TheDaak review

Bad Environmentalism: Irony and Irreverence in the Ecological Age

Bad Environmentalism: Irony and Irreverence in the Ecological Age by Nicole Seymour, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2018, 320 Pages, 13.97×1.78×21.59cm, ISBN 9781517903893, ₹2,573 (Paperback)

by Sushant Kumar Chakaria

Ever since their existence on this planet, humans have been negotiating relationships with almost every facet of the natural world. These relationships vacillate between the noble pursuit of mutual coexistence and the discordant projects of outright pillage. Environmental advocates, scholars, and concerned thinkers have been cautioning humanity about the ferocity of penalties for breaching their pact of mutual sustenance with nature, be it water contamination, air pollution, ‘once-natural’ disasters, shifting climate patterns, or the behemoth of all, the looming dread of an apocalypse. The efforts to reinvigorate ecological commitment facilitate the formation of certain conventions that stipulate how we should look at the environment and living creatures and what emotions should guide our relations with them. However, what constitutes these ‘proper emotions’ and what if we don’t experience them? Can we cultivate ecological reflexivity without complying with the standards of environmentalism as it is commonly understood?

By raising these perplexing questions, Nicole Seymour, an American writer, endeavours to make us comfortable with those forms of ecological zeal that make us uncomfortable, if not furious. Seems oxymoronic, but the author has spared no effort in this attempt. Her book Bad Environmentalism: Irony and Irreverence in the Ecological Age (2018) marks a critical intervention in mainstream environmentalism. It unravels how exclusive the church of environmentalism can be. The author exposes how it privileges the white, middle-class, heterosexual, cisgender, and able-bodied subject, along with the sensibilities associated with them. Proclivities for sentimental and apocalyptic tones tend to have a hegemonic influence in environmentalist texts, art and activism, and “guilt, shame, didacticism, prescriptiveness, sentimentality, reverence, seriousness, sincerity, earnestness, sanctimony, self-righteousness, and wonder” (p.4-5) are treated as the indices of ecological consciousness. In the dominion of these ‘proper’ environmental emotions, any dissident form is treated as nothing short of sedition. Seymour offers a critique of the tendency of ecocritics and the scholarship of environmental humanities to evaluate all other literary and artistic creations through these mainstream sensibilities, thereby endorsing and reproducing the biases undergirding them.

Drawing upon the insights from both queer theory and affect theory, she forges her concept of ‘Bad Environmentalism’ defining it as an “environmental thought that employs dissident, often-denigrated affects and sensibilities to reflect critically on both our current moment and mainstream environmental art, activism, and discourse” (p.6). There are, of course, compelling arguments for the utility of fear, the need for seriousness, as well as the value of reverence in cultivating environmental engagement. However, complex, ambivalent and even ‘bad’ feelings may also emanate in response— perhaps all the way more if one is part of a marginalised population (read chapter 4, for instance). Seymour tests the effectiveness of such ‘improper’ feelings and responses for creating  “new modes of resistance, new forms of community, and new opportunities for inquiry into the environmental crisis” (p.24).

Seymour’s ingenuity lies in her approach of neither seeking to establish bad environmentalism as a contender to the hegemonic strand of environmentalism nor concurring with the idea of yielding to its dominance. Her endeavour is not to explain the goodness of the ‘bad’ ecological affects, but she challenges the hostility between the ‘good’ and the ‘bad’. 

The book canvasses a range of under-examined ‘bad environmentalist’ works and performs an intriguing engagement with them. Her archive spans animation, documentary, fiction film, performance art, poetry, prose fiction, social media, and stand-up comedy. The span of her collection may seem arbitrary, but she skillfully spreads the web far and wide to speak to a wide range of scholars and disciplines. Even though her archive primarily engages with the Western environmentalist tradition, Seymour acknowledges that a critique of Western environmentalism comes from the non-Western world as well. Nevertheless, her volume does provide room for the under-represented viewpoints within the Western world, including those of LGBTQIA+ individuals, people of colour or those belonging to the working class.

