a repair job, amounting perhaps to a
couple of hundred dollars. That work was spoiled in the shop by
some blunder and had to be thrown away and made over again. By
accident I saw the bill for that job; a green boy brought it from the
treasurer’s desk for Mr. Merrick’s approval. We both happened to be
out, and by mistake he laid it on my side of the table. I came in first,
picked it up and read it, and saw that it was for the full amount of the
material and work that had been put on the job. It seemed to me
quite double what it ought to be. I laid it on Mr. Merrick’s side and,
when he came in, told him how I came to see it, and I thought it
should not be sent, being so greatly increased by our own fault.
“Oh,” said he, “they are rich; they won’t mind it.” I said: “That is not
the question with me; I don’t think it is just to charge our customers
for our own blunders.” He smiled at my innocence, saying: “If a
machine-shop does not make its customers pay for its blunders, it
will soon find itself in the poorhouse.” “Well,” said I, “I protest against
this bill being sent.” However, it was sent, and in the course of a few
days a check came for the full amount, and Mr. Merrick laughed at
me. Weeks and months passed away and we had heard no more
from Mr. Leavitt, when I met him in New York at a meeting of the
council of the Society of Mechanical Engineers. When the meeting
was over he invited me to walk with him, and said to me: “I suppose
you have observed that I have not visited the Southwark Foundry
lately.” I told him I had observed it. He then said: “Do you remember
that bill?” I told him I did very well, and how vainly I had protested
against its being sent. He said: “When that bill was brought to me for
approval, I hesitated about putting my initials to it until I had shown it
to Mr. Agassiz. I told him what the job was and the bill was quite
twice as large as I had expected. He replied, ‘Pay it, but don’t go to
them any more,’ and I have taken our work to the Dickson
Manufacturing Company at Scranton.” I realized that I had lost the
most influential engineering friend I had since the death of Mr.
Holley. I heard some years after, and believe it, though I do not
vouch for its correctness, that the work sent to the Dickson
Manufacturing Company through Mr. Leavitt had in one year
exceeded one hundred thousand dollars.
E. D. Leavitt
Some time previous to these events, Mr. Merrick had done a very
high-handed thing. Assuming supreme power as president of the
company, he had invaded my department, and, without a word to
me, had appointed over Mr. Goodfellow a superintendent to suit
himself, reducing Mr. Goodfellow to be general foreman of the
machine-shop, to take his orders from the new superintendent and
not from me, whereupon Mr. Goodfellow resigned, and accepted a
position as master mechanic in the Pennsylvania Steel Works, and
by his advice the engine ordered by them from me was taken from
the Southwark Foundry in its incomplete condition and finished by
themselves under Mr. Goodfellow’s direction. Mr. Merrick then filled
Mr. Goodfellow’s place with another friend of his own as general
foreman, a man who would have been as valuable as a stick of wood
but for his incessant blunders. I was fully alive to the arbitrary nature
of this usurpation, but was entirely helpless, knowing perfectly well
that the directors would sustain the president in whatever he did.
With the coming of the new superintendent, the fatal change took
place. He came, first of all, full of the superiority of Philadelphia
mechanics, and, second, feeling that in the nature of things I must be
entirely ignorant of anything mechanical. I was nothing but a New
York lawyer; never did a day’s work in a shop in my life; had gone
into a business I was not educated to and knew nothing about. My
presuming to give orders to mechanics, and Philadelphia mechanics
too, filled him with indignation. He would not take an order from me
—perish the thought—and as for my drawings, he would depart from
them as much as he liked.
All this appeared by degrees. I observed on the floor several
cylinders fitted up, in which the followers for the piston-rod stuffing-
boxes were made sliding fits on the rods. I asked him why he had
made them in this way when they were drawn and figured to be
bored ¹⁄₃₂ inch larger than the rod. He replied, “Because this is the
way they ought to be.” I told him every one of them would be fired
before the engine had run an hour; that I wanted him to bore those
followers to the drawings, as well as the cylinder heads back of the
stuffing-boxes. “It shall be done, sir,” said he. On examining them
after this had been done, I found he had turned as much off from the
outside of the followers as he had bored out of the hole. I asked him
why he had done that. He said he supposed if I wanted the inside to
be loose, I wanted the outside to be loose too. I told him I did not. He
asked me why. I told him he was not there to argue with me; I
wanted him to throw those followers away and make new ones
precisely to the drawings, and I saw to it myself that it was done. I
went to Mr. Merrick about this matter, and can the reader imagine
what his reply was? “My advice to you, Mr. Porter, is to leave all such
matters to the superintendent.” Think of it; an amateur president
assuming the direction of my business, and giving such advice to
me, who never had left the least thing to anybody, and without
considering the fact that the action of his superintendent would be
ruinous, except for my interference. I realized that I was absolutely
alone, but I felt very much like fighting the whole world. The above
incident is a fair sample of my constant experience. I was on the
watch all the time. Many times I required the work to be done over
when the superintendent departed from my drawings, and in doing it
over he generally contrived to ruin the job, and would say, “Just
according to your orders, sir.” I was reminded of a story told of Dr.
Beman, a minister of Troy, N. Y., whose wife was peculiar, to say the
least. On a certain occasion the presbytery met in Troy, and one
evening he invited its members to his house, and told his wife to
provide just a light supper. When they were ushered into the supper-
room there was nothing on the table but lighted candles. “A light
supper,” said she, “just as you ordered, sir.”
Samuel T. Wellman
I proposed to appoint an inspector to represent me. The general

