Introduction
While gender violence and the marginalization of women are universal, the work of Black and DalitFootnote 1 (lower caste) feminists has forcefully reminded us that gender is shaped by culturally specific factors such as race, class, religion, sexuality, and caste. These intersections create distinct experiences for women in different contexts.Footnote 2 In Brahmanical patriarchy, caste and Brahmanical values exert a stronger influence on gender relations than gender alone. Patriarchal Brahmanical values were embraced and enforced by the Peshwas to build, maintain, and extend their control, shaping not just gender and caste relations but also social and economic hierarchies and governance. Despite its significance, such intersectionality within the Peshwa’s judicial system has not been systematically researched, even though it was well understood at the time and deliberately instrumentalized to dispense justice and reinforce patriarchal Brahmanical order. Examining this intersectionality is essential to understanding how justice and women’s diverse experiences were shaped by gender, caste, and religion.
By paying attention to law and examining state-issued archives, this article aims to bring the Maratha state into conversations about gender, caste, and justice in early modern India. Previous scholarship on the Maratha empire, while recognizing women’s subordination and exploitation, has largely ignored how the state’s political ambitions and religious ideology, enforced through its judicial system, affected ‘marginalized’ women, instead focusing on Brahman women’s victimization.Footnote 3 Yet lower-caste and Muslim women were discriminated against both by all men and upper caste women. Although there have been several studies of the history of criminal and civil law in India, including in the pre-colonial period, few have used the law to understand the intersection of sex, caste, gender, and gendered violence, as has been done in, for example, the Ottoman empire, colonial Africa, and early modern England.Footnote 4 This article contributes to a more nuanced understanding of the changing nature of state law, customs, and social practices and their impacts on women during this period of significant political and social transition on the subcontinent. By examining the lived experiences of women within the legal system of the Peshwa state, it sheds light on the complex ways in which gender, caste, religion, and justice intersected in early modern India. References to the Marathas, the Maratha or Peshwa state, regime or rule, specifically denote the Marathi-speaking territories directly governed by the Maratha kings and, subsequently, the Peshwas. The arguments and findings presented here do not extend to regions administered by other Maratha leaders or sardars, such as the Shindes of Gwalior, Holkars of Malwa, Pawars in various cities, Gaekwads of Baroda, or Bhosles of Nagpur.
The article examines crimes of kidnapping and forced marriage against women to assess whether the Peshwa government prioritized delivering justice to victims or was primarily concerned with reinforcing patriarchal Brahmanical values and religious obligations, particularly given that the annulment of fully performed marriages was forbidden under the Shastras.Footnote 5 It argues that the Peshwa regime was not merely shaped by, or passively defensive of and responsive to, the social order it inherited. Rather, the regime functioned as an active mechanism for transforming the existing order, which was affected by heterogeneity within the same caste and overlapping customs between elite and lower castes, as well as intercaste and inter-religious acts, etc. and a competing normative framework, into a consolidated patriarchal Brahmanical order. It thus reinforced and totalized caste-based customs, hierarchies, and governance through judicial and administrative interventions. Additionally, the article highlights the limitations of Marathi documents. It analyses the ambiguity and fluidity of categories used to denote abduction, as well as associated normative frameworks and penalties, to show how the discursive politics of caste, communal, and political dynamics denied women’s agency and subsumed alternative narratives—such as elopement or consensual cohabitation—further revealing how coercion (kidnapping) and women’s consent and agency in cases of elopement and cohabitation were conceptualized. Moreover, the article argues that the government’s adherence to a patriarchal Brahmanical ideology not only guided legal responses but also reinforced the perpetuation of crimes against women, especially abductions and forced marriages.
Historiography on Maratha justice has largely revolved around a binary: whether the Marathas strictly enforced the Shastras or whether their legal decisions were shaped primarily by political economy and pragmatism. Over the past four decades, the latter interpretation has dominated, leading many historians to downplay both the influence of the Shastras and caste prejudice in legal practices. While contextualizing the Maratha state within its historical milieu is crucial, scholarship has often treated its legal system as a passive reflection of contemporary practices, rather than an active instrument in reinforcing patriarchal Brahmanical order. This article, by contrast, highlights and examines how patriarchal Brahmanism—rooted in gender and caste hierarchies—shaped legal outcomes, and how Maratha judicial practices reflected a distinctive, intersectional technology of governance.
Early twentieth-century historians such as S. N. Sen and V. T. Gune acknowledged Shastric influence. Sen argues that both the forms of punishment—particularly mutilation and capital execution—and their methods of enforcement closely resembled the injunctions of ancient Hindu lawgivers.Footnote 6 Similarly, Gune identified three types of punishment—state (fines, incarceration, mutilation, execution), religious (penance), and caste (outcasting)—the latter two derived from the Shastras.Footnote 7 By contrast, late twentieth-century scholarship often rejected or minimized Shastric influence, and either denied caste and gender prejudice, for example N. K. Wagle’s research, or explained such prejudice purely through the framework of political economy, for example Sumit Guha’s research. A. B. Waters, who examines domestic abuse and widow’s deviations, argued that because the Peshwa government primarily imposed fines, and at times enforced or regulated caste and ritual punishments, the Maratha administration was less concerned ‘with [Shastric] prescriptions than with the pragmatic resolution of social problems’, concluding that its approach ‘may best be characterised by the flexibility and pragmatism of its judgments’.Footnote 8 Similarly, Wagle’s research, based on Pune, argues that, regardless of the severity of the crime or the culprits’ caste and gender, the kotavāl (head of law, order, and policing in Pune city) only imposed fines, even for those crimes for which the Shastras prescribe capital punishment. He further suggested equality in sentencing, as fines were adjusted by affordability—an interpretation that effectively erases caste-based legal hierarchies.Footnote 9 By building on and challenging these studies, this article shows that, alongside fines, incarceration, enslavement, mutilation, and execution were also imposed—including in Pune—and that gender, caste, and religious prejudice were explicitly embedded in all levels of punishment, including fines. Although applying a modern conception of justice, which involves equality, directly to the judicial practices of the Peshwa state may have its limitations, it would be far more problematic to downplay the profound influence of gender, caste, and religious hierarchies on judicial experiences.
Drawing on published Maratha documents and the notable report by Mountstuart Elphinstone, the governor of the Bombay presidency, Guha contends that Maratha criminal justice operated independently of Shastric prescriptions, even while reporting and acknowledging—unlike Wagle and Waters—the enforcement of punishments such as imprisonment, mutilation, and capital sentences. He argues that rather than adhering to a fixed religious or scriptural framework, ‘the administration of criminal justice was often, though not always, a political as well as a judicial process. It was therefore by nature variable, arbitrary, subject to negotiation and intercession, but also to exemplary displays of power and rage.’ Consequently he observes that ‘criminal justice was influenced by the relative power and sources of the plaintiff, the accused and the adjudicator—the latter was far from omnipotent’.Footnote 10 Guha further contends that these penalties persisted not because they were scriptural but because they were practical, beneficial, and expedient—‘killing, maiming or seizing the goods of offenders are expedients that have spontaneously suggested themselves to many imaginations without the benefit of scriptural enquiry’.Footnote 11 He refers to the Shastras, for example, the Manusmriti, which exempt Brahmans from any penalty, except financial or seizure of their property, and contrasts this with examples where Brahmans were also imprisoned or otherwise physically punished. He also identifies one case where three farmers, whom he designates ‘low castes’, negotiated financial settlements for killing Brahmans, contrary to the very severe punishments recommended by the Shastras. Guha also gives examples of Brahmans being killed by Sambhaji, the second incumbent of the Maratha throne.Footnote 12 However, such killing was not part of a judicial procedure, but arose out of a succession conflict, when royal contenders would even kill their families, such as when Sambhaji killed one of Shivaji’s wives.Footnote 13
While this argument of political economy offers valuable insights by suggesting that harsh punishments (typically imposed on lower-caste individuals and Muslims) were primarily a result of poor connections, weak negotiating ability, and poorer resources (including the inability to pay fines), rather than caste or religious prejudice, this article seeks to expand upon this perspective. It is important to recognize that, as in the present day, the lower castes’ lack of resources and connections were inherently tied to their caste status, which determined their social standing and occupation, and therefore the extent of their social, economic, and political capital—limiting, for example, their ability to hire competent legal representation. Even if we momentarily set aside this basic structuring factor, such an assertion might appear more convincing if we had substantial evidence of penal servitude, mutilation, enslavement, or execution enacted through formal judicial processes of Brahmans, not all of whom were well-connected or wealthy, and some of whom committed crimes against wealthier and more powerful Brahmans. However, as Guha himself acknowledges, Brahmans under the Maratha regime were not ‘usually put to death’, and in this regard Maratha criminal justice ‘conformed to scriptural requirement’.Footnote 14 An exception is the execution of Kotavāl Ghasiram, a Brahman, which stands out as the only recorded judicial execution of a Brahman under the Peshwas, carried out due to the gravity of his crime—the deaths by suffocation of 21 Brahmans in his custody in 1791—and the political unrest it provoked.Footnote 15 Even for sedition, Brahmans were spared mutilation or death: while several others involved were blown from a cannon or had limbs cut off, officials were categorically ordered that if ‘any Brahman or Shenwis were convicted they were to be put in chains and given only Nagh (food) to eat’.Footnote 16 The state’s reluctance to impose mutilation or capital punishment on Brahmans resembles the prescriptions outlined in the Manusmriti. Footnote 17 Although Ghasiram’s exception exists along with some lower-caste offenders negotiating financial settlements for severe crimes, the broader pattern shows the decisive influence of gender, caste, and religion in judicial processes, disproportionately imposing incarceration, penal servitude, enslavement, mutilation, and capital punishment on lower-caste individuals and Muslims.