The book is divided into five chapters, each of which sets up a case for illuminating some ‘bad’ affects. The first chapter explores the celluloid landscape and analyses some environmentally-themed films which deviate from the popular expectations for ecocinema. The author suggests that climate change scepticism and denialism arise from prevalent tendencies within ecocinema, such as a lack of humour, its demanding nature, and an excessive emphasis on expert knowledge. Films such as Hannes Lang’s documentary Peak (2011) and Mike Judge’s dystopian comedy Idiocracy (2006) deride the sanctimony of the ‘experts’ of environmental knowledge. Although Seymour underscores the public animosity directed at the didactic nature of this expertise, she falls short of elaborating upon the politics of knowledge. Why are people not able to associate with that ‘expert knowledge’ about the environment? Is it because such expertise feels alien to them? What constitutes ‘expert knowledge’? Is this nobility premised upon the subversion of alternative knowledge systems, especially those originating from marginalised communities or regions? The author fails to theoretically honour these complexities and the power dynamics behind knowledge.

The second chapter explicates recent perversions made by the dissident sensibilities in the domain of wildlife programming. The mainstream environmentalists expound that “love and reverence are key to investment in the nonhuman world and that the aesthetically pleasing, sociable, and heteronormative aspects of nonhuman animals are the strongest basis for arguments on their behalf” (p.35). If one were to ask how often we see a poster on ‘Save Lions’ that portrays homosexual lions, we would likely be utterly surprised, or in some cases, even disgusted. Most of us, if not all, hadn’t even thought about the homosexuality of lions until an image from a Kenyan forest went viral. Televised series like Wildboyz (2003-6) and Green Porno (2008-9) circumvent this traditional and biased approach by portraying the queerest behaviours of nonhuman animals. Seymour extends her colloquy on sexuality and environmentalism in the third chapter, building upon the arguments from her previous book Strange Natures: Futurity, Empathy, and the Queer Ecological Imagination (2013). She unravels how queer ‘bad environmentalists’ challenge the heteronormative depiction of the natural world through their sardonic performances.

The last two chapters of the book deal with the intersection of environmentalism with race and class, respectively.  In the fourth Chapter, the author repudiates the stereotypical tropes of the ‘ecological Indian’ and ‘urban Afro-American’. The portrayal of the Natives as sentimental, tolerant and always connected to nature puts a double load of the expectations for environmental conservation and the perils of environmental degradation on their shoulders. These images restrict Native individuals to socio-political acceptance only when they conform to this historical archetype. Furthermore, as nature is often seen as conquerable, this classification can inadvertently place Native people within that category as well. Humour is hereby made incompatible with deep thought about Indigenous people and even suggested to be racist in and of itself—or, at least, the exclusive province of whites (p.158). On the contrary, the immigrant Afro-Americans have to grapple with the guilt of alleged ecological negligence. Seymour shows through her archive how the Native Americans and the Afro-Americans wield ‘bad’ affective modes as a critique to the Western stereotypes about their identities, which she calls “racialised environmental affect” (p.36). 

The last chapter elucidates how environmentalism can be ‘classed’ in the sociological sense of the term. The act of demonstrating one’s environmental dedication through the purchase of expensive eco-friendly products is perceived as a means to fulfil middle-class aspirations. Eco-friendly perfectionism is considered a desired goal, and failing to achieve this goal leads to the fear of being labelled as ‘trashy’ or ‘low-cultured’. In discussing various shows that ridicule this eco-friendly perfectionism and depict ‘trashy’ or low-class environmentalism, Seymour advocates for “gleeful hypocrisy as an antidote to anxious perfectionism” (p.37). While the author fleshes out the relationship between consumerism and environmentalism, her discussion does not adequately address the broader class dynamics underpinning these relationships. Are these consumption trends solely driven by ecological awareness, or do specific groups like corporate firms have vested interests in forging connections between ecological perfectionism and class status to expand their profits? Furthermore, consumers are expected to demonstrate their eco-friendly commitment, but are these firms themselves truly committed to their ecological claims? This chapter falls short of encompassing the issue of greenwashing, which is a significant concern in this context.

