Books
GIRL MADE OF GOLD by Gitanjali Kolanad. Juggernaut Books, Delhi, 2020.
To articulate the past historically does not mean to recognize it ‘the way it was.’ It means to seize hold of a memory as it flashes by at a moment of danger.
– Walter Benjamin, Illuminations
SOMEWHERE in the middle of Gitanjali Kolanad’s tale, Girl Made of Gold, is a richly detailed description of how a bell-metal statue is cast. The sculptor’s art and his technique give us a glimpse into the life-world of artisans and artists of the time. With a palm leaf folded into eighth of its width serving as a unit of measurement, the mould is made as Kolanad says, with ‘The measurement based on proportion and not absolutes’. The erasure of the history of the devadasi, mired as it is in debates of cultural appropriation, caste and gender politics, the political economy of temples and their patronage, the nationalist project of reclaiming a golden past – forms the ground on which the dense and interwoven narrative of Girl Made of Gold is told. Kolanad measures her steps as a storyteller with care – in proportions and not in absolutes.
The story also begins somewhere in the middle – with the disappearance of Kanaka, a beautiful young devadasi, whose complexion glows like gold. With the mystical appearance of a statue that resembles Kanaka at the altar where she performs her ritual duties, she enters the sthalapurana of the temple and her life is now legend. Not everyone believes in this miraculous manifestation. Every believer Kolanad suggests is also a skeptic in their own right. Faith and fact are not inimical in this telling – their coexistence reinforces the essence of how a past is reimagined. Kolanad’s fictive world opens with an invitation to the story, with a narrator who tells you the many ways in which a tale can be told, but never quite revealing which way this story might go. There is clear proof of a murder – who has been killed and by whom? Who has disappeared and what manifests in their place?
In an imaginatively crafted narrative mode, Kolanad reveals the events that lead up to this incident through multiple first person narratives. Subbu, Kanaka’s childhood friend is devastated and refuses to believe in the miracle of the girl turning herself into a statue. Kanaka clearly held a secret from him and it is not until the others have told us their versions that we find out what it is. Her mother Nagaveni, the matron of the devadasi household, her teacher the nattuvanar who makes a dancer of her, her sister Ratna who runs her own establishment patronized by Vallabendran, the lustful local zamindar, his son Indra just returned from England, his uncle Janardana who nurtures a secret of his own – through these characters and more, each speaking in their own voice, Kolanad finds a way to build a reality that holds more than the truth of what led to Kanaka’s disappearance. The enigma of another disappearance lies in wait – the connection between the two events is a tension that does not resolve until most characters have told the reader of their role in Kanaka’s life. Until the end, the plot weaves in and out of knowing and not knowing. It is only when each character speaks and invites the reader to step into their own skin that a little more of the truth illumines itself.
The plot weaves through the bodies and voices of many who inhabit different worlds in the same place and at the same time. The high caste priest who is the custodian of the temple, the devadasi who occupies a liminal space between the sacred and the subversive, the lower caste sorceress skirting the margins of social order, while remaining central to its faith – Kolanad’s characters each tell and retell the tale from the vantage of their life-world. It is in these intersecting life-worlds of women and men and the desires that drive them that the novel finds its binding force. Kolanad’s densely researched characters, each hewn with an integrity that locates them temporally and spatially in the Tanjavur district of South India of the 1920s, feel palpably real. She paints for the reader an interconnected world, where the fertile vegetation of the forest she describes, resonates in the metaphors that bind together the poet, the dancer, and sculptor of that time.
With almost choreographic precision, Kolanad herself a dancer, stages the narrative as if it were a performance – with an inbuilt sense of rhythm, aspects of abhinaya or emotive expression that create rasa, brief pauses and the build up to a crescendo. She carefully chooses elements that can enrich her storytelling – whether it is the careful description of a juggler’s trick of making balls of rice and pigs blood disappear, the literary imagination that emerged in the centuries that preceded, or the intricate detailing of temple architecture – her writing is subtly and delicately performative. Kolanad’s allusions to poetry that shaped the aesthetic and the imagination of a culture, is what she draws upon to contour the fullness of her prose – much like a dancer’s presentation of a varnam in Bharatanatyam.