Elphinstone’s report is often cited to argue against Shastric influence on Maratha justice, yet it has clear limitations.Footnote 18 Based largely on colonial officials’ responses to his judicial queries, the report reflects memory and prejudice rather than empirical or archival research; instead of consulting the extensive Maratha records seized by the British in 1818, these officials relied on oral traditions as well as the testimonies and memories of former Maratha officials to answer Elphinstone’s questions.Footnote 19 Even so, their responses highlight the role of caste and gender in punishment for severe crimes such as murder, rape, robbery, treason, and kidnapping—showing Brahmans were typically fined, temporarily lost caste status (later regained through penance), or imprisoned, while lower castes faced mutilation, execution, or penal servitude. These responses, like the report, emphasize that wealth, political rank, and connections might mitigate severe punishments, but colonial officials overlooked a key aspect of Brahmanical society: that caste shaped access to such resources. On the infrequent occasions when members of lower castes and Muslims were fined for serious offences, their ability to remit such heavy fines was severely constrained, so they were often subjected to custodial or physical penalties in lieu of monetary compensation, whereas, as shown below, when Brahmans could not pay their fines, they were not enslaved, mutilated, or sentenced to capital punishment.
Building on previous scholarship and extensive Marathi records, this article offers a new perspective on early modern justice within the Peshwa polity. Viewed through modern frameworks, the Peshwa state’s judicial practices appear deeply gendered, casteist, and religiously biased. A lower-caste person was valued very differently from a Brahman; women were treated differently from men; and within these gendered dynamics, caste added another intersectional layer, placing lower-caste and Muslim women in a markedly different position to Brahman women. While modern legal standards would deem such stratification unjust, within the Peshwa state’s own logic, treating a lower-caste person as equal to a Brahman could itself be considered a violation. The Peshwa state was aware of contemporary social differences and structured its legal reasoning not merely to recognize and maintain but also to reinforce these hierarchies. Under this system, understanding the act alone was insufficient without interpretation through intersecting lenses of caste, gender, and religion, and hence two crimes could only be deemed equivalent if, in both cases, the acts themselves and the social identities of both perpetrator and victim were identical. Murder, kidnapping, or rape of a Brahman individual was judged differently from the same act committed against a lower-caste individual. Similarly, the gender and caste of the perpetrators added another legal and social prejudice, shaping both the classification of the crime and the severity of the punishment. A lower-caste individual killing a Brahman was considered more severe than a Brahman killing a lower-caste person. The degree of difference and distance between the concerned two castes in terms of their social status would determine the severity of the crime. Therefore, any acts committed by lower castes, including Muslims, against Brahmans were deemed the most severe crimes, often involving the supreme legal penalty as the transgression crossed caste and religious boundaries in ways that deeply violated the Brahmanical moral order. Thus, in the Maratha judicial system, caste, gender, and religious identity were inseparable from the act itself, creating an inherently intersectional system of justice in which the gravity of an offence and its punishment were determined not only by what was done but also by who did it to whom.
The Peshwa state did not merely recognize the contemporary intersectional dynamics of caste, gender, and religion and neutrally enforce the existing social order; rather, it deliberately instrumentalized these intersectional dynamics as a central tool of governance to consolidate that order and legitimize its Brahmanical authority. In this context, my article offers a more nuanced analysis of intersectionality in early modern South Asia—not merely as a modern tool to assess differences in privilege, oppression, or agency, but as a historically manufactured and strategically weaponized technology of Maratha rule. Intersectionality was thus not only an analytic category or lived experience but a deliberate, embedded strategy of rule, central to the political logic of the early modern state.
Regarding the Shastras, this article does not contend that the Maratha state constantly or rigidly applied them; rather, it argues that the regime developed a distinctive strategy of reinforcing patriarchal Brahmanical order by instrumentalizing intersectional dynamics deeply embedded in society. The perpetuation of this ideology did not require constant and literal enforcement of Shastras. Caste and gender hierarchies and prejudice could be reinforced outside scriptural boundaries and did not rely on the Shastras to persist—as it continues to be in the present. To analyse Shastric influence on law, we must look beyond the literal and continuous enforcement of Shastric prescriptions. The Shastras represent a jurisprudential tradition rather than a fixed legal code. Maratha laws from the seventeenth to early nineteenth centuries cannot be neatly mapped onto a third-century digest; Shastric decisions were often situational and multidimensional, despite later British attempts to codify them.Footnote 20 The key question, therefore, is not whether the Marathas followed Shastric prescriptions verbatim, but whether their legal system broadly proscribed those acts prohibited in the Shastras and whether it dispensed justice in a way that would empower and privilege groups favoured in the Shastras while oppressing those marginalized within Shastric frameworks. The Peshwa state reflects precisely this legal dynamic: Shastric ideology shaped its administration of justice even in the absence of unwavering textual adherence.
Thus, although the Shastras were neither continuously nor literally enforced, they shaped the Maratha state’s treatment of abduction, forced marriage, and elopement. According to the Shastras, a fully performed marriage—even if coercion was involved—could not be annulled. Consequently for Brahmans, the Peshwas upheld such marriages, even while punishing the perpetrators. Brahmans guilty of abduction or forced marriage typically faced fines or temporary caste expulsion, whereas lower castes and Muslims received harsher penalties, including incarceration, mutilation, or execution. By refusing to dissolve coerced marriages among Brahmans, the Peshwas reinforced Shastric norms of Brahmanical marriage. Simultaneously, by imposing lenient penalties on Brahmans while harshly punishing lower castes and Muslims, they legally reinforced Brahmanical dominance—even without literally following Shastric prescriptions.
The emphasis here on the influence of religious and caste assemblies offers a distinctive perspective that builds upon the important contributions of Anne B. Waters and Rosalind O’Hanlon. Waters argues that the state’s regulation of caste and ritual punishment weakened the caste assemblies.Footnote 21 O’Hanlon presents a compelling case that judicial developments under the Maratha kings and their consolidation and centralization under the Peshwas significantly reduced the juridical powers of religious assemblies.Footnote 22 This article, however, highlights the continued resilience of religious and caste assemblies and their crucial role in maintaining intersectional patriarchal Brahmanical order. To strengthen its rule in the countryside, the state collaborated with these assemblies, a partnership that proved mutually beneficial. By working with them, the state expanded its intelligence network, reinforced governance, and asserted control over people’s socio-religious and private lives in the countryside. In return, caste assemblies—particularly Brahman ones—gained legal recognition, expanding their jurisdiction and integrating them into the Maratha judicial system, thereby reinforcing the legitimacy of their trials. The state’s pervasive loyalty to patriarchal Brahmanism meant that virtually any type of case could legally involve concerns related to gender, caste, ritual, honour, and purity. This expanded the assemblies’ range of activity and authority. In addition to dealing with traditional caste and ritual matters, they could now address matters involving rape, kidnapping, divorce, non-normative consensual sex, homicide, suicide, domestic abuse, and more. Rather than operating separately from legal trials, religious and caste-based adjudications and caste-and-ritual-based punishments (sometimes exclusively), particularly in cases involving Brahmans, were incorporated into official judicial procedures.
Another significant contribution of this article concerns the question of women’s deviant and criminal agency. The Maratha archival records reveal a striking duality in the state’s treatment of women’s transgressive behaviour: while women’s agency was not universally recognized, it was consciously acknowledged—and heavily penalized—in cases of premarital and extramarital sexual relations. In such cases, women were held to an even higher standard of accountability than men because they were considered the visible embodiment of Brahmanical virtue. This sharply contrasts with the contemporary Mewar state, as examined by Divya Cherian, where women’s agency in non-normative sexual relations was completely disregarded, resulting in an absence of penalties against them.Footnote 23 However, in Maratha cases of elopement, a different logic prevailed: women’s agency was either denied or deliberately erased. Elopements, especially those involving intercaste or inter-religious unions, posed a systemic threat to the Brahmanical social order because they risked permanent caste or religious conversion and dishonour. To safeguard such order, the government, including caste communities, routinely framed such cases as abductions, portraying women as victims of coercion rather than as willing participants. Investigations into consent were often avoided, and narratives depicted women as kidnapped, tricked, or cajoled by lower-caste or Muslim men with alleged ulterior motives. By contrast, extramarital relationships, even when they crossed caste or religious lines, were understood differently. Such liaisons did not entail a permanent rupture from one’s marriage, caste, community, or religion, since they were not permanent unions, rather long term, short term, or episodic in nature and maintained secretly. In such cases, women chose to remain within their marriage, familial, and caste frameworks, maintaining outward respect for social norms while engaging in illicit relationships. When discovered, such relations were either overlooked by families or punished by caste communities and the state, with both parties held accountable—an acknowledgment of women’s agency. While condemned and criminalized, these acts were perceived as less destabilizing to Brahmanical hierarchies than elopements, and the recognition of women’s agency reflected this distinction.
Another important contribution of this article is to reveal a binary model maintained by the state within and outside the capital city of Pune. The extent of patriarchal Brahmanism varied based on differences in the nature of state rule—its accessibility, reach, and administrative control—across different regions, resulting in a marked binary model between the capital city of Pune and the countryside. Accordingly, the article is divided into two broad sections—the countryside and Pune. In the countryside, where the government’s rule was not as potent, accessible, and efficient as in the capital city of Pune, it collaborated with the caste assemblies, especially Brahman ones, and displayed and established its patriarchal Brahmanical power by rigorously regulating gender, caste, and ritual hierarchies and imposing conspicuous punishments, namely penal-servitude, mutilation, and death penalty on lower castes and Muslims, and caste and ritual punishment generally on Brahmans.Footnote 24 By contrast, in Pune, where the government was relatively much more potent, accessible, and efficient, it rarely collaborated with caste assemblies, which instead arbitrated matters separately and independently.Footnote 25 In the capital city the government did not have to establish and exhibit its patriarchal Brahmanical power by frequently jeopardizing the caste and ritual status of Brahmans and imposing mutilation and execution on lower castes and Muslims; instead it mostly incarcerated and enslaved them. However, the reduced visibility of such punishments did not indicate the absence of intersectional injustice or patriarchal Brahmanism. Although not as frequent as in the countryside, when mutilation or capital punishment was imposed in Pune, it was exclusively directed at lower-caste individuals and Muslims. Only they were subjected to enslavement and mostly they were incarcerated, including being sentenced to penal servitude.