Seymour has performed extensive theoretical labour, but her way of diving deep into the critical theories unfamiliar to mainstream environmentalists doesn’t overwhelm the reader; instead, it is funny and enjoyable. She makes frequent strides between the seriousness of academic texts, which she herself derides, and a preoccupation with the bad modes, including sardonic wit, frivolity and humour. However, there are some instances where her arguments appear to be contradictory or self-defeating. Seymour claims to represent an environmentalist tradition which is “non-normative, self-reflexive, and non-instrumentalist” (p.7). Nonetheless, she ends up explaining bad environmentalism in terms where the non-instrumentalist imperative feels neglected. Moreover, although she admits the limitations of her archival plain, she occasionally overlooks the caveats and tries to make broader generalisations relying on her limited theoretical foundations. 

Notwithstanding these shortcomings, the author has advanced a compelling proposal to make the environmentalist canon more inclusive and self-reflexive. It gives accreditation to the diverse, imaginative modes of responding to the unprecedented scale of ecological depredations. Moreover, it serves as a reminder to avoid being entranced by the seemingly homogenous lump of ‘Anthropocene’ or ‘Anthropocentrism’. There is a need to inquire whether this uniform mass shrouds the marginalisation of the heterogeneous ‘others’. Here, it is imperative to realise that recognising ‘others’ does not necessitate ‘othering’. Instead,  it should catalyse a transformation in our stereotypical perceptions of ‘others’.  Environmentalism is not a monolithic praxis; instead, it consistently finds itself at the juncture of complexities, differences and boundaries. Bad Environmentalism aims to refocus attention on and embrace this intersection.

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Misreading the Bengal Delta: Climate Change, Development and Livelihoods in Coastal Bangladesh

Misreading the Bengal Delta: Climate Change, Development and Livelihoods in Coastal Bangladesh by Camelia Dewan, Seattle, University of Washington Press, 2021, Paperback, 245 Pages, ISBN: 9780295749617, US$30

By Md Rahamatullah

Geographically, Bangladesh is situated in a unique location which is very disaster-prone. It is home to three river systems- the Ganges, the Brahmaputra, and the Meghna. Due to its geological characteristics, studying Bangladesh through climate change has become a dominant methodology for scholars, development agencies, Government Organizations (GOs), and International Non-Governmental Organizations (INGOs). Bangladesh introduced a ‘Ground Zero’ for climate catastrophe^, which portrays it as a ‘basket case’ and is used as a laboratory for development practices. This climate catastrophe is justified by its ecological and demographic characteristics: Bangladesh is a highly populated delta near the Bay of Bengal. It has led to the understanding that Bangladesh will turn into a climate refugee because of the rising sea level, as low-lying areas will drown, and people will flee due to floods. Is this the only storyline behind Bangladesh? 

In Misreading the Bengal Delta, Camelia Dewan presents different stories about Bangladesh’s climate change. She discusses how development discourse and climate change are produced and how it impacts the people in the coastal area of Sundarbans. Dewan convincingly discloses the larger political economy of climate change in Bangladesh. The state and various donor agencies come into contact to implement various policies in coastal Bangladesh and represent it as “capitalist assemblages” of various NGOs, donor agencies, and development organisations to achieve capitalist motive (p. 97). This book is based on extensive ethnographic fieldwork. She uses ethnography work in the South West coastal zone on the Bangladesh side of the Sundarbans. As a field site, she works in Khulna and Satkhira districts. In her works, she uses participant observations, in-depth interviews, and oral histories along with archival research. She conducts fieldwork with landless women, farmers (especially shrimp farmers), various donor agencies, policymakers, and research consultants. Through her ethnographic works, she develops a conceptual framework of ‘climate reductive translations’ (p. xi).  This conceptual framework shows ‘… how the development industry tends to simplify the complexities of a wetlands delta in ways that may exacerbate environmental risks and the vulnerability of the people it seeks to help’ (p. 4). 

