Reading Bronkhorst: How Brahmins Won—A Layman’s Journey Through Dense Scholarship:

Is this the way Brahmins Won?

Is This the Way Brahmins Won?

This is a mind-blowing, path-breaking scholarly book on how the Brahmins evolved—from the time of Alexander to the Gupta period. Although the author begins with this stated objective and does provide some initial context, he soon delves deeper into a wider exploration: the influence Brahmins exerted on society and the challenges they encountered along the way.

In doing so, he draws upon a wealth of sources—texts, scriptures, technical terms, grammar—and offers a meticulous comparative analysis of different scriptures, examining how one text influenced another, how doctrines emerged, and how they gradually shaped a broader intellectual and social landscape.

While it’s possible the author returns to the central theme at the end of the book, I found myself, midway through the dense and intricate pages, asking a different question: Is this how the Brahmins won? That is, through technicalities so minute and complex that only a handful of scholars—or perhaps only the most learned among Brahmins themselves—could truly grasp them? Their mastery over such inaccessible knowledge seems, in a way, to have formed a kind of power in itself.

This was particularly evident in Section III: External Influence (pp. 241–390), which is packed with technical detail. Unless one is a scholar—especially one trained in grammar and related disciplines—just reading this section is a challenge. I read on not because I fully understood, but because I didn’t want to miss the richness of the author’s scholarship. I also hoped to glean important insights, even if I couldn’t follow every technical argument. And I wasn’t disappointed.

Take, for example, the discussion on Rationality [III.2.1, pp. 256ff.]. Bronkhorst makes the striking claim that apart from ancient Greece and India (and their intellectual descendants), no other early cultures had a tradition of rational inquiry [p. 259]. He explicitly excludes China from this tradition—yet clarifies that this has nothing to do with intelligence or backwardness. On the contrary, he acknowledges that China made numerous technological advances, and their lack of a rational inquiry tradition doesn’t mean they were “not able to think intelligently” [p. 262].

Such remarks make one pause. Even a lay reader like me finds it worthwhile to read slowly, line by line, not because I understand everything, but because I don’t want to miss anything. After all, not understanding the technical details doesn’t mean one isn’t able to think intelligently. As Bronkhorst notes, traditions of rational inquiry emerged only where people had the leisure to think beyond their daily needs [p. 263]—and Brahmins, either through their own efforts or by patronage of political power [p. 274], had access to such leisure.

So even if many of the arguments remain beyond the reach of a lay reader like me, there is still much to be gained—especially when one reads with patience and curiosity. That, in itself, feels like a kind of answer to the book’s central question about how Brahminism took shape.

Examples of Scholarly Depth

Two examples are worth mentioning to illustrate the author’s academic skill in handling such technical subjects.

The first is Mathematics, a field historically preserved almost exclusively by Brahmins [p. 275]. Bronkhorst presents minute and intricate details drawn from the Āryabhaṭīya of Āryabhaṭa, with commentary from Bhāskara’s Āryabhaṭīyabhāṣya. For instance, in Bhāskara’s comments on Gaṇitapāda verse 10, we find:

[Question:] Why is the approximate circumference [of a circle] given, not its exact circumference?
[Response:] People think as follows: there is no way in which the exact circumference [can] be calculated.
[Question:] Isn’t there the following saying: the circumference of a circle is the square root of 10 times the square of the diameter?
[Response:] Here too, [the claim] that the circumference of a diameter that equals one is the square root of 10 is mere tradition, and no demonstration (upapatti).
[Objection:] And if one thinks that the circumference, as directly (pratyakṣena) measured, of a [circular] area whose diameter equals one is the square root of 10…
[Response:] this is not [correct], for the measure of surds cannot be expressed.
[Objection:] If [it is maintained] that the circumference of [a circle] having that diameter (viz. one), surrounded by the diagonal of an oblong quadrilateral whose width and length are one and three [respectively], has the [same] size [as that diagonal],
[Response:] that, too, has to be established. —pp. 288–89

The second example is Patañjali’s reinterpretation of grammar (Section III.3). After discussing the Buddhist influence on Patañjali (III.3.2, pp. 308 ff.), Bronkhorst turns to Patañjali on words and speech sounds (III.3.2.1, pp. 312 ff.), under the topic Knowledge of What Precedes (III.3.2.3, pp. 326 ff.), focusing on the derivation of avadāta, the past passive participle of the root daiP with marker P.