I have examined a vast array of manuscript documents of central, provincial, district, and village level government from various collections at the Pune Archives, including the Sanika, Shahu, Ghadni, Prant Ajmas, and Chitnis Daftars, but here I have focused only on pertinent records, both published and manuscript, that address cases of abduction, forced marriage, and elopement. For example, for the countryside, the article uses the published documents of the head of the religious assembly at Karhad (a town 30 miles south of Satara and 100 miles south of Pune) and the local officials of Saswad district (around 20 miles southeast of Pune).Footnote 26 For the countryside, it also uses those documents published under the Selections from the Satara Rajas’ and the Peshwas’ Diaries, Selections from the Peshwa Daftar, and the documents discussed in the appendix to Gune’s book.Footnote 27 For the capital city of Pune, it has used Pune’s governor’s published documents and the manuscripts of the Sanika Daftar issued for Pune and Prant Ajmas Daftar (province Pune [kotavāl’s papers]).Footnote 28 The published documents mentioned above, whether related to the countryside or Pune, are of two types: those published by Bharat Itihas Sanshodhak Mandal (hereafter BISM), Pune, in response to the colonial seizure of the Maratha archives in 1818, and others published by the colonial government in response to BISM’s publications.
The documents of the Prant Ajmas Daftar, in the province of Pune, are not individual letters or diaries, but are tālebands (a type of state document kept in accordion form). They recorded monthly, quarterly, or annual revenues (as fines, fees, and so on) and expenses (salaries, or prisoners’ maintenance, and so on) of the provincial government. Of the historians writing in English, only Wagle has used the documents from Prant Ajmas Pune.Footnote 29 The recording of revenues and expenses in the tālebands show that they are retrospective summaries of more detailed records, primarily created to provide the central government with summary information on law, order, and finances. However, despite their brevity, tālebands sometimes provide intricate details, as they recorded the voices and depositions of all involved parties, sometimes verbatim, while countryside documents often omit even women’s names, as they dealt directly with family and caste heads who were exclusively men. They reveal women not only as victims but also as criminals, transgressors, and witnesses. The tālebands offer such diverse, systematic, and inclusive information that one could reconstruct daily life in eighteenth-century Pune. They record both revenues (jamā or hāsila) and expenses (kharca); within the expense section, a subsection called bandīvāna kharca details the costs of maintaining prisoners held by the kotavāl. This subsection alone provides critical insights that modify Wagle’s findings, as discussed below in the section examining the capital city of Pune.
Abduction, in contemporary documents, can mean seizing women or girls and either fleeing with them or taking them to other houses which could be their own or belong to a friend or family members. There are multiple legal categories used for denoting abduction, but the most frequent are dharanem, nenem, ghenem, thevanem, and ghātanem, shown in Table 1.
Categories used for denoting abduction
Table 1 Long description
The table categorizes different forms of abduction with their meanings according to Y. N. Kelkar’s Aitihasik Shabdkosh and Molesworth’s dictionary. It includes terms like 'dharanem' and 'ghenem', which both involve aspects of taking or seizing. 'Nenem' is specifically noted for taking away, while 'thevanem' and 'ghātanem' are associated with keeping or putting. The meanings overlap in some cases, such as 'ghenem' and 'nenem', which both imply taking away, highlighting the nuanced interpretations of abduction in historical contexts.
The categories have multiple meanings, depending on the context. In crimes against women, they generally mean seizing, grasping, or taking away women. However, the last three terms—‘nenem’, ‘thevanem’, and ‘ghātanem’—are ambiguous, as they only mean taking, keeping, or putting respectively, without explicitly indicating force or violence. Hence, when used alone, these terms could also imply consensual actions, such as elopement. To specify crimes, the government sometimes prefixed terms like ‘jabaradastī’ and ‘balajorī’ (both meaning forcibly), ‘phitanem’ (tricking), or ‘phusalāvinem’ (cajoling) to these terms. Notably, ‘jabaradastī’ and ‘balajorī’ were used only in cases where women were abducted for forced marriages. When no purpose was recorded, terms like ‘phitāūna’ (tricking) or ‘phusalāvūna’ (cajoling) were prefixed, or the terms from the table were used alone. Several men, after seizing women, attempted to flee with them, and the term used for such escape was palanem which literally means fleeing.
In these documents, forced marriage is the primary reason given for the abduction of girls or women, with Brahmans exclusively being investigated for this. Empirically, such forced marriages occurred only within the same caste, meaning Brahman men abducted Brahman girls or women for the said purpose, and such marriages were documented solely in the countryside. We also have documents that either do not record the intent for kidnappings or label them as sexual assaults, involving both Brahmans and non-Brahmans. However, only Brahmans are noted for committing abductions with intent for sexual assault, while kidnappings committed by non-Brahmans lack recorded intent. Given these issues, this article explores several questions: why do the documents on kidnappings for forced marriages examine only Brahmans? Why did Brahmans abduct only Brahman girls for forced marriage? Why do the documents examining non-Brahmans not record the intention behind the kidnapping? Why do we not find records of elopements, whether within or outside the caste, despite premarital and extramarital relationships being among the most frequently reported crimes?Footnote 30
The countryside
I will begin with those abductions committed for forced marriages, which, as noted, were only committed by Brahmans and recorded in the countryside. We lack documents on Brahman men abducting non-Brahman women for forced marriage and lower-caste men abducting women for forced marriages. Archival sources reveal that only Brahman girls under the age of six were kidnapped, most likely because prepubescent marriage was both common and legally mandated within Brahman communities (see discussion below at footnote 49), and therefore girls over the age of nine or ten were usually already married. Furthermore, these kidnappings often involved a significant age gap between the perpetrator and the victim, with some cases showing a disparity of over 42 years.
Since according to Shastras a fully performed marriage could not be dismissed, the Peshwas’ primary concern in such severe crimes was to verify if the marriage ceremony was complete, rather than focusing on the crime itself. Even when the government penalized offenders, it did not annul fully performed forced marriages. Brahmans were typically fined, sometimes facing caste and ritual punishment. If they held office, their land grants might be seized, but incarceration was rare. Krishnaji Ganesh of Basedare reported to the Peshwa that Govinda Danda Naik of Shiur ‘forcibly took away’ his daughter and married her to Ramji Danda Naik (āpalī mūla Govinda Dandanaik vastī mauje Shiur yānem jabaradastīnem neūna Ramaji Dandanaik yāsī lagna lāvilem). In 1764–1765, the Peshwa issued an order for Chintaman Baburav, kamāvīsadāra (governmental revenue administrator who also administered justice of a tālukā [administrative regional unit under a district]) of Kannad Fulambari, to summon the head and Brahmans of Shiur, as well as the involved Naiks and investigate the matter. He specifically asked him to fine the culprit. However, the Peshwa did not comment on the dismissal of the marriage.Footnote 31 Brahmans’ collaboration might have been needed to investigate whether the marriage was valid or fully performed.
Similarly, Sadashiv Gabaji, kulakaranī (village record keeper) of Bamani, maimed Jagannath Shamji (resident of Jaitapur in Kannad) and ‘forcibly kept and took away’ his daughter and married her to his son (Sadashiv Gabaji Bamanikar yānem Jaganath Shamji … tyācī kanya jabaradastine dharūna neūna āpalyā lekāśī lagna lāvilem va mulīcyā bāpāsa jakhmā kelyā āheta). Rajaram Shivaram kulakaranī (village record keeper of Jaitapur) informed the Peshwa about this matter. Sadashiv had the village accountancy of five villages. In 1768–1769, the Peshwa issued an order for Chintaman Baburav, kamāvīsadāra, to seize all of Sadashiv’s office land grants (which also meant his office of kulakaranī) and revoke his privileges. However, the Peshwa did not comment on the legitimacy of the marriage, implying that it was probably upheld.Footnote 32
Nimbaji Gosavi Brahman from Kharadi in Kaseganv reported to the Peshwa that he had visited his in-laws with his wife and daughter in Kamathi, Manrup. While they were there, Yogeshwar Shamji, kulakaranī of Kamathi, ‘forcibly grasped and took away’ his daughter to his house and closed the doors with priests (jośīs) inside to marry her to his son (tyāsa tethīla kulakaranī Yogeshwar Shamji, yānnī jabaradastīnem āmacī kanyā dharūna neūna vādayācī kavādem lāūna āpale putrāśī lagna karāvayācem yojūna gānvakarī jośī jamā karūna lagna karāvem asem mhanom lāgalā). However, villagers objected and Nimbaji’s brother struck himself with a stone as a result of which Yogeshwar had to release the girl. Later, when Nimbaji tried to marry his daughter elsewhere, Yogeshwar obstructed him and did not let him marry his daughter to anyone. Nimbaji reported this to the Peshwa, who in 1781–1782 issued an order for Ramchandra, kamāvīsadāra of Pandharpur, to investigate the matter, specifying, ‘if Nimbaji’s daughter had not already been married, he should be allowed to give his daughter in a marriage to another bridegroom’ (tyājavarūna hem patra tumhāsa sādara kelem ase tarī yeviśīcem vartamāna tumhī manāsa ānūna eka vela lagna jāhalem nasaliyāsa, gosāvī majakūra āpalī kanyā dusre varāsa deīla tyāsa deū denem [showing that if such marriages were performed fully, they would not be annulled]). The Peshwa also asked him to fine Yogeshwar if he was found guilty of forced marriage.Footnote 33
Such marriages were annulled only if essential Brahmanical marriage rituals were not observed, not because they resulted from coercion. For example, Sadashiv Nagnath from Anantganv in Ambejogai went on a pilgrimage, leaving his family at home. His daughter was of marriageable age. Taking advantage of his absence, Naro Bavaji and Keso Bavaji kulakaranī (the village record keeper of the same village) entered Sadashiv’s house along with Sheshambhat (an astrologer for performing marriage, also from the same village) and ten attendants whom they had hired. They applied violence (the specific victim is not mentioned) and seized his daughter, taking her to the compound of Satwaji patīla (the head of the same village), where they married her to Keso kulkaranī Bavaji (… āmace gharī mārāmāra karūna mulīsa dharūna śejārī Satvaji patīla mauje majakūra, yānce ānganānta nelī). The document provides specifics of the rituals performed for the marriage, including making her stand before Keso and Naro holding a cloth between them, and Sheshambhat chanting the marriage hymns, while Keso tied the mangalasutra (the auspicious necklace worn during the marriage ceremony and afterwards) around the girl’s neck and placed an ornament on her nose (natha), among other rituals. Afterwards, they released the girl and left. However, Keso
did not perform nāndī śrādha (offerings—often involving food, water, or sesame seeds—made to honour and appease the ancestors, ensuring their blessings for the living descendants), saptapadī (a ritual in the solemnization of marriage, literally meaning walking seven steps), and other essential rites required for a Brahman’s marriage. He merely seized and took the girl away with Sheshambhat but failed to observe the prescribed marriage rituals.