This book has seven chapters, including  an introduction and a conclusion; the remaining five are the main chapters. The title of the first chapter is “Simplifying Embankments”. Here, she gives an environmental history of the coastal area of Bangladesh. It deals with contemporary climate change adaptation debates by historicising the British colonial intervention in the coastal area of Sundarbans. In this chapter, Dewan argues that the embankment project was undertaken long before climate change. This embankment project is identified as a ‘development problem for Bangladesh’ (p. 46). ‘Development brokers’ such as donors, NGOs, consultants, and government bodies portrayed flood as the cause of climate change, wherein embankment is the only solution. By contrast, Dewan says the embankment project is a problem. It creates water logging, one of the major causes of floods in the coastal Sundarbans.

The title of the second chapter is ‘Translating Climate Change’. I found this is the most important chapter where she critically deals with the politics of climate change knowledge production. Here, she uses ‘reductionism’ as a conceptual framework and fits it into climate change as a ‘climate reductive translation’. She refers to ‘translation’ as how development brokers make their project real and logical for generating their own interest… “that is, create causal narratives linking development interventions to the policy theory of climate change” (p. 50).  Through this approach, development brokers simplified all projects under the umbrella of climate change. They use climate change as the ‘most amazing spice’ (masala) (p. 55) and as a ‘metacode’ (p. 61). All the projects like poverty alleviation, emancipation of women, and embankment projects were converted into climate change projects. As a ‘spice’ or ‘metacode’, climate change helps to attract donor funding. This process also helps the development brokers to get access to the state’s various policies, agenda formation, and implementation.

In the third chapter, “Assembling Fish, Shrimp, and Suffering in a Saltwater Village”, and the fourth chapter, “Entangling Rice, Soil, and Strength in a Freshwater Village”, Dewan talks about shrimp farming and high-yield agricultural produce and the use of toxic pesticides in the field. In the saltwater village, government and developmental agencies promote brackish aquaculture as a part of ‘the blue revolution’ (p. 80). In the 1980s, the Bangladesh government, along with foreign funds, promoted the shrimp industry as ‘white gold’ (p. 80). Various NGOs and government agencies encouraged shrimp farming as a climate change adaptation tool for the people. People mostly prefer the intrusion of saline water from the river, which is considered ideal for shrimp farming.  Given this situation, shrimp farming is one of the major causes for increasing salinity levels in the water bodies and soil in the Sundarbans region. Dewan argues that development brokers do not focus on it because of the larger political economy of shrimp cultivation. Some people are also against shrimp cultivation. As a part of the green revolution, the coastal people of Sundarbans (particularly in freshwater villages) focus on paddy cultivation. Here also, developmental agencies are cleverly destroying this area’s soil and environment. They use ‘climate reductive translation of food security and higher yield as adaptation tool’ (p. 125). They directly and indirectly encourage modern technology, artificial irrigation, chemicals, hybrid seeds, and fertilisers. The introduction of modern technology in the agricultural sector with the intensification of commercialisation in agriculture has turned the environment and food into commodities (p. 126). This is how development brokers destroy the ecology, environment, and agriculture through climate change adaptation policy in the coastal areas of Bangladesh. Jeson Cons (2018) also stated the same. In Bangladesh, donor agencies’ climate adaptation can be conceptualised as a Foucauldian conception of ‘heterodystopia’ – a concept that Cons offers as a means to analytically diagnose the relationships between these spaces and imaginations of a dystopian future to come. Likewise, Paprocki and Huq (2018) argue that funding in climate change creates an ‘adaptation regime,’ a socially and historically specific configuration of power that governs the landscape of possible intervention in the face of climate change. It is primarily built on a vision of development where urbanisation and export-led growth are both desirable and inevitable. This ‘adaptation regime’ governs the landscape of the deltaic Sundarbans and its people, which entails agrarian disposition and migration. On the other hand, climate change projects are treated like anti-political machines. 