foreman said if an inspector were appointed he should resign, and
Mr. Merrick forbade it. Was ever a man in so helpless and ridiculous
a position?
February 2nd Porter-Allen Engine—40×48

Otis Iron and Steel Co.
93 Rev. Cleveland,
84 Lbs. } April 14, 1882
The second of the large engines which I finished was for the Otis
Steel Works. I went to Cleveland myself to start the engine and
found that Mr. Wellman, the general manager, had it running already.
Mr. Otis, the president, was very much pleased with it, and well he
might be. This was the first mill to roll plates from the ingot to the
finish without reheating. These were the kind of diagrams it made. It
will be observed that these were taken at different times and under
different pressures. Unfortunately the right hand one is the only
diagram I have from the crank end of the cylinder. In rolling these
heavy plates the changes were made instantaneously from full load
to nothing and from nothing to full load. The engine made 93
revolutions per minute, and it will be seen that the changes were
made by the governor in a third of a second or less, the speed not
varying sensibly. Mr. Otis said to me: “Oh, Mr. Porter, what shall I do
with you? You cannot imagine the loss I have suffered from your
delay in furnishing this engine.” I said: “Mr. Otis, you know the
terrible time I have had, and that I have done the very best I could.”
“Yes,” he said, “I know all about it.” He had, in fact, been to
Philadelphia and seen for himself. He added: “You make a small
engine suitable for electric lights; what is the price of an engine
maintaining twenty-five arc lights?” I told him $1050. “Well,” said he,
“you strike off the odd fifty and let me have one for a thousand
dollars, and we will call it square,” so I had some sunshine on my
way. I present a portrait of this just man. The engine is now running
as good as new after twenty-five years, and the company five or six
years afterwards put in another 48×66-inch to drive a still larger train.
I had a funny experience at the Cambria Works which has always
seemed to me to have been prophetic. In August, 1881, the Society
of Mechanical Engineers held a meeting in Altoona, and the
Pennsylvania Railroad Company gave us an excursion to Johnstown
to visit the works of the Cambria Company. The anticipations of the
members were expressed by Jackson Bailey, then the editor of the
American Machinist. As I was going through a car in which he was
seated he called out to me, “This is your day, Porter.” The party was
taken in charge by Mr. Morrell, the general manager. Our route took
us first to their new blast-furnaces, where considerable time was
spent in examining their new and interesting features. Next we came
to my second engine, started some two months before. The engine
was just being slowed down; we were told there were not yet
furnaces enough to keep the train running continuously, so they were
shut down from half an hour to an hour between heats, and a heat
had just been run off. We went next to see my rail-mill engine, which
had raised the output of that mill 150 per cent. That too had been
shut down. They had just broken a roll, a most rare accident and one
which I had never before seen or heard of there. “Well, gentlemen,”
said I, “at any rate I can show you my engine driving a cold saw.”
Arrived at the spot, we found that all still, and were told that sawing
cold rails was not a continuous operation, we had hit upon the noon
hour, and the men had gone to their dinner. That was the end of the
show, as far as I was concerned. The Gautier Works were a mile
away and were not included in our visit, so we were entertained with
the great blooming-mill in operation and the casting of the enormous
ingots for it, and after the customary luncheon and speeches we
returned to Altoona.
Charles A. Otis
One day the superintendent came into the office and told me he
had tried my machine for facing nuts and it would not work. I felt
disappointed, because I had confidence in it. I went out to see what
the matter was, and at a glance I saw that it had been ingeniously
arranged not to work. The feed had been made rapid and the cutting
motion very slow, so that the tools could not take their cuts and the
slow-moving belt ran off the pulleys. I did not reduce the feed-
motion, but increased the speed of the cutters and the belt some
eight or ten-fold, when the trouble vanished. I never knew anything
to work better than that tool did.
Porter-Allen Engine 40″×48″ #207
Dash pot for Governor.
The burning anxiety of the superintendent was to show up my