In 1779–1780, upon his return, Sadashiv, the father of the daughter, reported the matter to the Peshwa, who then issued an order to the Brahman assembly of Ambejogai. He first reprimanded them for not reporting the matter to the Peshwa and then instructed them to shun all those involved, including the kulakaranīs and Sheshambhat. He also asked the assembly to send him the details of the matter after their enquiry. Additionally, the Peshwa issued another order for Maloji Naik Bavale, a local official, instructing him to investigate the matter without any partiality, enforce the shunning of the concerned individuals in association with the Brahman assembly, and report the facts of the occurrence in detail.Footnote 34
The punishment was solely excommunication, reflecting the Peshwa’s focus on Brahmanical responsibility over justice for the victim. By highlighting both the rituals that were carried out and those that were omitted, the document implies that had all the required rituals been followed, the coerced marriage would have been recognized as legitimate. This shows the Peshwa state’s primary concerns were to consolidate Brahmanical order, instead of dispensing justice to the girls and women who experienced such abuse. The Peshwa government would dispense justice only if it were not at the cost of such order. Reprimanding the Brahman assembly shows that these assemblies acted as government’s informants in the countryside. They were responsible for reporting such matters that occurred within their communities to the government, which then involved them in investigating the issues and applying caste and ritual punishments, all in collaboration with the local government officials.
The following case further highlights the government’s concerns, as they meticulously verified three times whether the marriage had been completed before considering any annulment. Trimbak Raghunath Dharap, a Brahman from Bhiravadi, with the help of the slaves at Dhako Mahadev Karamarakar’s house, tricked and stole Dhako Mahadev’s four-year-old daughter and took her to the land of Pophalvir near Birvadi. There, his brother Aba Dharap and Yes jośī, an astrologer, joined him, as his intent was to forcibly marry the child (Dhako Mahadev … yāncī kanya cauvarasāncī Trimbak … yānem Karamarakar yāce ajryā gulāmāsa va batakīsa phitāūna mulīsa corūna bīravādi najīka Pophalvirāce rānānta neūna, Yes jośī Nandaganvakar va Aba Dharap yānsa neūna lagna karita hotā). The job of Yes was to perform the marriage. However, upon learning of the incident, Bhikaji Ballal, the girl’s maternal grandfather, rushed to the location, rescued her, brought her back to the village and reported the matter to the Peshwa, who then summoned all the culprits to testify. In his written statement, Yes stated that Trimbak had promised to pay him Rs 50 to conduct the ceremony, of which Rs 30 had already been paid. He further stated that Trimbak claimed to have secured the mamalatadāra’s (governmental district head) permission for the marriage and assured him that the remaining Rs 20 would be paid later. He further stated that Trimbak first took the girl to the land of Pophalvir, after which he and his brother joined Trimbak and commenced the marriage ceremony. He detailed the rituals performed, including ganapatī pujana (the worship of the deity Ganesh) and kanyādāna (the ritual offering of the girl to the bridegroom in marriage). Yes further stated that the vivāhahoma (marriage sacrificial rite) could not be performed, as Bhikaji Ballal, the girl’s grandfather, arrived at that moment and interrupted the ceremony. Bhikaji asserted that since vivāhahoma had not taken place, the marriage remained incomplete. Bhikaji then asked everyone to cease further rituals and allowed them to disperse after issuing a letter to the villagers, possibly informing them of the incident (māguna Bhikaji Ballal āle, tyānnī vivāhahoma jāhalā nāhī mhanona sāngitalem, tyāsa rāhilem karma samāpta karanem mhanūna sāngūna grāmastānsa patra deūna sarvāsa niropa dilhā). The villagers were also questioned and they confirmed to the government that the marriage sacrifice had not taken place (grāmastāncem patra sarakārānta ālem, tyānta vivāhahomādika karma jāhālem nāhī mhanuna lihilem āhe). The matter was therefore referred to Laxman Pathak, who was a Shastri (mentioned as vedaśāstrasampanna), and other learned Brahmans. They reported that as the guardian of the girl had not offered the girl in marriage (literally stating whose child she was, and who was giving her away [in marriage]) and that as the marriage sacrifice had not been performed, no marriage had taken place, so the girl could be married to another suitable bridegroom (mūla konācī, deto kona, hem sārenca ananvita, āni vivāhahomahī jālā nāhī, tevhām lagna jālenca nāhī, yāstava dusrā vara uttama pāhūna mulīcema lagna karāvem). Therefore, in 1778–1779 the government issued an order for Ramchandra Krashna, kamāvīsadāra of Avachitgarh, asking him to shun Aba and Yes and to have the girl married to another man selected by her mother. The same order was issued for the Brahman assembly of Birvadi.Footnote 35 The official land grant and privileges of Yes were seized and all three offenders were sent to the Peshwa.Footnote 36 Yes and Aba were paraded through the streets to the beat of a drum, incarcerated with fetters in the arsenal, and made to beg for food. Such harsh punishment was imposed to deter Brahmans from committing such crimes (ase phirona konī nā karī).Footnote 37 Trimbak, the main culprit, was incarcerated in Rajmachi fort.Footnote 38 The repeated enquiry into compliance and completion of forced marriage reflects the Peshwa’s anxiety over Shastric marriage laws for Brahmans, where even forced unions gained legitimacy.
Since the government sought the Shastris’ opinion in Trimbak Raghunath Dharap’s case, I will briefly comment on the role of Shastris, Shastras, and assemblies in Maratha justice. Sometimes the state would delegate the matter to the Shastris and/or Brahman assemblies or seek their opinion—without specifying whether the Shastras should be consulted. In such instances, as in Trimbak’s case, records do not clarify whether the Shastras were actually referenced. Given their expertise, the Shastris may have been treated as living texts. Thus, their involvement does not always ensure literal adherence to the Shastras; instead, they might have occasionally improvised rulings based on contemporary unique circumstances, while still upholding patriarchal Brahmanical values.Footnote 39 On other occasions the state categorically commanded Shastris and/or assemblies to adjudicate the issue or give their opinion based on the Shastras. However, in such cases, although confirming the Shastric consultation, documents very rarely record which specific text was consulted.Footnote 40 For example, they generally refer to Mitākṣarā (a legal commentary written by Vijanesvara, on Yajnavalkya’s Smriti, one of the ancient Hindu law texts).Footnote 41
In marriages, women’s agency was always compromised, therefore the main issue in forced marriages or kidnapping was the infringement upon the parents’ agency, not the act itself. For instance, Sadashiv Narayan, a phadanīsa (public officer) of Suragarh fort, was dismissed for ‘forcibly taking away’ Rajshree Sadashivbhat’s daughter and marrying her to Trimbak Hari Lele (yāncī kanya balajorīne neūna Trimbak Hari Lele yānce lagna kelem). However, Rajshree informed the Peshwa that Sadashiv had since negotiated with him and offered ornaments worth Rs 1,000. Therefore, in 1750–1751 the Peshwa issued an order for Ranoji Balkavade (a government official) to reinstate Sadashiv’s office. However, at no point was the marriage dismissed.Footnote 42 Since most perpetrators were either local officials or enjoyed their support, they could easily negotiate with the parents, either forcibly and/or financially, after carrying out forced marriages. As many cases where perpetrators successfully negotiated with families most likely went unreported, only failed attempts came to light as in the following case.
Malhar Bhawani Bhingore of Khabaswadi in paraganā (district) Dharur filed a complaint to the Peshwa that Bayaji Dattaji Thakur deśamukha (district head), Ranoji patīla (head of Khabsavadi), and Bithu Teli apprehended Malhar Bhavani and his wife and beat them (āpanānsa va āpale strīsa kaida karūna mārāmāra kelī). They told Malhar and his wife that they were arranging their daughter’s marriage (āmhī tujhe mulīcem lagna lāvitom). Malhar responded that his daughter was only three, and not yet old enough to marry. They beat him again. Then they presented Govind Dhondya, a Brahman trader in salt, aged 45, and declared that they would marry the girl to him. Both Malhar and his wife strongly resisted as a result of which they beat them again, this time so severely that they fell unconscious (tevhām āmhām ubhayetānsa kamacyā mārūna bedama kele). Upon regaining consciousness, all three of them told the parents that while they were unconscious for two to four hours, they had celebrated the marriage (āpana bedama padalom asatām tyā doho cahūm ghatakānta lagna lāvilem mhanona trivarga bolo lāgale). Malhar reported the matter and requested a fair investigation, with punishment because they had exerted force on them, and that Malhar should be permitted to marry his daughter to another bridegroom. In 1786–1787, the Peshwa issued an order for Sadashiv Vitthal, kamāvīsadāra of Paithan, ‘asking him to investigate the matter after gathering the local Brahmans and taking their testimonies. Based on such testimony, if he found that after exerting force on the said Brahmans (Malhar and his wife), the marriage was celebrated without the observance of prescribed rites, he should immediately allow the girl to remarry according to the observance of prescribed rites’ (Brahman jamā karūna tyāncyā jabānyā lehūna gheūna, tyā jabānyānvarūna yā brāhmanāvara jabaradastī karūna lagnācī avidhī kelī, asen jahāle asalyāsa hallim yā mulīcem vidhiyukta dusre lagna karaūna). Those who exerted force should be punished, and after fining them, they should be sent to the Peshwa.Footnote 43 The testimony of local Brahmans was required not only to confirm Malhar and his wife’s accusations, but also to check whether the prescribed rites were followed in the marriage ceremony. If the forced marriage had been celebrated according to the prescribed rites, Govind might legally be the husband of the three-year-old child. It is possible Govind paid Bayaji to facilitate the marriage, with Bayaji choosing Malhar’s daughter as the bride, indicating a potential system of trade among local officials to arrange such forced marriages for wealthy Brahmans. Nearly all the cases examined above demonstrate the direct involvement of local officials, either as primary perpetrators or as their supporters, further reinforcing the likelihood of such trade. These officials not only orchestrated kidnappings and enforced marriages but also employed violence to coerce parental consent, as otherwise they would be penalized. The document implies that had Malhar’s daughter been of marriageable age, the parents might have agreed. Had Bayaji succeeded in negotiating parental consent, the marriage might never have been reported.
