The Warrior, the Monk, and the Malang: The Naked Ascetics of South Asia

 

Anthropology Meets Ritual Nudity

Hello, everyone. Today, we are going to peel back the layers—quite literally—of a phenomenon that has fascinated, baffled, and often scandalized observers for centuries: ritual nudity in South Asian asceticism.

Now, when I say "naked ascetics," what’s the first image that pops into your head? Perhaps you think of a chaotic scene at the Kumbh Mela, or maybe a solitary figure in a forest. For a long time, colonial observers and "orientalist" scholars looked at these practitioners through a lens of exoticization, seeing only "wildness" or "eccentricity". But if we look closer, we find something far more profound. This isn't just about a lack of clothes; it is a complex symbolic system embedded in deep theological and social structures.

We’re going to explore three distinct traditions today: the Hindu Naga Sadhus, the Jain Digambaras, and the Sufi-influenced Malangs. While they all practice some form of nakedness, their reasons—and their lives—couldn’t be more different.

 

The Roots: Ancient Defiance

Before we dive into the specific groups, we have to ask: where does this come from?

It isn’t a modern invention. We see references to "long-haired ones" (keśin) and "silent sages" (muni) practicing extreme austerities in the earliest South Asian literature, like the Rigveda. Even the Greeks noticed! Around 300 BCE, Megasthenes, an ambassador to the Mauryan court, wrote about "naked philosophers" he called gymnosophistai.

By the 6th century BCE, during the Śramaṇa movements, the practice became a point of major institutional debate. Mahavira, the 24th Tirthankara of Jainism, reportedly practiced complete nudity as the ultimate expression of non-attachment. Interestingly, this became a breaking point for the Jain community, leading to the split between the "white-clad" (Śvetāmbara) and the "sky-clad" (Digambara) sects.

 

The Naga Sadhus: Warriors of the Ash

Let’s start with a group that often captures the headlines: the Naga Sadhus. The word Naga literally means "naked". These aren't just hermits; they are members of armed ascetic orders called akharas.

Now, here’s a question for you: Why would a religious seeker need to become a soldier?

History gives us the answer. While tradition links them to the 8th-century philosopher Adi Shankaracharya, historical records show their military organization really ramped up between the 15th and 17th centuries. As the Mughal Empire declined, these akharas emerged as significant military forces, protecting pilgrimage routes and often fighting over territory and resources.

Their initiation is intense. If you wanted to become a Naga, you wouldn't just take off your clothes. You would undergo a ritual death ceremony (pind daan) to sever all family ties. You’d be assigned a guru and a specific akhara, and you’d apply sacred ash (vibhuti) to your body as a new identity marker.

But what does the nakedness actually mean to them? In Shaiva philosophy, it represents:

• Dissolution of shame (lajja-tyaga): Transcending social conditioning.
• Identification with Shiva: Emulating the deity’s form as the original "Sky-clad" being.
• Primordial purity: Returning to a natural, pre-social state.

Wait—if they reject society, are they totally disorganized? Actually, it’s the opposite. The 2013 Maha Kumbh Mela showed us that these 30,000 to 40,000 Nagas operate within strict hierarchies. They have formal processions, negotiate with the media, and even manage significant economic properties. Their nakedness exists within a very "clothed" and complex institutional world.

 

The Digambara Jains: The Sky as Clothing

Now, let's shift our focus to the Digambara Jains. If the Naga Sadhus are "warrior-ascetics," the Digambara munis (monks) are the "philosopher-ascetics."

For a Digambara, nudity isn't a choice—it’s a doctrinal necessity for liberation (moksha). It’s the ultimate expression of Aparigraha, or non-possession. As their texts say: "For him who has no covering, the sky is his clothing".

But here’s a nuanced question: If nudity is required for enlightenment, what about women?

This is a point of historic and ongoing debate. Because female modesty requirements historically made complete nudity impossible for women, Digambara doctrine traditionally suggested that women could not achieve liberation in a female form. As you can imagine, this remains a highly contested topic within the community.