In chapter five, “Surviving Inequality,” Dewan discusses mostly how NGO intervention presents local people as ‘beneficiaries’ despite facing constant threats of natural disasters and man-made disasters. She argues that the people of this area are vulnerable to climate change and various levels of precarity, such as economic polarisation among the people and patriarchal oppression that oppresses women.

Dewan is one of the pioneers who is working on the discourse of climate change in the Bangladesh side of Sundarbans. I was brought up in the village of Sundarbans. I never thought about the politics of developmental interventions. This book has helped me think critically about the scholarship of climate change and development in Sundarbans.  Yet, this book has some shortcomings. This book is mainly based on the lower delta regions. I do not want to say this is a shortcoming, but it has further scope to explore more on upper delta and politics of climate change and development discourse. As a person belonging to  the Sundarbans area, I have observed that Dewan successfully did not touch upon the class relations and the impact of climate change and development discourse. She mainly focused on only poor women. There exist multiple classes in this area. The level of vulnerability is not the same for all classes of people in the Sundarbans area.  Also, I politely disagree with her when she says in the fifth chapter that people are extremely vulnerable in this area. Their resilience capacities are notable in everyday life as they constantly face or encounter the negative impact of salinity from paddy fields to drinking water, frequent storms and cyclones, high tidal surges of saline water,  extreme scarcity of usable water and the overall negative impact of climate change. In such challenging circumstances, they still find a way to survive in that place by learning how to adapt to every given situation. They are continuously making their habitat and building their life with the rhythm of the place. Without taking into account all those facts, it is too simple to say the people of the coast are vulnerable.

Another thing of  interest to me in this book is that the author is vehemently critical of the dominant discourse of climate change and development brokers, arguing that development brokers use climate change as a spice for attracting donor agencies. Yet she says, “I used climate change as a masala (spice) and obtained several funding offers for my research” (p. 55). She seems to be weaponising the climate change discourse by clapping with the development discourse in her scholarship. Nonetheless, Dewan’s work is very significant. Her work on climate change in coastal areas is an exercise on structural violence of knowledge production because she is against the dominant developmental scholarship of climate change in Sundarbans. She does not want to put her scholarship on climate change in the development brokers’ shoes. Her scholarship on climate change goes beyond how the development regime defines climate change. Finally, I would like to propose an area of further interest. In her work, she shows how a hegemonic structural policy is constructed through the state and various international agencies. I wonder if only the local people of Khulna division make solidarity within and among themselves, then what kind of strategic policies can emerge in the climate change and development discourse in the Sundarbans delta?

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The Greater Common Good

Book: The Greater Common Good by Arundhati Roy,  India Book Distributor (Bombay) Ltd., 1999, 72,  ISBN 10: 8173101213  ISBN 13: 9788173101212.

By Ankita Ojha

 “It is a war for the rivers, mountains, forests of the world”

Roy 1999:29.

The Greater Common Good is compelling, thoughtful and provocative writing that not only problematises the contemporary debates on ‘development’ but also enables us to question the anti-democratic character of the Indian state. The book critically analyses the use of terminologies such as ‘national interest’, ‘common good’, and ‘modern’ as a rhetorical tool to legitimise specific developmental goals. However, its darker, mostly inhumane, anti-democratic site leaves millions of lives deranged. 

Roy captures the struggle against the Narmada dam in particular, although one can draw several parallels with the exhaustive accounts of complex realities of displacement, dispossession and vulnerabilities elsewhere. The book broadly engages with the political economy of dam construction and the politics of developmental aid by taking recourse to interviews, documents, reports, and narratives woven together with utmost sincerity, compassion and affection for the subject. 

Roy argues that there are two broad yet crude categories into which public perception of development is divided. On the one hand, we have “modern, rational, progressive forces of development” in contrast to “Anti-Development resistance fuelled by the arcadian, pre-industrial dream”(Roy 1999:4). On the other hand, there are Nehruvian vs. Gandhian ideological cannons. Roy eloquently keeps a distance from both and asserts her position as ‘no anti-development junkie’ or a ‘city-basher,’ having known “the isolation, inequity and potential savagery in villages,” (Roy 1999:2). Roy insists on focusing on “specific facts about specific issues in the specific valley” (Roy 1999:3). Understanding specificity stands for knowing the history of the space, its geography, its tradition, people’s ways of living and their multiferous-everyday relationship with Nature. She argues that the most effective weapon of ‘specificity’ is constantly dismantled by favouring homogenised big frames catering to the ideas of a handful of activists and emotionally charged media that ultimately forgo the diverse yet specific character of ‘Peoples struggle/resistance’.