ignorance. A first-rate chance to do so soon seemed to present itself.
The counterpoise of the governor of the Otis engine dropped
instantly to its seat when a plate struck the rolls and as instantly rose
to the top of its range of action when it left them. This made a noisy
blow which was disagreeable and might in time cause an accident.
Mr. Wellman sent me a sketch of a device he had thought of for
arresting this motion by air-cushions. I told the superintendent to
have that apparatus made and make the air-cushions four inches in
diameter. He said four inches diameter would not answer; they must
be eight inches. “No,” said I, “four inches diameter is ample; make
them four inches.” A few days after he called me into the shop to try
my four-inch air-cushions. I found the apparatus secured in a vise in
a vertical position. I took hold of the lever and lifted the piston; it met
with no resistance until it struck sharply against the end of the
chamber. For a moment I was stunned by the man’s audacity, and
threw the piston up and down again to make sure it was not a
dream. I then turned my back on the superintendent and called to a
boy to find Mr. Fulmer, the foreman of the second floor, and tell him I
wanted him here. In a moment he appeared, and I said to him: “Mr.
Fulmer, I want you to make a new piston for this apparatus and
make it a proper fit; you understand.” Mr. Fulmer bowed assent. I
added: “There will be time to-day to get it into the sand, and it can be
finished early to-morrow. When it is ready for my inspection come
yourself to the office and let me know.” About the middle of the next
forenoon Mr. Fulmer called for me. I went in and found the piston
arrested at each end of its motion by a perfect air-cushion. “All right,”
said I, “see that it is shipped to-day.”
Mr. Fulmer was an excellent mechanic and a man of good general
intelligence; he would have made the piston a proper fit in the first
place if he had not been expressly ordered to make it loose and
useless. The superintendent, on his persistent assumption that I was
a fool, had actually expected me to say when I tried the apparatus:
“Oh, I see, four inches diameter will not do. You will have to make it
eight.”
Some time in 1881 or 1882 I had a queer experience with an
engine for the New York Post Office. It was to take the place of an
engine then running. The engineer of the Post Office informed me
that this engine had a cylinder twelve inches in diameter. I told him it
looked to me from the external dimensions that the diameter must be
fourteen inches and asked him to take off the back head and
measure it for me. He wrote me a few days after that he found that
he could not get the back head off, but I might rely upon it being
twelve inches. So I did rely upon it being fourteen inches, furnished
an engine accordingly, and found it to be the size needed.
Daniel J. Morrell
Some time after the engine was started I received a line from the
Postmaster saying they were much disappointed in it. They expected
a gain in economy, but they were burning more coal than before,
also that the engine pounded badly. I went to New York to see what
the matter was. The engine seemed to be working all right except for
the knock, so I made my way down to the sub-cellar. There was
nothing there but the boilers and the engineer’s desk. On the cellar
stairs, after I had shut the door behind me, I heard a loud sound of
escaping steam. The boilers were under the middle of the building; a
four-inch steam-pipe ran from them a distance of about eighty feet,
suspended from the ceiling, to a point under the engine, then turned
up through the floor to the under side of the steam-chest. The
exhaust pipe, of the same size, came from the engine through the
floor and was carried parallel with the steam-pipe to the middle of the
building and upward through the roof. The two pipes were about
eighteen inches apart, and in the vertical portions under the ceiling
they had been connected by a half-inch pipe having a globe valve in
the middle of its length. The valve-stem was downward and the valve
set wide open. The noise I heard was caused by the steam rushing
through this pipe. I computed that about as much steam was being
thus blown away as was used by the engine. My first impulse was to
call upon the Postmaster and tell him what I had found, but I decided
not to bother him. I could not reach the valve to close it, but
discovered a box used for a step to an opening in the wall, so I
brought that out and standing upon it was able to close the valve;
then the noise ceased and I put the box back.
There was no one in the cellar but a boy firing the boilers. I asked
him if he knew who put that pipe there. He knew nothing about it, but
supposed our men put it there when they set up the engine. I hunted
up the engineer and asked him the same question, and got the same
answer. I went to the people who did the engineering work for the
Post Office and who had put in the pipes; they knew nothing about it.
I could find out nothing, but had to content myself with telling the
engineer that I had closed the valve and relied upon him to keep it
closed. I asked him what he thought caused the thump in the engine;
he said he had not the slightest idea, but he would try to cure it. I
contented myself with writing to the Postmaster that I had removed
the cause of the waste of steam and hoped he would now find the
engine satisfactory. Soon after Mr. Merrick was in New York for two
or three days. When he came home he said: “I have cured the thump
in that Post Office engine.” “How did you do it?” I asked. He replied:
“I gave the engineer a twenty-dollar gold piece, and when I went to
see it the next morning the thump was gone.” I should add that when
the old engine was taken down I had the back cylinder head
removed, which was done without difficulty, and found the diameter
fourteen inches. “For ways that are dark and tricks that are vain” this
engineer was “peculiar” in my experience.
I had brought with me from Newark an order from the Willimantic
Linen Company, who were manufacturers of cotton thread, for two
engines for quite an interesting application. They were building a
new mill entirely unique in its design, which has never been
repeated, being an ignorant freak. It was a one-story mill 800 feet
long and 250 or 300 feet wide, intended to contain five lines of
shafting. Each line was independent and drove the machinery for all
the successive operations from opening the cotton bales to packing
the spools of thread. These lines of shafting 800 feet long were to be
in the basement and to drive these machines by belts through the
floor, the engine to be in the middle of each line. For this purpose I
supplied a pair of condensing engines, 11 inches diameter of
cylinder and 16 inches stroke, making 350 revolutions per minute,
with their cranks set at right angles with each other in the line of
shafting. These required no fly-wheel and would start from any
position. I had a great deal of trouble with this order on account of
the delay in its execution, so much so that before the first engine
was finished the order for the second one was countermanded, and
this order was placed with the Hartford Engineering Company, a new
concern which was foolish enough to undertake the same speed.
However, after my first engine was started they found themselves
face to face with an impossibility and had to throw up their contract,
whereupon the president of the company became very civil and
asked me to be kind enough to make the second engine for them,
which I was quite happy to do, as I had on hand the peculiar bed for
these engines, which I did not break up after the order was
countermanded, but had it set up against the wall of the shop in