If Girl Made of Gold were to be read as a murder mystery set in 1920s South India, it would stand on its own as a beautifully crafted and well written novel. It is, however, much more than that. It is a tale about the driving force of desire as central to the human condition. Desire which has many colours and which is rooted in a contested and often ambiguous understanding of sexuality and its transactions, negotiated across ideas of chastity, marriage, class, caste and our fluid gendered existences. In contemporary debates about devadasi history, this complexity is often papered over and the devadasi is portrayed either as an exploited victim with no voice, or a woman with great artistic, intellectual, financial and sexual agency. Kolanad, herself a Bharatanatyam practitioner for nearly four decades, is also steeped in the process of reimagining and reclaiming devadasi history. As a dance scholar, Kolanad’s stance on reimagining this history has sometimes been uncompromising. In an earlier edition of Seminar, she wrote of the deeply exploitative nature of the tradition, where the sexual availability of the devadasi has been incorrectly recast in a trope of her sexual liberation.1
Writing the history of a dance is a complex process, for we know that dance exists in the moment – in the gesture and the movement. Bits and pieces of its history survive in the bodies of the women and men who practiced different aspects of the art. Dance is harder to pass down than the texts that come to us through oral traditions, through words and songs. The cognitive apparatus needed for dance – a practice which more than any other, is embedded and embodied in its context, makes reclaiming its history that much harder. But what of the history of the dancer? When whole communities of practitioners themselves are wrenched out of their contexts and stripped of their livelihoods and intellectual and artistic resources, how is their history reconstructed? Whose voice speaks for them? The history of the devadasi is complicated not just by the difficulty of documenting the history of her art, but more importantly because the devadasi was much more than just her art. Her life-world was deeply intertwined with her role as the holder of specialized knowledge of art, love and sexuality. Between her agency and her availability, she negotiated her livelihood within the political economy of the temple and her performative and sexual relationships with her patrons.
In addition to a few first person narratives, Kolanad tells us in her Afterword, that she drew upon padam poetry which she suggests holds more than just allegories. She drew upon the poetry as a historical source, as an insight into the sensibilities and sensitivities of the devadasi. David Shulman in his book, More than Real: A History of Imagination in South India, refers to this way of seeing as bhavana – a perceptual seeing, as opposed to pratyaksha – a direct seeing. Kolanad’s choice of working with fiction as a way of revisiting the devadasi past, also employs bhavana ‘a form of focused attention that brings something into being by actually seeing it’.2
Through her tale, Kolanad reminds us that history is also partly imagination. In this novel, desire is the lens through which this history is refracted – a history that perhaps allows us to honour the labour of the devadasi’s being more fully. Girl Made of Gold, however, must be read for its own sake – as a meticulously crafted story with a strong narrative voice which draws on a deep metaphoric imagination, and its unmistakably performative language.
Aparna Uppaluri
Dancer; works on gender justice at the Ford Foundation, Delhi
Footnotes:
1. Gitanjali Kolanad, ‘Young Girls Were Harmed in the Making of This Dance’, Seminar 676, December 2015. http://www.india-seminar.com/2015/676/676_gitanjali_kolanad.htm
2. David Shulman, More Than Real: A History of Imagination in South India. Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 2012.
THE COSTLIEST PEARL: China’s Struggle for India’s Ocean by Bertil Lintner. Context, Chennai; C. Hurst and Company, London, 2019.
IN modern history, the Indian Ocean has attracted the attention of several great powers. European powers such as the Netherlands, Portugal, France and Britain, all maintained colonies in the Indian Ocean and competed for greater influence in this region. In the 19th century, Britain dominated the ocean to an extent that it was considered a ‘British lake’. Since the British withdrawal East of Suez in 1967, the United States (US) and Soviet Russia entered the geopolitics of the Indian Ocean. In the 1970s and 1980s, the sub-regions of the Indian Ocean had become a focal point for US-Soviet rivalry. Even after the end of the Cold War, the US continues to maintain a formidable military presence through its bases in the Indian Ocean region (IOR).