Thus, even in the severe crime of kidnapping and forced marriage, the government’s primary concern was to uphold the Shastric discipline of marriage which denies the annulment of fully performed marriage even if it included coercion, and not prioritize the actual crime and dispense justice to the girls or families concerned. The enforcement of the Shastric traditions for Brahmans, denial of annulment of fully performed marriages, and lack of severe punishment for Brahmans, while allowing perpetrators to negotiate with victims’ families, all encouraged Brahmans to kidnap girls and perform forced marriages.
Before analysing cases where intent behind kidnapping is unrecorded, I will first address why forced marriage cases might exclude lower castes. While patriarchy and Brahmanism shaped all caste communities, their impact varied from caste to caste, with each group generally having some of its own specific traditions. These differences were particularly stark between elite castes, particularly Brahmans, and lower castes. Brahmans and elite castes, considered pure, were required to follow those Shastric traditions recommended for their castes. Deviations led to temporary loss of caste privileges and ritual status (‘untouchability’ within their own communities until penance restored their purity and ritual status). Lower castes, already seen as polluted, were not bound by those Shastric rites recommended for pure castes. Divorce was not allowed in the Brahman community and, as established above, the denial of annulment of fully performed marriage not only created a structural incentive for forced marriage but also secured its legal and social legitimacy among Brahmans. In contrast, lower castes and kunbīs (peasant community) permitted divorce, enabling families, caste assemblies, and the state to annul violent or coerced marriages.Footnote 44 Additionally, lower castes faced harsher penalties for crimes (as revealed below), which was likely to have deterred them from abducting girls for forced marriages.
Divorce was not an isolated example, as other traditions relating to marriage differed between elite and lower castes. For example, among lower castes, remarriage was also permitted,Footnote 45 whereas among Brahmans adherence to Shastric traditions prohibited widow remarriage.Footnote 46 Adhering to Shastric traditions, including ascetic widowhood, conferred the highest prestige and respect on them, both within society and the governing system. On the rare occasions when some local Brahman communities allowed widows to rebuild their lives by growing their hair, wearing colourful clothing, using cosmetics, or cohabiting with men and having children with them, the Peshwa criminalized such deviations and imposed severe penalties, as seen in Janhavi’s case.Footnote 47
Similarly, while lower-caste and peasant communities practised asurā marriage (bride-money based), Brahmans were asked to perform brahma marriage (dowry-based).Footnote 48 However, there were some Brahman communities, particularly in Konkan region, who were accepting money from or selling their daughters to the families of bridegrooms (and delaying their daughters’ marriages beyond the age of nine). When the Peshwa found out about such transgressions of the Shastric tradition, he issued orders for the tāluqā (an administrative division under a district) officials and all Brahmans of Anjanwel, Ratnagiri, Raygad, Mulheir, Trimbak, Wai, Belapur, etc. to shun those involved.Footnote 49 The Peshwa also criminalized Brahmans who took any money, whether as cash, gift, or loan, from the family of the bridegroom, issuing 43 orders to the officers of the tāluqās of Bassein, Vijaydurg, Anjanwel, Revdanda, Wai, Junnar, Atigaum, Salso, Ratnagiri, Derrgad, Suvernadurga, Baggad, Rajapurh Kalyan, and Neral.Footnote 50 The Peshwa across all regions actively attempted to universalize and standardize Brahmans’ traditions regarding marriage and widowhood in strict accordance with Shastric prescriptions, as unwed cohabitations, post-puberty marriage, and bride money were associated with lower castes.Footnote 51 Allowing such traditions within the Brahman community would not only violate the Shastras but also undermine caste distinctions. The Peshwa was not neutrally reflecting existing social practices. Rather, when such practices threatened to blur caste distinctions, he actively policed and Brahmanized them. In this way, caste customs themselves became markers of identity and difference, further entrenching hierarchy and Brahmanical order.
The impetus to uphold patriarchal Brahmanical norms generally operated both at the central and local level. For example, when individuals deviated from their norms, both local caste assemblies and the central government arbitrated the matter collaboratively. Typically, caste assemblies reported issues to the government, or affected families approached either the assemblies or the state directly. The government would then involve local officials and assemblies in trials, as seen in the cases of Parbhus (below, footnote 54), Krishnaji Ganesh (footnote 31), Trimbak Raghunath Dharap (footnote 35), and Malhar Bhawani Bhingore (footnote 43). However, instances such as the Brahman assembly’s tacit consent to Brahman widows’ unwed cohabitations and Konkani Brahmans practising bride-money and marrying their daughters after the age of nine, as well as Sadashiv Nagnath’s case (footnote 34) in which the Peshwa reprimanded the local Brahman assembly for inaction, demonstrate that the primary impetus and enforcement pressure was largely centrally driven. While there was some scope for local flexibility in deviating from caste customs and Shastric traditions, virtually no tolerance existed at the centre.
As mentioned above, historians like Chakravarty, Desai, Deshmukh, and Kadam focus sympathetically on Brahman women’s struggles while overlooking their privileges. For lower-caste women, they highlight supposed advantages like divorce, remarriage, and lenient widowhood, but ignore caste-based hardship, atrocities, and discrimination.Footnote 52 Desai even claimed lower-caste women’s situation was better than that of middle-class Brahman women.Footnote 53 The distinctions in caste customs—particularly those regarding divorce and widow remarriage—were neither a form of liberation for lower-caste women nor evidence of the Peshwa’s liberalism or respect for lower-caste traditions. Rather, they represented a deliberate strategy to consolidate caste hierarchies through differentiated caste norms actively regulated by the Peshwa. For example, when lower castes—possibly as part of Sanskritization efforts to elevate their status, given that distinctions in caste customs had become key markers of identity—began adopting Brahmans’ customs, including prohibiting widow remarriage, the Peshwa, prompted by concerned Brahmans, issued orders explicitly warning them against imitating Brahmans’ customs. He instructed these communities to adhere to their own traditions, including permitting widow remarriage, and emphasized the importance of honouring and respecting the Brahmans’ distinct status.Footnote 54 Caste divisions and hierarchies were thus upheld by restricting women’s bodily autonomy, rights, roles, and spaces. In turn, lower castes, seeking higher status, imposed similar restrictions on women within their communities.
Such regulation of differentiated caste customs not only reinforced caste divisions and hierarchies but also justified upper-caste privileges and lower-caste marginalization. While Brahmans were required to adhere to Shastric norms, particularly regarding marriage and widowhood, they were rewarded in return through formal recognition of their caste status and privileges. Generally, they received offices, land and wealth, honour, and other gifts (as royal honoraria), and were often treated with leniency and favouritism in legal proceedings.Footnote 55 In contrast, lower castes were not regarded as Shastric subjects and were marginalized both within society and the governing system. Their non-conformity to Shastric norms, particularly regarding marriage and widowhood, did not exempt them from the Peshwa’s disciplinary measures; rather, it subjected them to the most intensified scrutiny and heightened penalties within the disciplinary web of the patriarchal Brahmanical state, often on the most disadvantageous terms, as explored below.
As mentioned above, the government did not record the purpose of abductions when these were committed by non-Brahmans. These documents do not prefix the terms jabaradastī or balajorī, instead terms such as nenem and dharanem (ghenem, thevanem, ghātanem) appear alone, making these cases ambiguous. Unlike earlier cases involving the abduction of female children, these incidents mostly involve married women, suggesting the intent was most likely sexual abuse that was not recorded due to concerns of pride and purity. Perhaps they were elopements and/or consensual cohabitations due to extramarital relationships, but the legal and communal discourse consistently framed them as acts of abduction, cajolery, or trickery. Where women’s consent was unknown, no effort was made to investigate whether the act was voluntary; instead, patriarchal Brahmanical ideology, which denied women the capacity to make informed and independent decisions to desert their marriage and family and elope, presumed they must have been coerced or kidnapped. Where women’s consent might be evident, their agency was deliberately effaced, and such unions were framed as products of cajolery or deception. In both situations, lower-caste or Muslim men might be portrayed as having abducted, cajoled, or tricked the women to uplift their social status and dishonour elite castes (if lower caste), or attempting to convert the woman concerned into Islam (what is nowadays known as love jihad). By framing consensual acts as forcible, cajolery, or trickery—despite women voluntarily eloping and/or cohabiting with their lovers, potentially adopting their customs or converting to Islam (if they were from different castes or were Muslims)—the elite castes could annul such unions and conversions, thereby safeguarding caste and religious integrity and social honour. For the same reasons we do not have documents regarding Brahman men who kidnapped or eloped with non-Brahman women even though sexual and intimate relationships between them (and also between Brahman women and non-Brahman men) were not uncommon.Footnote 56
This suggests that even if women did elope, the language used in records would still hold the men solely responsible, categorizing the incidents as abductions. For example, Dogari pātīla ‘seized or kept’ a goldsmith’s daughter and ‘took her away’ (dharūna nelī), leading to a fine of Rs 106 in 1720–1721.Footnote 57 Bhavani Kasar’s nephew ‘took’ Nandram’s female slave and was ‘going away’ (gheūna jāta hotā), resulting in a fine in 1735.Footnote 58 Nagoji Satas ‘took and ran away’ with a stone-maker’s wife (palaūna nele), and was fined Rs 100 in 1734.Footnote 59 Apaji Pawar, a resident of Pugaon in Kolhapur, was in prison for ‘tricking and taking away’ Govind Ballal’s female slave (tyānem makhajanāhūna Govinda Ballal jamenīsa yācī batīka phitaūna nelī). Orders were issued for his release.Footnote 60 In all these cases, no separate category to denote force was prefixed, and since all involved attempts to flee with the women, these cases may have been elopements following extramarital relationships, but the language exclusively holds men responsible, which is why they were the ones penalized.
