Non Brahminical Gods

Last time when I wrote a blog post on Non- Brahmanical Goddesses, my friends asked questions about Non-Brahmanical gods. When I started looking around, I figured out many local Pir, Veer, Dev, Maharaj… these Deities are worshipped by people on the margins. their rituals, legends, and lores are really intriguing…

You've probably encountered a shrine that felt a little too real. Not the polished marble kind with donation counters and security guards, but a heap of stones under a neem tree, a red flag fluttering nearby, maybe a clay horse or a garlanded sword. You might pause and think: is this also a god?

The answer is yes; but not the kind who sits quietly in a textbook. These are the folk deities of India: untempled, uncanonised, and utterly indispensable. They don’t descend from Sanskrit verses. They emerge from oral memory, bone-deep loyalty, and local justice. They live where myth meets mud.

Headless Heroes and Snakebite Promises

Let’s begin with Bhathiji Maharaj; or as some traditions more regionally render him, Bhati Ji, linked to the Bhati Rajput clan of Gujarat. He’s revered as a cattle-protecting warrior who, as legend holds, was beheaded in battle but continued to fight, holding his severed head under one arm. His shrines are modest: red flags, stones, maybe a trident. The offerings? Country liquor, often poured straight into the earth.

Bhathiji isn’t just a protector; he’s a statement. His death isn’t just martyrdom; it’s moral defiance embodied. He refused to let wrong win, even without a head. That’s not a metaphor. That’s folk metaphysics.

A few hundred miles across the landscape, in the semi-arid soils of Rajasthan, another horse-riding deity takes centre stage: Teja Ji. Known as a guardian of snakes and cattle alike, his story pivots around an almost poetic absurdity. Bitten fatally by a snake, he pleads with the creature to wait until he rescues a Brahmin’s cattle. Promise fulfilled, he returns to complete the bite. The snake obliges. He dies. The villagers, understandably, start worshipping him.

Versions differ; some say the incident happened on his wedding day; but the heart of the story never changes: Teja Ji dies not for love or land, but for his word. That’s a different kind of heroism. Not romantic, but accountable.

Gods Without Shame

Folk religion doesn’t always wear solemnity like a uniform. Sometimes, it cackles. Take Gogaji, or Goga Veer, another faith worthy figure. Unlike his divine neighbours, Gogaji isn’t just honoured for martial glory but for snake-healing powers. He rides a blue horse, carries a nag-phani (serpent standard), and is invoked during Nag Panchami. He too died young and loyal; killed while protecting the vulnerable.

There are others in this register of irreverent sacredness. In some parts of Gujarat & Rajasthan, fertility deities like Eloji (less widely documented, but real in local traditions) are celebrated not with incense but with innuendo. Shrines are marked with exaggerated phallic idols. Devotees; men and women; laugh, sing obscenities, and celebrate sexuality. This is not spiritual licentiousness; it’s ritual catharsis. A moment where divine power is invited to be as messy, vital, and joyous as human life.

No folk pantheon would be complete without Pabu Ji, the Rathore Rajput demi-god of Rajasthan, whose life reads like a miniature epic. Born miraculously, raised with resolve, he rode into death defending a Charan woman's honour; abandoning his own wedding to keep a promise. Forget cold feet; this man rode into battle instead.

His story is sung through the phad tradition: hand-painted scrolls that double as theatres. By day, they rest. By night, they come alive, as wandering bards unroll the scroll and sing his story by lamplight. Pabu Ji lives not in temples but in narrative motion; whenever his story is told, he returns.

An Islamic Goddess 

I found Bonbibi, the forest’s own goddess of mercy and jurisdiction. Born to a Muslim fakir, she is worshipped by both Hindus and Muslims who depend on the forest’s unforgiving generosity. Before anyone dares to collect honey or fish in the Sundarbans, they invoke Bonbibi, protector against Dokkhin Rai, the tiger-demon who embodies greed and danger.

Her story comes from the Bonbibi Johuranama, a blend of Islamic piety and Bengali folklore. It isn’t theology. It’s survival strategy rendered it sacred. In Bonbibi, the forest itself becomes a divine courtroom.

Dogs, Toddy, and Divine Democracy

In Kerala, a god travels with dogs, drinks toddy, eats roast meat, and accepts everyone; no matter their caste, past, or peculiarities. Meet Muthappan, worshipped through Theyyam, a ritual theatre where performers become gods for a night.

Muthappan was a divine child cast out by orthodox Brahmins and adopted by a tribal family. His rituals include masked dance, public participation, and; crucially; non-Sanskritic offerings. The divine here doesn’t wear a crown; it wears you. The boundary between devotee and deity is blurred, inverted, and joyfully crossed.

If Muthappan embodies compassion, Karuppasamy embodies fearsome justice. In Tamil Nadu, he stands at the edge of villages, flanked by horses, weapons, and sacred fury. You don’t just worship Karuppasamy; you swear before him. Oaths taken at his shrine are binding. Lie, and misfortune follows.

Paired with Ayyanar, another guardian deity, these figures protect village boundaries not just from spirits but from injustice, betrayal, and unseen harm. They are deities of the threshold; liminal in geography, absolute in judgement.

The Martyrdom of Trees and the Logic of Soil

Not all divine stories involve weaponry. Some involve silence; and trees. In 1730, a royal party arrived in the village of Khejarli, Rajasthan, to cut down Khejri trees for building material. They were stopped; not by soldiers, but by the Bishnoi community, followers of Guru Jambheshwar, a 15th-century mystic who preached non-violence and environmental stewardship.

Led by Amrita Devi, 363 Bishnois hugged the trees and were axed to death; literally. The massacre would inspire future eco-movements, but in the Bishnoi memory, it’s not activism. It’s devotion lived to the end.

The Divine, Unbuttoned

So what ties this scattered pantheon together? It isn’t doctrine. It’s not even belief in the divine per se. It’s something older, messier, and more democratic. It’s the idea that the sacred doesn’t float above life; it soaks into it. These gods live where rules bend, where caste breaks, where promises matter more than power, and where humour has holy status.

You won’t find most of them in religious studies syllabi. But they remain indispensable to communities who rely not on absolutes, but on a moral economy rooted in reciprocity, resistance, and remembrance.

Because sometimes, a god with a broken sword, a bitten arm, or a bottle of toddy is the only kind worth believing in.