In recent decades, the question of Christian conversion in Andhra Pradesh has become increasingly fraught, drawing attention to both statistical ambiguities and social consequences. Official data from the 2011 Census records Christians as comprising only about 1.34 percent of the state’s population—around 1.1 million people. This figure, in fact, reflects a decline from earlier decades, when Christianity in undivided Andhra Pradesh reached a peak share of more than five percent in 1971. Yet, despite the decline in official numbers, various advocacy groups and commentators suggest that the actual Christian population is much larger, with estimates ranging as high as 20-25 percent when accounting for so-called “Crypto-Christians.” These are individuals, often from Dalit communities, who adopt Christianity in practice but retain Hindu identification in state records to preserve access to caste-based reservations and other government benefits. However, access to reservations in education and employment remains restricted to Scheduled Castes (SC), Scheduled Tribes (ST), and Other Backward Classes (OBC), since by law, Scheduled Caste status applies only to Hindus and related faiths, and is not extended to those who have embraced Islam or Christianity. While such claims are difficult to verify empirically, they point to the tensions between legal categories, social identities, and religious affiliation that lie at the heart of the debate.
The criticisms most often leveled against proselytization in Andhra Pradesh emphasize its corrosive impact on indigenous cultures and traditions. Dalit and ādivāsī groups across the state have long maintained their own distinct deities and forms of worship—for instance, Maisamma, Pochamma, and Ellamma among the Madigas, Potharaju and Gangamma among the Malas, and Chenchamma and Mallanna among the Chenchus, to name only a few. These forms of religiosity, rooted in Hindu folk traditions, embody the collective memory and ancestral heritage of these communities. Yet missionaries frequently label them as “pagan,” “demonic,” or “false,” urging converts to abandon them as heretical. Such delegitimization not only disrupts cultural continuity but also erases the anthropological richness of these practices, leading to a profound alienation of communities from their own past.
Equally troubling are the coercive and manipulative methods of conversion that missionaries employ: hammering the fear of eternal damnation and the promise of heaven, asking vulnerable villagers whether they are certain of salvation if they were to die tomorrow. For individuals with little exposure to theological debate, such framing can provoke anxiety rather than genuine spiritual conviction. Missionaries, backed by foreign churches, employ exploitative methods that target the vulnerabilities of communities, taking advantage of poverty, illness, and other hardships. In practice, conversion is often less a matter of free religious choice than the product of psychological intimidation, material inducements, or both. Food rations, money, or medical care may be offered as incentives, leaving destitute families with few real alternatives but to comply.
The consequences of conversion do not end with the act itself but extend into the everyday lives of the new adherents. Financial obligations to the church—such as the payment of tithes — set at a rapacious ten percent of monthly income, and additional contributions for “special prayers”—can place an enormous burden on already impoverished households. Converts are coerced to part with their earnings, undermining their ability to save for healthcare or education, while pastors accumulate wealth and status. This inversion of empowerment, whereby vulnerable individuals become economically dependent on the very institutions that promised them dignity, has not received the censure it deserves.
Conversions also generate legal and social complications. Many Dalit Christians continue to identify officially as Hindu to retain caste-based entitlements. This dual identity produces a population of “Crypto-Christians,” creating distortions in census data, complicating welfare distribution, and raising ethical questions about the misuse of state benefits. At the same time, conversions contribute to social fragmentation within families, communities, and villages. Converts often refuse to participate in ancestral rituals, weddings, funerals, or communal festivals, deepening rifts with relatives who remain Hindu, highlighting the manner in which conversion can not only dissolve specific cultural practices but also tear the social fabric as a whole. The political ramifications of these processes are equally significant. Religious conversion has become a site of contestation between missionary groups and Hindu organizations, both of which seek to claim marginalized communities for ideological or electoral purposes — undermining social harmony and provoking communal antagonisms.
The broader implications of these dynamics point to a cycle of vulnerability rather than liberation. Indigenous identities are eroded, poverty is exacerbated by exploitative financial demands, and social cohesion is fractured, severing Dalit communities from their ancestral traditions and ritual lineages. Both Gandhi and Ambedkar foresaw dangers in such developments. Gandhi condemned proselytization as “soul hunting,” while Ambedkar warned that conversion to Christianity could sever Dalits from their Indian heritage and entrench them in a framework of sin, guilt, and dependence. What is presented abroad as evidence of Christianity “booming” in Asia and Africa often conceals a more troubling reality: vulnerable communities, deprived of resources and dignity, are being drawn into a religious economy that thrives on their insecurity while impoverishing their culture and identity.
It is in this context that the Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanams (TTD), acting on the directive of Chief Minister N. Chandrababu Naidu, has undertaken the ambitious initiative of constructing 1,000 temples in Dalit villages across the state. Each temple, to be funded through the Srivani Trust at a cost of ₹10–20 lakhs, depending on local conditions, will be strategically situated, with five to six temples planned per assembly constituency based on the recommendations of local representatives.
Far from constituting a project of “Hindu expansionism” or aggressive proselytization, this program has to be viewed as a defensive move — a restorative intervention that seeks to safeguard vulnerable populations from predatory missionary activity while simultaneously helping to conserve the cultural practices that are being demonized by church presence. The establishment of temples in Dalit villages is thus not merely an infrastructural undertaking but an assertion of a fundamental constitutional right: the right of communities to maintain and cultivate their own religious and spiritual traditions without coercion, persecution, or erasure.
Rather than approaching marginalized communities with material inducements or transactional incentives, the TTD’s plan has the potential to aid “marginalized” Dalits to reclaim their own spiritual, religious, and ritual heritage in ways that affirm their agency and dignity. By fostering a religious environment where ancestral deities, nature worship, rituals, art forms, and local devotional practices are celebrated, the program resists the delegitimizing narratives of exclusivist missionary faiths. In doing so, it reaffirms Hinduism’s historically absorptive and inclusive character, wherein diverse practices and deities have been incorporated without the imposition of rigid doctrinal conformity.
The wider significance of this initiative lies in its potential to generate organic forms of empowerment and resilience. Temples function not only as sites of worship but as community centers that anchor social life, foster solidarity, and provide a framework for cultural expression. In Dalit villages, where the absence of temple infrastructure has often been compounded by targeted proselytization, the renewal of worship promises to revitalize community vibrancy and sustain ritual diversity. In this sense, the TTD’s decision must be read as an act of cultural conservation and social justice—one that protects the vulnerable from coercion, strengthens the integrity of Hindu society, and upholds the pluralistic ethos of India’s civilizational heritage.
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