Even in those rare cases where women were penalized, the language still blames the men, suggesting that women were punished without being seen as responsible. For instance, Mansingh Khalata, a foot soldier, ‘kept or seized a kunbī’s (from peasant community) wife in his house’ (gharāta ghātalī), killed her husband, and buried him in his house. As a result, he was dismissed and imprisoned, while the woman’s nose was severed.Footnote 61 Although the language holds Mansingh solely responsible, the term ghātanem does not confirm force, implying the act might have been consensual. Furthermore, severing the woman’s nose suggests an extramarital relationship, as such mutilation, though rare, was imposed only on non-Brahman women involved in non-normative sexual acts or actions damaging their family’s honour.Footnote 62 This suggests the incident involved an extramarital relationship where the woman left her husband to live with Mansingh, and they killed him when he pursued them. This was not an isolated case, as women sometimes instigated or conspired with their lovers to kill their husbands.Footnote 63 For example, in 1820 the lover of Deolah Mahar (a lower-caste man) instigated him to kill her husband. While he was sentenced to capital punishment through hanging, his lover, who was considered an accessory to the murder, was punished as recommended by the Shastras. Her head was shaved, her forehead was branded with hot iron, and she was ‘turned out of the town with disgrace’.Footnote 64
If lower-caste or Muslim men kidnapped or eloped with Brahman women, they faced the supreme penalty, often through institutional honour killings. For example, Talegavkar Sikalagar, a Muslim tool sharpener, ‘kept a Brahman’s wife in his house’ (gharāta ghātalī) for which he was trampled by an elephant.Footnote 65 The term ghātanem, also used in the case of Mansingh, does not clarify whether it was kidnapping. However, even if the woman left her husband and consensually began to live with Talegavkar, the patriarchal Brahmanical approach would lead the caste communities and government to assume that she was instead kidnapped or tricked by the Muslim man to convert her to Islam and dishonour the Brahman community. Hence his penalty in either situation was an institutional honour killing, which served as a warning to the Muslim community. It is not an isolated example, as the Peshwa imposed institutional honour killings on Muslim men even for having sexual relationships with Brahman women as this dishonoured the Brahman community.Footnote 66 Sometimes, the communities themselves committed honour killings against Muslims.Footnote 67 Lower-caste and Muslim men could be sentenced to mutilation or capital punishments simply for committing a theft or killing a cow or bullock.Footnote 68
Brahman men, even when they assaulted and killed Brahman women received lighter penalties, such as fines or imprisonment. For instance, Balram Maniram Kanoji Telang, a Brahman from Amdanagar, ‘coveted a Brahman’s wife and tricked her into his house’ (Balram … yane Brahman kara yāce strīcā abhilāśa karuna phitāūna gharāsa ānilī). Later she was found dead there (tī tyāce gharī mratya pāvalī). His belongings were seized and he was imprisoned in the Sivaneri fort. In 1772, the Peshwa fined him Rs 2,000 and released him to pay the fine. The Peshwa also provided money for the victim’s husband to remarry.Footnote 69 Similar leniency can be seen in the next case. Jog and Keshav Bhat (both Brahmans) took and ran away with Visaji Narayana Marathe’s female slave (Visaji … yācī kulambīna Jog and Keshavbhat konakara yānnī palavūna nelī). She was fettered, but they broke her foot fetters and kept her at the house of Navagharakar, who did not report it, for eight months. The Peshwa in 1754–1755 asked Naro Trimbak, kamāvīsadāra of Palhaveli, to fine each man the equivalent of the slave’s price.Footnote 70 The involvement of multiple men suggests it was a non-consensual act, perhaps a group kidnapping for exploiting her servitude and/or sexual exploitation. However, since she was maltreated by Visaji (fettered), it is possible she sought their help to escape. The absence of any mention in the Peshwa’s commentary of her ill treatment by Visaji, even though known, suggests how badly female slaves could be treated by their owners, but this was overlooked by the law.
When women returned or were rescued in such cases, they were considered polluted, perhaps suspected of having sex, being raped, or assaulted. They were therefore subjected to purification rituals. For instance, the daughter-in-law of Sali Bhikaji Sali (weaver caste, historically lower caste), after being kidnapped and subsequently rescued, was asked to purify herself. Following this, she was issued a letter of purification (gotapata) in 1755. The matter involved her family, caste assembly, and the Peshwa.Footnote 71 This suggests that women, whether innocent or at fault, were considered polluted and dishonoured, which was likely to affect their families as well, and were required to undergo penance to purify themselves, although this is mostly not recorded.
We have only one document from the countryside that explicitly records intent, and the penalty imposed implies that the act was consensual, further suggesting that if used alone these legal categories could also mean consensual acts. Antaji, a Brahman man and resident of Ranvad in Chanvad, ‘took Janhavi (daughter of Murar Trayambak kulakaranī from Koreganv in Junnar) who was a widow and had long hair, into his house and had sexual intercourse with her due to which she became pregnant and gave birth’ (Antaji … yāne āpale gharī Murar … yācī kanya Janhavi vidhavā hotī tīsa neūna tijakaravī keśa rākhona tiśī sanga kelā tīcī potī putra jāhālā). When the Peshwa was informed, he imprisoned Janhavi together with her child (possibly to ensure the infant’s survival). As Antaji had died, his two wives, son, and brother were declared guilty (aparādhī tharle). Hence Antaji’s household was fined Rs 16,000.Footnote 72 The same-caste nature of the act, coupled with childbirth, may have prompted the government to disclose the intent in this case. The government noted Janhavi’s long hair, which may have been perceived as a source of temptation for Antaji, implicitly shifting some blame onto her if the act was non-consensual. Her punishment may also have resulted from concealing the act, which only came to light when she gave birth. However, the categories used in the case do not indicate coercion, and the fact that she was also punished suggests that the act might have been consensual. Janhavi’s decision to continue with the pregnancy—despite knowing that, as a widow, she could not claim it was her husband’s child—demonstrates her strong determination to embrace motherhood. Given that her pregnancy would inevitably expose her and lead to punishment, her choice reflects a deliberate assertion of agency rather than an attempt at concealment. Even if it was consensual, due to the patriarchal Brahmanical approach, the language of the order holds Antaji as primarily responsible.
The capital city of Pune
In the late eighteenth century, Pune’s population was estimated at 70,000–100,000.Footnote 73 In 1721, Pune had become the Peshwa’s capital, where he established his own court, ministry, and judicial system, parallel to Maratha King Shahu’s administration. Although initially administered by a governor, from the 1760s to 1790s, Pune’s law and order were managed by the kotavāl, answerable to the governor, chief justice, and the Peshwa.Footnote 74 Pune had multiple police stations, known as cāvadī or cautrā, based on its local divisions known as Petha. Each Petha had an intelligence agent known as batamidāra, who patrolled, spied, and reported matters to police stations, while people also brought complaints to the stations. All involved parties were summoned and interrogated. Testimonies were recorded and analysed, and for severe crimes, officials sometimes visited the scene of the crime. Once guilt was established, the convict was penalized and the winning party paid a justice fee.Footnote 75
In most cases, men either tried to flee with women or kept them in their homes. While it is unclear who filed the complaints, the language used—often in the past-continuous tense—suggests they were caught in the act by locals or patrolling officials. In cases where women were ‘kept’ in the kidnappers’ (or male lovers’) houses, their families might have reported the crime. I will begin with those cases in which men were exclusively penalized. The son of Sethi Partin from Budhvar Peth ‘tricked a female slave and was taking her away’ (batakī phitāūna neta hotā) and was fined Rs 50.Footnote 76 Bhivaji Dhangar (shepherd, a lower caste) ‘was taking a reputable woman away by tricking her’ (garata bāyako phitāūna neta hotā), but he was caught and fined Rs 10.Footnote 77 Rajaram Gujarathi Brahman, a resident of Sadashiv Peth, ‘kept Sati kunbī’s [from the peasant community] reputable wife in his house’ (garata bāyako āpale gharāta thevilī hoti) for which he was fined and imprisoned.Footnote 78 Prannath Purabya, a resident of Napahal Peth, ‘kept Panni Pardeshin in his house’ (gharāta thevīlī) for which he was imprisoned.Footnote 79 Ramdu Kamathi, a resident of Bhavani Peth, ‘kept Venki Kamathin in his house’ (gharānta ghātalī) and was fined.Footnote 80 Mubarak Chakar ‘was taking away and fleeing with’ (palūna neta hotā) Qaji’s female slave (kunabīna) and was fined Rs 2.Footnote 81 Umar Khan ‘took away’ (palaūna neūna…) the female slave of Ghasita Maljadi, a resident of Shukrapeth and kept her in his house for four months. Eventually he was caught and the female slave was returned to Ghasita who was asked to pay the justice fee.Footnote 82 Except for Umar Khan’s case, the records do not specify for how long or why these men kept the women in their houses, nor do they indicate whether sexual assaults occurred—though, if these were abductions, that may have been the primary motive.
Even in those cases where both parties or only the women were penalized, the language used still centres the blame only on men. Sekh Rahiman Rangrej (a caste that dyes fabrics) ‘kept Venki Musalamanin in his house’ (yāne gharānta ghātalī hotī). We do not know whether he was punished, but Venki, a Muslim woman, was imprisoned.Footnote 83 Rajaram Gujarathi, a resident of Shukrvar Peth, ‘kept Maini kunbī’s (from peasant community) reputable wife in his house’ (garata bāyako gharānta thevīlī). Both were imprisoned and submitted to Kesho Shamji, the kārakuna (a scribe, clerk, reporter, or an official attached to a police station, administrative office, or fort) of the station.Footnote 84 Chen Singh Pardesi, a resident of Shukravar Peth, ‘kept Devaki Lodhina in his house’ (gharānta ghātalī), and both were imprisoned.Footnote 85
Thus, in Pune as well these cases provide no indication of whether the women’s agency was considered or whether any investigation was conducted to establish consent. The documents simply record that these men took away these women, generally through trickery, and either kept them in their houses or attempted to flee with them. While the records do not mention consent, they also do not categorically claim that women were forced. The absence of terms explicitly denoting coercion, such as jabaradastī or balajorī, suggests that some cases may have involved consensual elopements arising from extramarital relationships. In cases where only men were penalized, this probably reflects the patriarchal Brahmanical ideology discussed above, which neither imagined women’s agency nor considered them capable of making informed decisions about elopement or cohabitation. In cases where either both or only women were penalized, even though the language still held men solely responsible, their consent was deliberately erased to protect family honour.