(i) Consider the derivation of avadāta:

1. ava-daiP-Kta
2. ava-dai-ta – 1.3.9 tasya lopaḥ
3. ava-da-ta → avadāta – 6.1.45 ādeca upadeśe ‘śiti — p. 326

Let us consider another example: the derivation of gomān.

(ii) The elision of markers leads to complications elsewhere too. Patañjali discusses such difficulties in the derivation of gomān under sūtra 6.4.14 (atvasantasya cādhātoḥ):

1. go-matUP-sU
2. go-mat-s – 1.3.9 tasya lopaḥ (repeated 3x)
3. go-mat-s – 6.4.14 atvasantasya cādhātoḥ
4. go-mā-nUT-t-s – 7.1.70 ugidacām
5. go-ma-n – 8.2.23 samyogāntasya lopaḥ (applied twice)

Patañjali explains that while the first part of the sūtra (atu) covers suffixes like DavatU and KtavatU, it should also include matUP. However, this suffix contains atUP, not merely atU. A vārttika therefore suggests explicitly including suffixes with P as a marker.

Are you still with me after reading through all this? If yes, you may be inclined to enjoy more such technical examples. Here’s another:

(iii) A hypothetical context is explored in the Mahābhāṣya on P. 7.3.83 jusi ca. This sūtra explains the substitution of guṇa for u in the derivation of ajuhavuḥ. The derivation proceeds as follows:

1. hu-LAṆ
2. hu-jha – 3.4.78 tiptasjhi…
3. hu-ŚaP-jha – 3.1.68 kartari Śap
4. hu-Ślu-jha – 2.4.75 juhotyādibhyaḥ Śluḥ
5. hu-hu-Ślu-jha – 6.1.10 Ślau
6. hu-hu-jha – 1.1.61 pratyayasya lukślulupaḥ
7. hu-hu-jus – 3.4.109 sijabhyastavidibhyaś ca
8. aT-hu-hu-jus – 6.4.71 luṅlaṅlṛkṣv ad udāttaḥ
9. a-hu-ho-jus – 7.3.83 jusi ca
10. a-hu-hav-us – 6.1.78 eco ’yavāyāvaḥ
11. a-ju-hav-us – 8.4.54 abhyāse car ca
12. etc.

In the end, Patañjali abandons the idea of reading sūtra 7.3.83 in this peculiar way, and thereby also relinquishes the proposal to consider what was previously present [p. 334].

But the real highlight in these technical analyses lies in Bronkhorst’s remark on pūrvabhūtagati:

“Once again, the use of pūrvabhūtagati is here completely hypothetical. The true interest of this passage lies in the fact that the device of looking backward is not proposed by Patañjali himself, but by the author of a ślokavārttika. Since nothing is known about the authorship of the ślokavārttikas in the Mahābhāṣya, it is difficult to assess the significance of this fact.” — p. 334

Thus, apart from all the detailed technical analysis, Bronkhorst’s book also contains extensive discussions built on assumptions and hypotheses. And in the domain of academic scholarship, such assumptions and hypotheses are valid—provided they serve the purpose of supporting the main theme: How the Brahmins Won. I have already discussed one such assumption about Brahmins in another place [see: https://dayanandbharati.in/brahminism-a-socio-political-ideology/].

Having said this, I must note that I’ve often read about the structure of pūrvapakṣa and uttarapakṣa—the process of presenting and countering arguments—as central to Indian philosophical traditions. What I now observe is that this methodological structure is not limited to philosophy alone. It pervades even the analysis of grammar and other śāstras.