The latest entrant in the geopolitics of the Indian Ocean is China with its growing economic, military and political power. How will China shape the emerging geopolitics of the IOR? Can the existing powers maintain their influence in the region? And how will the competition between China and India play out? These are some of the questions that are at the heart of Bertil Lintner’s, The Costliest Pearl: China’s Struggle for India’s Ocean.
Lintner basic argument is that ‘for the first time in history, China is emerging as an Indian Ocean power.’ China’s enormous investments in the Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) and its engagement with states like Myanmar and Madagascar must be seen in this context. Moreover, as China depends heavily on the Indian Ocean for its trade and energy supplies, the security of IOR trade routes and oil supplies are of vital interest. Therefore, Lintner argues, China needs a ‘defence umbrella’ to protect these interests. Beyond Djibouti, China is likely to establish more bases in the IOR, which will act as ‘strategic outposts in Beijing’s new commercial empire’ (p. 4). However, Lintner is also aware of China’s limitations and vulnerabilities and is persuasively able to demonstrate that it will not be so easy for China to play the geopolitical game in the IOR. Therefore, the title of the book refers to the Indian Ocean as the ‘Costliest Pearl’.
To explain the growing Chinese presence in the IOR, Lintner begins with Djibouti. China opened its first overseas military base in Djibouti in 2017. After the US, France and Japan, it was the fourth major power to do so. The strategic location of this tiny state allows it to host military bases and earn much-needed revenue. In fact, Djibouti depends on revenue from foreign powers for its survival and national development. Any state with a base in Djibouti can monitor and shape developments in Northeast Africa as well as West Asia and the western Indian Ocean. Given the geopolitical competition that is being played out in Djibouti, Lintner calls it the ‘new Casablanca’ where ‘everybody seems to be spying on everybody else’ (p. 12). In the 1940s, Casablanca in Morocco was a French colony, which was then a hub of spies and clandestine activities of the Allies and Axis powers. Djibouti too was a French colony till 1977 and, therefore, the characterization is not just historically accurate but also geopolitically significant.
Apart from the US, France is another western power with significant stakes in the politics of the IOR. France has a 2.5 million-square kilometre Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ) and robust military foothold in the IOR due to French island territories in the western Indian Ocean like Réunion, Mayotte and other smaller islands like Kerguelen. France maintains firm control over these island territories. Lintner argues that owing to the continued French presence in Mayotte, it is much richer than other African states in the region like Tanzania and Mozambique. Along with these territories, France also exerts influence on the neighbouring states like the Comoros and Madagascar, both former French colonies.
Lintner also discusses other geo-strategically important island states in the western and central Indian Ocean such as the Seychelles, Mauritius and Maldives. All of these states have experienced pressures of the India-China competition in the IOR. However, it would be incorrect to consider them as passive objects in the competition. They are also playing the geopolitical game and using the present situation to their own advantage. In fact, these smaller states have attained greater agency in regional geopolitics and instead of choosing one side over the other, they are able to hedge their bets. For example, as Lintner shows, ‘China was not able to establish a naval base on the Seychelles in 2011, and nor was India in 2018’ (p. 167).
In the last few years, the China-Australia relationship has become a matter of debate in strategic circles. While Australia is a close US ally, China has emerged as its major economic partner. Although Australia exerts influence in the South Pacific region, it is worried about the increasing Chinese presence there. However, as Australia has a bi-oceanic orientation, it is also a major Indian Ocean power. Just like France, Australia too holds smaller islands in the Indian Ocean, far away from its mainland. Lintner observes that ‘the Cocos and Christmas Island are not as secretive and off-limits to visitors as France’s Kerguelen, but Australia’s presence in its Indian Ocean territories is motivated by similar strategic considerations’ (p. 194). China’s growing presence in IOR states such as Sri Lanka, Pakistan and Myanmar has become a major factor determining the Australian approach towards the Indian Ocean.