Additionally, in some of the cases above, women have been characterized as ‘reputable wives’ (garata bāī), for example in the cases of Bhivaji Dhangar, Rajaram Gujarathi from Sadashivpeth, and Rajaram Gujarathi from Shukravarpeth. By emphasizing their ‘reputability’, families and communities distanced them from suspicion of consensual elopement, portraying them as passive victims rather than active agents in their relationships. This insistence on virtue reflects deep-seated anxieties about caste purity and family honour under broader Brahmanical patriarchal frameworks, in which a woman’s honour was inseparable from her family’s social standing. Elopements were thus framed to preserve caste and family honour: reputable women could not be seen as willingly abandoning marriage and family, as this would bring lasting shame, dishonour, and ritual pollution. Therefore, they must have been tricked or kidnapped. This raises further legal questions—did courts treat cases differently based on whether a woman was deemed garata bāī? Was this label used to influence judicial outcomes, such as intensifying punishments for men involved in consensual or forcible cases, while reducing legal and social consequences for women and their families?
Very rarely do historical documents explicitly mention that both men and women were involved in running away (eloping). For instance, in the case of Laxmi Takpirin and Ramchandra Pant, the record states that they ‘were escaping or running away’ (palaūna neta hote); however, they were eventually caught and incarcerated at the station.Footnote 86 Interestingly, the terminology used (palanem and nenem) to describe such elopement is identical to that found in cases where only men are held responsible, or where men are recorded as ‘taking women away’. This shared terminology suggests that it is likely that some of those acts were consensual rather than acts of force.
Similarly, in the rare cases where the documents record sexual acts taking place, they still do not clarify whether the act was forcible or consensual. For example, Bahiraji, the son of Babaji Gurav (priest of Shiva’s temple) from Oundh in Pune, ‘had sexual intercourse with a Mahar woman (lower caste) and then seized and took her away’ (Māharīśī badamala kelā ānī Māharīsa gheūna nelā). The whole family of Babaji was shunned. They were purified and rehabilitated, for which they were charged Rs 50 (śeranī) in 1743.Footnote 87 The category badamala, used to denote sexual intercourse in Bahiraji’s case, lexically suggests a consensual act, because when force was applied in sexual crimes, other categories that denoted coercion, namely balatkāra or jabaradastī, were prefixed with the categories that denoted sexual deviations, such as badakarma, akarma, and badamala.Footnote 88 Additionally, the terms ghenem and nenem do not imply coercion; they could also mean ‘meeting with’ and ‘taking away’. This suggests that the two may have had a romantic relationship, and after some time, they decided to escape together, which is why Bahiraji took her away (eloped with her). Therefore, their act was most likely an elopement rather than a forcible act. Bahiraji’s case also highlights how, under the Peshwa’s adherence to patriarchal Brahmanical values, a Brahman engaging in sexual relations with someone from a lower caste was considered a deeply polluting act. In such instances, it was not only the Brahman involved who was considered polluted and shunned, but often their entire family, resulting in public condemnation, scrutiny, purification, and rehabilitation. While we do not know the exact punishment imposed on the Mahar woman, it is likely that, given the pattern for lower-caste women involved in consensual sexual acts, she may have faced penal servitude, enslavement, and/or nasal mutilation.Footnote 89
In his appendix, Wagle contrasts the kotavāl’s purely financial penalties with the Shastras by citing responses from Brahman Shastris (‘scholars of dharmashastra’) to British administrators investigating Shastric penalties for abortion, violence, and rape in Pune between 1824–1825. The Shastris indicated that penalties varied by caste and gender of the perpetrator and victim. For instance, a low-caste man raping a high-caste woman warranted his execution, while a high-caste man raping a low-caste woman resulted in a Rs 1,000 fine. A Brahman raping a Brahman woman also led to a Rs 1,000 fine, while a Kshatriya raping a Brahman woman faced castration and property seizure. The Shastris suggested similar approaches for other severe crimes against women.Footnote 90 But while Wagle’s work only identifies financial penalties, I have also identified non-financial penalties in Pune that reflect the similar caste-based prejudice articulated by the Shastris. In the aforementioned cases examining abduction and elopement, I have demonstrated the imposition of incarceration in Pune, using the bandīvāna kharca section of the tālebands, which records expenses on prisoners. However, these crimes do not reveal the imposition of other punishments, such as enslavement, mutilation (including the severing of women’s noses), and capital punishment as these were primarily associated with other crimes, including sexual deviance and homicide. Therefore, to reveal the imposition of other penalties in Pune I will briefly examine additional crimes recorded in the bandīvāna kharca section.
After her husband’s death, Bhivi moved to Pune and lived there for five to six months during which time she had sexual relations (badakarma). While the men involved were fined (one of them absconded), she was first imprisoned in the police station (cāvadī) in Somvar Peth, Pune, and after two or three months, she was enslaved (batīka), on the basis that she would otherwise wander around and commit sexual offences. Since she was 30 years of age and her colouring was fair, her price was fixed at Rs 50. In 1788 Kotavāl Ghasiram, the administrator of law and order, bought her himself.Footnote 91 The government assumed the need for male supervision, indeed ownership, to ensure a woman’s good behaviour. Udya Bhat, a Brahman man and a resident of Bhavani Peth, had sex with Rakhmi, the wife of Tukoji Kadam (īsī badakarma kele). Rakhmi was first incarcerated and then became the government’s slave; in exchange for her services, she was given food and clothes (batīkapanāce kāmā kājāta ghāluna anna vastra sarkārātuna pāvata). However, Udya Bhat was pardoned.Footnote 92 The daughter of Kodan Vehina Agarvali was caught having sex, for which she was incarcerated and then enslaved.Footnote 93 The wife of Mahadaji was deserted by her father-in-law when her husband was absent for months. She moved to Pune and was later charged for having sexual relations. Even though we do not know whether her husband was dead, she was derogatorily recorded as a loose widow (baskala rānda). She was first incarcerated (in the station), then enslaved, and afterwards sold as a slave to Gopal Dattatreya for Rs 80.Footnote 94 In the tālebands there are numerous cases showing non-Brahman women’s incarceration and enslavement for their deviant behaviour.
The Pune government also severed lower-caste women’s noses for their criminality. For example, Kubaji Mojhare’s daughter from Bopkhel (Haveli) killed her husband and was imprisoned; upon her release, Naro Appaji (the governor of Pune from 1750–1775) ordered her nose to be cut off. Shunned and exiled by her marital family and village, she went to her cousin’s village, where she was communally beaten, exiled again, and finally sent to the Peth (local divisions in Pune).Footnote 95 Sometimes, though infrequently, the government would impose its supreme penalty on lower castes in Pune. Tulya Mahar (a lower caste), a resident of Uradgavkar, and Sali, the wife of Satvaji Kunbi (peasant), had a sexual relationship. At first, they were incarcerated at the station, and then the central government issued orders commanding that Tulya should be publicly beheaded and Sali should be released after the severing of her nose.Footnote 96
Thus, the bandīvāna kharca section within the tālebands alone demonstrates that punishments extended beyond fines. The cases recorded here also reveal the kotavāl’s limited jurisdiction: his authority was limited to imposing fines or detaining offenders temporarily in stations—primarily on remand—until the central government obtained confessions. If it did not release the culprit, final penalties such as enslavement, transfer to forts for penal servitude, long-term imprisonment, mutilation, or execution were imposed. Thus, fines were not the only punishment in Pune during the kotavāl’s tenure, and incarceration and enslavement were the most frequently imposed ones. In all penalties imposed, judgements were informed not only by the nature of the act but also by the intersecting dynamics of caste, religion, and gender, reflecting the caste-driven logic articulated by the Shastris in 1824–1825. The only reason cases involving other penalties appear in the bandīvāna kharca section—or, more broadly, in the tālebands—is because they also entailed financial transactions, such as expenditure on prisoners’ maintenance or revenues from fines and justice fees. As summary financial records maintained under the kotavāl, the tālebands do not document cases imposing purely non-financial penalties unless these were also tied to such financial dealings. Therefore, while a thorough examination of tālebands, focusing on both revenue and expense sections, suffices to show penalties beyond fines, a comprehensive understanding of the Peshwa state’s responses to criminality in Pune ideally requires reading them alongside the documents issued by the Peshwa and his chief justice, as well as those of Pune’s governor.
Honour killing
Documents on adultery between Brahman women and lower-caste or Muslim men generally focus on penalizing women (and give their details), and often do not record the outcomes for the men involved, suggesting they might have been victims of unrecorded honour killings.Footnote 97 Even if sometimes such killings were reported, it was almost impossible for the family (plaintiff) to establish the crime. For instance, Makhmulla Khan, a Junnar resident, was murdered for committing adultery (yācā khūna sinalakīcā āla yeūna mārla gelā). Although the village head was charged, the government could not prove his involvement, but asked him to pay a justice fee (nazar) in 1748–1749.Footnote 98 It is likely the woman’s community, possibly led by the village head, carried out the honour killing. Similarly, women engaging in premarital or extramarital relationships often faced honour killings because their bodies were not only socially but also legally attached to family honour and caste purity. For example, Sindu Gangadhar jośī (a Brahman astrologer) killed his pregnant daughter-in-law, suspecting adultery. She was later found innocent, and Sindu was fined Rs 300, boycotted, and required to perform penance (a pilgrimage) before his readmission in 1760–1761.Footnote 99 Rajoba Dange’s daughter-in-law became pregnant from a sexual relationship with Bapu Pathak’s son. Rajoba’s son abandoned her, and when later she died, no one knew whether she had committed suicide or been killed.Footnote 100 In another case, Rajshree Visaji Krishna, a Brahman, killed his pregnant wife upon returning from war, suspecting infidelity. The Peshwa did not punish him, as the act was seen as protecting family honour.Footnote 101 In contrast, lower-caste men like Maro Shimpi were heavily fined for similar actions. Maro killed his wife for adultery but was fined Rs 2,000. He was required to pay Rs 1,700 as he had already given Rs 300 to his wife’s family as a bride price (asurā form of marriage popular among lower castes and peasant communities [kunbīs]). Such a sum was most likely beyond his means, potentially leading to a harsher punishment.Footnote 102 Such honour killings were a consequence of Brahmanism, reinforced by the state practices that legally removed families’ caste and ritual status, purity, and honour for women’s sexual and marital nonconformity. Such honour killings were not uncommon. This is also supported by Thomas Coats’ survey of the Lony township in 1820, in which he stated that husbands could maim or kill adulterous wives.Footnote 103
These historical issues clearly have relevance in contemporary India. Patriarchal and Brahmanical ideologies from the Peshwa era have endured and evolved, deeply influencing modern India’s sociopolitical landscape. These historical roots of misogyny and caste-based oppression fuel ongoing resistance to intercaste and inter-religious relationships, now manifesting in honour killings and societal violence. Right-wing groups exploit these ingrained prejudices to polarize communities and maintain power, echoing the Peshwas’ fear of cultural and religious dilution. This toxic mix of caste, patriarchy, and Brahmanism continues to control women and suppress those challenging these norms. This ongoing struggle highlights the need to critically examine how historical ideologies shape current realities and how, without such scrutiny, the future will remain bound by these same oppressive chains.