On page 329, Bronkhorst observes how Patañjali applies this mode of thinking even in grammatical discussion:

“Here Patañjali (on P. 1.1.56 vt. 21) puts the following thought into the mouth of an opponent: This rule 8.2.35 āhas thah has been formulated in order to let us know that the notion of what came before must be taken into account.” — p. 329

Conclusion

So when I was reading all these technical details about math and grammar, I was wondering how all these are related to the topic of this book: How the Brahmins Won. But when I further reflected, then I guessed that this is actually the art of scholarship. One can use any kind of information that might be remotely related to the topic—not immediately serving the main purpose of the theme. However, academic scholars have every skill and even the right to connect them later by linking them with the main theme.

Of course, Bronkhorst is not the first and won’t be the last. I have read several such scholarly books on various subjects. But that is a scholarly prerogative not afforded to amateur writers, who will be questioned and even condemned for such adventure.

But more than this, such minute information in this book and in various fields creates a leaves readers in stunned admiration about the ‘scholarship’ and ‘deep’ knowledge on that particular topic. This is not limited to one area of life. I felt the same when several speakers quote from nooks and corners of various scriptures from memory to authenticate their presentation.

The late Nellai Kannan, a Tamil orator, was one such. He wouldn’t keep any notes with him or even come with any preparation, but he could talk on a given topic for several hours, quoting various Tamil poems. On any topic from Kambaramayana, he would not only quote from the epic itself, but also from other Tamil literature and even contemporary film songs. Whether the audience remembered all the points he shared, they would leave with a evokes deep respect and amazement expression of his wide and deep Tamil knowledge.

I can give multiple such examples from various fields—be it music, art, talks, or discussions. Though I won’t say that scholars like Bronkhorst have done this keeping such an effect in mind, still one can hardly leave the pages of such books without a similar sense of admiration for their scholarship. As I’ve said in several places, sometimes true scholarship is demonstrated by presenting thoughts with such complicated, hair-splitting, minute details—not necessarily to show off, but simply because such detail is required when serious subjects are discussed.

So, while an academic scholar like Bronkhorst mostly writes for his peer group, a lay person—if she dares to venture into such books—might end up at least collecting some useful information that she can glean amidst the scholarly information piles.

And I am one such.

And perhaps, that’s the real reward of reading such a book—not mastering every detail, but discovering the quiet thrill of learning something new, even if only in part.

Ashram, June 11, 2025

Appendix: A Layman’s Guess About a Scholar’s Method

Let me offer a personal, layman’s guess about an aspect of Bronkhorst’s book.

As an academic scholar, Bronkhorst likely gathered a wealth of minute and technical details during the course of his research on the themes explored in How the Brahmins Won. Some of these details—such as intricate grammatical derivations or mathematical commentaries—may not directly advance the central argument about Brahminical ascendancy. Yet they are seamlessly incorporated into the book, often with great scholarly finesse.

My hunch is that, rather than letting such hard-won insights remain unpublished, Bronkhorst chose to include them where they would naturally fit—even if they were not strictly essential to the main narrative. This, I feel, is a subtle mark of scholarship: not merely proving a thesis, but also preserving knowledge along the way.

I say this because I’ve done something similar, though at a very different level. As a layperson writing reflections or reviews, I often come across tangential but interesting material during research. Even if not directly relevant, I find ways to weave it into the text.

For example, in my review of this very book, I brought in the story of Koon Pandiyan—originally a Jain king who converted to Saivism through the influence of Sambandar and the queen Mangayarkkarasiyar. The story, which includes the dramatic and violent persecution of Jains (kazhuvetrudal), may seem unrelated to the technical content of Bronkhorst’s chapters. Yet I included it as a real-world instance of sectarian shifts enabled by Brahminical or allied religious authority. I wrote:

“The role of Brahminism in facilitating or legitimizing such shifts cannot be ignored.”

This connection may be tenuous from a scholarly standpoint, but it reflects how reflective readers—especially non-specialists—often process material: by linking it with known histories or lived realities. And if I, as a layperson, feel compelled to bring in such illustrative episodes, why wouldn’t a scholar like Bronkhorst also feel free to include intellectually valuable, if tangential, material?

Of course, I freely admit that this is just a personal assumption. But in Bronkhorst’s own prose, we frequently encounter phrases like “probably,” “it seems,” or “we cannot be sure.” Such openness to hypothetical reasoning—when done responsibly—is part of what makes academic writing dynamic and human. I share this appendix in that same spirit.