Instead of theoretically examining the normative claims of pro/anti-dam supporters, Roy focuses on the ‘details’, ‘chronology’ and ‘parallel histories’ of the big dam construction under the tutelage of development. She argues that development is not a pre-conceived linear idea but always engulfs the question of ‘choices’, and one needs to be simultaneously aware of the accompanying political choices that decide Who wins/loses. What cost is paid by whom? Who benefits from what? 

The debate over the dam cannot be presented as a singular question but as a complex web of substantial issues about the nature of multi-layered Indian Democracy that encircles the faith of millions. The most pressing question in democracies revolves around the claims of ownership, distribution and redistribution of natural resources. Roy wonders, “Who really owns this land, its Rivers, its Forests?” (Roy 1999:3). The State enjoys popular legitimacy by becoming a flagbearer of the principle of the common (however not so common) good. Theoretically speaking, it reflects the aspirations of a Nation, unlike individual interests and enjoys legitimacy through power, dominance and leadership. Therefore, the onus of answering these questions of ownership lies with the state and its emissaries, such as the police, the bureaucracy, and the courts. Surprisingly, these components of the state apparatus produce unambiguous answers in one voice, maintaining the status quo and rewarding/protecting elites, neglecting the complexity and precarity of others. 

Through the dam project, the state apparatus penetrates deep into village life and alters its political economy. Roy provocatively writes, “India does not live in her villages. India dies in her villages”(Roy 1999:15). Villages act as periphery in service of the cities and are consistently exploited to revive the cities. Leaders, through their speeches, have created a delusional mystification and romanticisation of the village as a centre sanatorium of the state. The villagers do not constitute an active category of citizens/stakeholders in decision-making. However, villages are treated as experimental rats whose faith is enclosed in state registers created by Global/National ‘Experts’. The ‘Experts’, however, do not constitute a single group, which Roy fails to recognise. As she mentioned, the World Bank Committee report of experts explicitly stated the ‘exclusion of human and environmental conditions’ in the planning of a Multi-Purpose dam. It was the intervention of specialists that gave concrete examples of the devastating ecological changes these dams can bring. 

She unravelled the irony of Indian democracy, which has a thorough Land Acquisition Act of 1894 (amended in 1984) but does not have a National Rehabilitation policy. Therefore, Roy writes that the Indian Government is not legally bound to provide a displaced person anything but cash compensation, which ultimately gives a clean chit to carry forward accumulation by dispossession. The banal way in which cash compensation is awarded to a minuscule number of formal property holders, discarding a wide spectrum of the tribal populace living there for decades and centuries, is like putting a price tag on a few who have access to legal documents. The otherwise vast populace is stripped of living their natural life in their natural habitat. They are variegated from resources belonging to ‘the nation’, not particularly them as citizens. They are the ‘others’ of the state, unlike those prospering citizens who are the nation’s Real stakeholders. The ‘others’ are the lost, unknown, erased figures in the politics of numbers. Despite having profound-statistically detailed figures about the economy, the government of India failed to estimate the people displaced by Dams or relinquished in the name of ‘National Progress’. Roy asks, without knowing how much it costs and who is paying for it, how can progress be measured?. 

One is moved to question who these displaced people are and where they go after being dispossessed/displaced. The Commission for Scheduled Castes and Tribes reported that almost 60% were tribals among the displaced populace. “The great majority is eventually absorbed into slums on the periphery of our great cities”(Roy 1999:12). They constitute a pool of cheap labour living in poor conditions with heightened insecurity. The ethnic ‘otherness’ of the victims became quite evident. One recognises how these ‘others’ of the nation are subsidising the lifestyles of the richest. 