In this emerging geopolitical competition, India’s actions will be a key factor. Lintner anchors his debate about India’s Indian Ocean strategy on Andaman and Nicobar Islands in the Bay of Bengal. He notes that, owing to the strategic location and military importance of these islands, ‘Port Blair has become crucial to the defence of India as any major military base along its border with China in the Himalayas’ (p. 64). However, Lintner is also aware that India’s response to China is not limited to setting up military bases in Andaman and Nicobar islands. Therefore, he also discusses India’s Look East/Act East policy, its engagement with the military junta in Myanmar, and attempts to build ties with other like-minded Indian Ocean states.
While discussing the geopolitics in the Indian Ocean, Lintner touches upon several related issues which have a bearing on the IOR such as the Belt and Road Initiative (BRI), growing Chinese ties with Pakistan and Myanmar, politics and fissures in South East Asia, strategic debates in Australia about its approach towards China and insurgencies in India’s north-eastern region. All of these issues are somewhat connected to the Chinese presence in the IOR. Given the importance of the Indian Ocean as a global trading route, and China’s dependence on it for its energy and economic relationships, it is natural that China would like to extend its presence in the IOR. Therefore, Lintner concludes the book by arguing that India was once the cherished colony of the British Empire. For Chinese President Xi Jinping, ‘the Indian Ocean is the pearl he wishes to secure for his growing Chinese Empire – irrespective of the cost’ (p. 238).
The book could have benefited by discussing South Africa and its strategy towards the Indian Ocean. In the title, Lintner refers to the Indian Ocean as ‘India’s Ocean’. This formulation is likely to be contested by other powers with stakes in the Indian Ocean. Nonetheless, the book would be useful for scholars, journalist and policymakers interested in the Indian Ocean, India’s naval strategy and evolving India-China competition.
Sankalp Gurjar
Research Fellow, Indian Council of World Affairs, New Delhi
ALLAHU AKBAR: Understanding the Great Mughal in Today’s India by Manimugdha S. Sharma. Bloomsbury India, 2019.
‘Let not difference of religion interfere with policy and be not violent in inflicting retribution.’
– Emperor Akbar’s instruction in his letter to Prince Murad on the latter’s taking charge of Malwa, September 1591; The Akbarnama, Vol III.
TO chronicle the life of a 16th century emperor who has been transformed into an adjective in the 21st century is a difficult task that requires enormous empathy; for the subject as well as his times and circumstances. Akbar’s name is near-synonymous with that (now) much derided term ‘secularism’, his rule and reign casually labelled a genocide while the party-in-government’s ‘national spokesperson, Shaina NC, compared the Mughal Emperor to Hitler in 2015.’ To explain the context in which Akbar ruled, to an audience and generation copiously fed the popular fiction of revisionist ‘histories’, as a substitute for an evidence-based, positive history, seems an exercise in futile belligerence. Yet, that is precisely what Manimugdha Sharma sets out to do in his reflections on the life of Akbar, the third Mughal emperor who succeeded to the Mughal throne in 1555 and reigned until his death in 1605.
Akbar’s impact on modern India was provably for better rather than worse, a point vociferously argued against by some, if not the majority of the doyens of right wing revisionist history. Yet, that Akbar ushered in a cultural renaissance and laid the pre-modern foundations of the Indian state is spectacularly evident in the historical record, even by the admittance of his own detractors.
The worryingly persuasive ‘quick-fix’ formulas for ‘educating’ mass discourse about Mughal history, through social media, populistic television serials and some hastily assembled articles in online journals and their impact is what Sharma tries to correct through his very timely book. The aim of the book is conveniently provided for in the sub-title to the book, ‘Understanding the Great Mughal in Today’s India’, with ‘todays India’ being the audience the author wishes to address and inform. As the author of the work himself states in the introduction, ‘I realise today why there is such a smear campaign on against Akbar and the Mughals – they were never fully studied or talked about even in the universities. And even though Akbar has been omnipresent in folk tales, comic books and even serious academic works, he isn’t really visible to all at a conscious level. And what’s not visible or properly understood is often ridiculed, dehumanised and violently rejected.’