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The Many Faces of a Himalayan

Goddess: Hadimba, Her Devotees, and

The Many Faces of a Himalayan Goddess: Hadimba, Her

The Goddess Gets Her Guy Ashlyn Chase

The Goddess Gets Her Guy Ashlyn Chase

The Goddess Gets Her Guy Ashlyn Chase

The Many Paths of Change in International Law Nico

Deities and Devotees: Cinema, Religion, and Politics in

The Many and the One: A Philosophical Study of Plural

The Two Faces of Democracy: Decentering Agonism and

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Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data

1.1. Kullu Valley. A view from the north, 2010. 15

This book draws on research I first conducted while at Columbia University,

on different parts of this work. Vasudha Narayanan supported my work in various

For ease of reading by an international audience, I refrain from using diacritics

the historically complex process in which major goddesses of transregional scale

My commitment to studying the lived aspects of Haḍimbā’s cult has shaped

preserves his distance, an order-​bestowing theatrical distance, and only occa-

Goethe’s description, while comprehensive, detailed, and orderly, is dismissive of

devotees to reflect on their self-​perception and sense of belonging, in this case

1. See, for example, Humes (1996).

1.1 A Bus Ride from Delhi

1.2 Mountain Religion: The Devtā System

I proposed to appoint an inspector to represent me. The general

February 2nd Porter-Allen Engine—40×48

The burning anxiety of the superintendent was to show up my

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

preserves his distance, an order-bestowing theatrical distance, and only occa-

devotees to reflect on their self-perception and sense of belonging, in this case