Unlike the Nagas, who might only be fully naked during rituals, a Digambara muni practices continuous nakedness. But this creates a practical challenge: How do you live as a naked monk in a modern city?

It’s a delicate dance of reciprocal relationships. These monks rely entirely on the lay community for food—which they receive in cupped hands—and protection. They navigate "spatial restrictions," often staying in designated areas or walking (vihar) during specific hours to minimize public friction.

They are also facing 21st-century hurdles. Imagine the legal complexities of public nudity laws versus religious freedom. Or the issue of privacy in the age of smartphones and social media. Some contemporary Jain authorities are even starting to argue that spiritual intention might be more important than external form, though the tradition remains deeply rooted in its "sky-clad" identity.

The Malangs: The "Drunk" Sages of Sufism

Our third group takes us into a different theological territory: the Malangs associated with Sufi shrines in Punjab and Sindh.

The term "Malang" is broad, covering everything from shrine devotees to itinerant ecstatics. But a specific subset practices ritual nudity as a form of Sufi antinomianism—which basically means the deliberate violation of social norms for spiritual gain.

How can nudity be an "Islamic" practice when the law (fiqh) generally prohibits it?

This is where it gets fascinating. Malangs appeal to a state of divine intoxication (masti) or attraction (majdhubiyya). Their rationale is built on concepts like:

• Fana: The annihilation of the ego, where one loses all consciousness of self or social norms.
• Malama (Blame): The deliberate courting of social disapproval to ensure one isn't doing things for "reputation" or "ego".

For them, nakedness is a sign that they have been so overwhelmed by the "divine state" (hal) that legal obligations are temporarily suspended.

However, the world of the Malang is shrinking. Shrine modernization and government oversight have restricted these ecstatic practices. Today, those who still practice nudity are sometimes found in rural areas, where they maintain a community that balances spiritual tradition with the realities of social and economic marginalization.

 

Connecting the Dots: A Comparative Look

So, we have three very different groups. But are there common threads? Yes.

All three occupy a liminal space—they are "outside" society but "inside" its religious landscape. They all depend on a patronage economy; they can only be "non-possessors" because householders provide for them. And crucially, their nakedness isn't "anarchy." It’s a controlled transgression—it happens in specific places, at specific times, and within specific roles.

But we must be careful not to lump them all together.

• To a Naga, nakedness is a military-devotional identity.
• To a Digambara, it’s a logical requirement of non-possession.
• To a Malang, it’s the manifestation of ego-annihilation.

 

The Modern Struggle: Law, Media, and Power

As we wrap up, we have to talk about the now. How do these ancient practices survive in a world of cameras, courts, and colonial hangovers?

During the 19th century, British colonial administrators tried to "clean up" the streets. They implemented public decency laws and the Criminal Tribes Acts, treating ascetics as "anthropological specimens" to be cataloged and regulated.

Today, the challenges are different but just as pressing. Ascetics are often caught between being symbols of national heritage and being seen as nuisances or "tourist attractions". We see court cases testing religious freedom against animal welfare (like the materials used in ash application) and public order.

 

Conclusion: Bodies as Texts

In the end, what have we learned?

Ritual nudity isn't a "primitive" leftover from the past. It is a living, breathing symbol system. Using the ideas of thinkers like Michel Foucault, we can see these naked bodies as sites of power. By refusing to clothe themselves according to mainstream norms, these ascetics are asserting a kind of sovereignty over their own bodies.

As Mary Douglas famously argued, these figures exist in a state of "purity and danger". They are often seen as "polluting" because they are exposed or hang around cremation grounds, yet they are also seen as "pure" because of their extreme renunciation. It is this very ambiguity that gives them the power to bless, to curse, and to mediate between the human and the divine.

These traditions are not "cultural fossils". They are dynamic communities negotiating their place in a rapidly changing South Asia. So, the next time you see a photo of a "sky-clad" monk or an ash-covered Naga, remember: you aren't just looking at a person without clothes. You are looking at a profound theological argument written on the skin.