The author correctly laments the bizarre but recurring fallacy so many people believe in, which equates all Islamic rule in India with Mughal rule and cannot distinguish the difference between a Mamluk and a Khilji or a Tughlaq or a Timurid. The consequences of clubbing all these various dynasties into one medieval Indian whole are the obvious pre-judices Sharma seeks to dispel. His is an intellectually honest response to a prevailing dishonesty about historical facts and characters – which combats a sense of prevailing perceived injustices forming a substitute for historical knowledge. As Sharma seeks to demolish these myths which perpetuate historical discord, albeit superficially, he attempts to do so by addressing current controversies such as cow slaughter, bigotry, accusations of religious genocides using historical evidence. The boldest example of this is his deployment of Sultan Mahmud of Ghazni – that most hated figure of nationalist-supremacist ideologues – who, as the author explains, ‘had minted a coin in 1018 that had on its obverse an inscription in Sanskrit that read, "Avyaktam ekam Muhammadah avatarah nripati Mahmudah".’ Translated by Sharma as ‘Muhammad is the avatar of the Infinite One (god) while Mahmud is the king.’ Citations of several such ‘intellectual efforts that reinterpreted Islam from a local perspective’ highlight Vedic Hinduism’s present-day latent insularity while providing us with insights into the layers of history, so accessible and yet unexplored.
What Sharma is at pains to highlight, through the course of his book, is the importance of context – of time, period, and epoch. This and therefore questions of (and answers to) causality is central to this work and addresses, as the author himself says, ‘…those new detractors of Akbar who bash him up on television studios and in the Twitter world without bothering to check if they are talking about a medieval Indian emperor or some 20th century tinpot dictator.’Sharma’s reliance on primary sources, principally Abul Fazl’s Akbarnama and Abdul Qadir Badauni’s Muntakhab-ut-Tawarikh, stand him in good stead when confronting contemporary biases about Mughal historiography in general. How else would latter-day ‘weekend historians’ (as the author calls them), know that even a prejudiced court chronicler like Badauni, who may even be accused of bigotry at times – he once referred to Raja Birbal as ‘that bastard!’ – commented on the valour and bravery of Akbar’s Rajput adversaries without bias.
Though Jiziya, Jauhar and the Jesuits all receive attention in this sweeping work, if for a student of Mughal history the endless comparisons and constant juxtapositioning with modern India appears tiresome, it is only because Sharma has himself made a great effort to explain complex historical dynamics to a cantankerous readership through simple, parable-like, contemporary political context and circumstance. Purists will no doubt squirm at the Gujarat Sultanate in the 16th century being described as ‘an "achhe din" state.’ Yet, what can better explain the militarily robust and financially secure Sultanate of Gujarat to a modern and critical Indian audience than this phrase, which now forms part of colloquial parlance in India? An audience that exhibits a ‘medieval impulse’, while bumping up its leader as a ‘Hindu Hriday Samrat’, as the author points out, without acknowledging the impulse of modernity, or the streams which created it.
And while the author disses populist expostulations in popular language using popular and easily recognized symbols and appeals throughout the book, he adroitly pursues the course and contours of Mughal politics without becoming distracted by these constant punctuations of allusions to contemporary politics. His treatment and rendition of the revolts of the Mirzas and other parallel rebellions Akbar faced in the 1560s and ’70s are second to none and are given a scholarly treatment. His historical characters are well crafted and appear as great supporting cameos who stand their ground even against the references to popular, living politicians. The Safavid Shah Tahmasp is presented in all the glory (and pettiness) one would expect a sandwiched monarch of 16th century Persia to display. The research behind seminal events, such as the siege of Chittorgarh (1568), the conquest of Gujarat (1573) and the subjugation of Bengal (1575) is compelling and some of the references rare which only adds to the value of this work.
Although – as is the case with most students and scholars of the Akbari dispensation – there is a temptation to address the concept of Din-i-Ilahi, the author is not needlessly distracted by this intellectual red herring and rightly focuses on the more grounded realities of Akbar’s Ibadat Khana, his ‘Infallibility Decree’ the Mahzar and that most valuable contribution of Akbar to Indian philosophical thought; Sulh-i-Qul.
Yusuf A. Ansari
Author and Director of Experiences, The SUJÁN Life