Conclusion
The Peshwa state itself was strongly interested in policing sexual conduct and preserving Brahmanical purity. Several factors contributed to this. First, premarital and extramarital sex, as well as sex involving widows, were explicitly prohibited in the Shastras.Footnote 104 Secondly, the Peshwa’s adherence to the patriarchal Brahmanical order—rooted in endogamy (the prohibition of intercaste and inter-religious relations and intimacies), caste purity, honour, ritual, and caste distinctions—was deeply threatened by such non-normative sexual conduct. When such sexual relations crossed caste or religious boundaries, the consequences were even more severe. Such transgressions were more damaging to a woman’s family, as women were considered the visible embodiment of Brahmanical virtue and expected to uphold strict Brahmanical notions of chastity and purity. Thirdly, as non-normative sex was among the most common forms of deviance, its criminalization served as a source of revenue for the state, generating income through fines and providing physical labour and slaves through penal servitude and enslavement.Footnote 105 Lastly, regulating sexual conduct allowed the state to expand its authority into the domestic, private, caste, and ritual lives of people, reinforcing caste boundaries and Brahmanical order.
The Peshwa government maintained a binary approach to governance, differentiating its policies between the capital city of Pune and the countryside. In Pune, where state authority was more centralized and efficient, the administration seldom relied on caste assemblies and refrained from frequently displaying its patriarchal Brahmanical power through conspicuous punishments—such as caste expulsion and readmission, mutilation, or execution—to the same extent as in rural areas. Instead, it generally imposed fines; after fines, incarceration and enslavement were the most frequent penalties. While incarceration was mostly imposed on lower castes and Muslims (including women), enslavement was only imposed on non-Brahman women, mostly lower castes. In contrast, in the countryside—where state authority was less centralized and effective than in the capital—the Peshwa government relied heavily on caste assemblies, particularly those dominated by Brahmans. Under this arrangement, conspicuous punishments and patriarchal Brahmanical values were enforced with greater regularity.
The social landscape, while influenced by patriarchal Brahmanism, was still marked by tensions among Shastric injunctions, heterogeneity of customs within the same caste, and overlaps of customs in different castes, as well as intercaste and inter-religious acts. This plurality undermined and disrupted Brahmanical ideals, creating spaces of negotiation and resistance that threatened caste and gender boundaries, and hence also regional polity. Confronted with this plurality, the Peshwa administration mobilized its justice system as a key technology of governmentality—producing, regulating, and codifying caste and gender boundaries through legal interventions and ritual enforcement.
This project involved deliberate construction of a codified binary between elite and subaltern castes based on intersectionality, not only through differentiated penalties but also through caste-specific traditions. Elite castes were expected to adhere to Shastric norms and were generally subjected to caste and ritual punishments, fines, or, at most, incarceration. In contrast, lower castes were expected to adhere to their own impure traditions and harsher penalties were imposed, such as enslavement, long-term incarceration with penal servitude, mutilation, and capital punishment, with greater frequency. Elite castes were privileged not only for their adherence to Shastric injunctions but also because these texts themselves sanctified their caste and social status. In contrast, lower castes’ exclusion and stigma were justified by their impure caste status, customs, and occupations, and by scriptural authority, as well as by the state’s interest in reproducing a hierarchy of ritual purity.
The Peshwa regime’s exercise of power thus extended beyond juridical punishment to encompass biopolitical control, as communities and individuals who blurred caste distinctions or undermined this binary order were subjected to processes of correction, through Brahmanization, ritual penance, or punitive sanction. Only forms of pluralism that reinforced caste hierarchies were permitted—for example, each caste adhering to its own customs, with elite castes following Shastric traditions and lower castes following theirs. Heterogeneity within the same caste and overlaps in customs of two castes which blurred and undermined such hierarchy were prohibited. This whole process used the intersection of caste, gender, and religion as a deliberate technology of governance, aimed at Brahmanizing the social order and consolidating state authority. In this context, intersectionality was not simply a modern analytical lens but a historically constructed and strategically weaponized tool of Peshwa rule.
The persistence of this strategy did not require continuous or literal enforcement of the Shastras; nevertheless, their influence remained profound. Assessing Shastric influence in the Peshwa law requires moving beyond a narrow focus on textual adherence. Peshwa laws from the eighteenth to early nineteenth centuries cannot be directly mapped onto a third-century digest. The Shastras, written in ancient times, functioned as a situational and multidimensional jurisprudential tradition rather than as a codified legal code, and their prescriptions could not be applied verbatim to every eighteenth-century case. Assessing Shastric influence in law requires examining whether the Peshwa regime broadly criminalized acts prohibited in the Shastras, whether it reinforced caste- and gender-based customs and hierarchies, and whether it dispensed justice in ways that empowered and privileged groups favoured in the Shastras—namely, elite castes—while oppressing those marginalized within Shastric frameworks, such as lower castes. The Peshwa state exemplifies this legal dynamic: Shastric ideology profoundly informed its administration of justice, even in the absence of strict textual fidelity.
The article has revealed this Shastric influence in the regime’s treatment of abduction, forced marriage, and elopement cases. Since according to Shastric principles, a fully performed marriage—even if coerced—could not be annulled, the Peshwa upheld such marriages while punishing perpetrators. The Peshwa prioritized verifying marriage ritual completion over redressing the actual crimes of abduction and forced marriage, delaying timely justice to victims and their families. By refusing to dissolve coerced Brahman marriages, the Peshwa administration reinforced Shastric ideals of marriage and patriarchal authority.
In cases of forced marriage, the primary concern was the compromising of parental authority, since women’s own agency was generally not recognized in marital decisions—whether arranged or coerced—and all documented cases of forced marriage involved girls under the age of six, making parental consent the central issue by default. In cases where intent was not recorded, patriarchal Brahmanical ideology constrained the government, in both the capital and the countryside, from noting whether these acts involved sexual activity or whether any of them were consensual. Two patterns emerge regarding women’s agency. When unknown, it was ignored due to patriarchal Brahmanical approach; when evident, it was deliberately erased to protect familial, caste, communal, and ritual honour and purity, as discussed in the article. In both instances, the act was typically framed as kidnapping, with men portrayed as forcing, tricking, or cajoling women. The limitations of the Marathi documents—particularly their ambiguity in describing acts such as abduction, elopement, and cohabitation—allow for alternative interpretations, suggesting that claims of kidnapping may have obscured a broader range of social deviations, including elopements and consensual cohabitations.
The reservation of harsh penalties and marginalization for lower castes and Muslims, alongside privilege, favouritism, and leniency toward Brahmans; the denial of women’s independent and informed agency; the refusal to annul fully performed forced marriages; the reinforcing of a stark binary between elite caste and lower castes; and the regulation of sex and gender, as well as caste and ritual punishment (which was clearly a product of the Shastras), collectively establish that the Peshwa justice was deeply shaped by patriarchal Brahmanism and by notions of ‘untouchability’, purity, and pollution, all derived from and influenced by the Shastric philosophy and ideology.
While such legal practices may have been systematically normalized in the early modern conception of justice—particularly from the perspective of contemporary elites—viewed through modern legal and philosophical frameworks, the Peshwa system’s starkly differential treatment of individuals across gender, caste, and religious lines reveals profound prejudice and structural injustice. The mere fact that such practices were regarded as ‘just’ by the ruling classes does not absolve them from moral scrutiny. Moreover, we cannot assume that subaltern communities, who bore the brunt of their violence and exploitation, perceived such practices as legitimate. As studies on peasants, artisans, slavery, and patriarchy show, the systemic normalization of oppression did not preclude resistance or alternative justice frameworks; instead it was continually negotiated and contested, rather than universally accepted.Footnote 106 This raises a crucial question for readers to consider: would subaltern groups of the Peshwa period have accepted these hierarchies and treatment as natural and just simply because they were systematically normalized, or would they have regarded them as oppressive? The answer is not merely theoretical; it illuminates whether the Peshwa regime acted as a neutral arbiter of prevailing caste realities or as an active agent exploiting and suppressing marginalized communities, thereby operating an oppressive, discriminatory system that may well have been contested from below. Yet Maratha records, though rich on legal practices and subjects, are silent on subaltern perspectives, echoing Gayatri Spivak’s question: ‘Can the subaltern speak?’Footnote 107 The silence of Maratha archives on subaltern viewpoints on Peshwa’s justice must not be mistaken for consent.
Acknowledgements
I am deeply grateful to the anonymous reviewers and to Modern Asian Studies editor Professor Sumit Guha for their insightful and constructive feedback during the review process, which strengthened the empirical, conceptual, and analytical dimensions of this article. I owe my profound gratitude to Professor Nandini Chatterjee and Professor Jonathan Barry, who supervised my doctoral research from which this article emerges. Their generous guidance, incisive feedback, and expertise in the histories of law, justice, South Asia, the early modern world, and empirical and archival methodologies have been invaluable in enriching this work. Finally, I am grateful to my friends and family for their constant encouragement, patience, and intellectual and emotional support throughout this journey.
Funding statement
I would also like to express my immense gratitude to the Commonwealth Scholarship Commission (UK) for funding my doctoral research, including archival visits to India and the British Library, which made the research for this article possible.
Competing interests
The author declares none.