The myth of ‘local pain for national gain’ has become common knowledge, leading to the abandonment of big dams worldwide. Dams today are not considered as the pinnacle of modern civilisation but rather as a cemetery for the poor, disenfranchised and dispossessed populace. However, despite this, India has emerged as the third-largest dam builder in the world. To answer this puzzle, Roy navigates the politics of development aid. One of the primary reasons to carry forward multipurpose Dam constructions has to do with the availability of easy access to loans from the World Bank in the form of developmental aid. Aid is widely accepted by the sages of neo-colonialism who have extreme faith in linear progression like the West. However, as James Ferguson writes, the net effect of such development is the strengthening of bureaucratic power and “de-politicization” of the questions on resource allocation. The politics of ‘aid’ and ‘debt’ are proportional. Roy argues that India is in a situation where it pays more than it takes from the bank. According to the World Bank Report (1993-1980), India paid $1.475 billion more than it received. The widely served instrumental goal of greater common good served by Aid, often bereft of moral concerns, ends up doing greater harm than good to the general populace however, on the other hand, it increases the net worth of elites, which economists might call as state-enabled capitalism circus.  

Roy contends, “The Indian State is not a state that has failed”-It is a state that has succeeded impressively in what it set out to do”—the redistribution in favour of elites (Roy 1999: 14). Roy argues that the ‘state’ is not the solution but part of the problem or, precisely, the creator of the problem. She moves further and critically examines the concept of an overstretched state and argues that the state in itself is duly responsible for creating structures that not only produce poverty but also act as an instrument to ‘pit poor against the very poor’ while elites reign. They are the Government’s way of accumulating authority “A brazen means of taking a farmer’s wisdom, water, land, irrigation from him and gifting it to the rich”(Roy 1999:7).

Narmada is not a case of isolation or reality of a particular place from which one must take lessons but a part of the alleged development pattern followed throughout the Globe. Unlike scientists, the failed experiments continue to be repeated in the state’s developmental Lab to buttress the ego and pockets of ‘experts’. Millions of people’s lives are straight-jacketed in closed containers of numerical assumptions and technical details based on limited data. Roy engages briefly with the tale of big Dams worldwide, encounters the same stories, and discovers that the same actors are involved everywhere, inflicting the same kind of violence. A Nexus of politicians, bureaucrats and dam construction companies, which Roy calls ‘the Iron Triangle’, cemented by institutions such as the World Bank. The rhetoric remains the same, enshrining the ‘greater common good’ of the nation. She calls upon the hypocrisy of the Western world- who march against human rights violations in countries like China but wipe their hands off while cashing on the mass displacement of millions of people during dam construction. 

The Narmada Valley dam project, widely known as ‘the greatest environmental disaster’, laid naked the inability of our system to provide social and environmental justice. The dam submerged biodiversity, and wide forests comprising of teak, bamboo, and agricultural land and ultimately led to food insecurity, soil erosion, surface water pollution, groundwater depletion and a large-scale disturbance to hydro and geological systems. Despite the historic failure of such projects, the obsession with dams continues to play in the corridors of political leadership. In the era of the Anthropocene, where humans have gained an enormous capacity to impact nature as never before, large dam constructions are causing irreversible environmental damage by making life more vulnerable and risk-ridden. It is high time to rethink theories such as de-growth, feminist environmentalism, sacred ecologies and Buddhist economics laying principles of ‘small is beautiful’ and many more to see the feasibility of ecologically sensible, pro-people development.

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The Hungry Tide

The Hungry Tide: by Amitav Ghosh, London, HarperCollins, Published: 2004, 402 pages, ISBN: 9780007141777, ₹399

By Shreyasi Dan

The Hungry Tide, published in 2004, is the fourth book by the Indian-born novelist Amitav Ghosh. It is set in the unique ecological region of Sundarbans, the world’s largest Mangrove forest. It covers around 10,000 sq. km of area, mostly composed of thousands of islands of varying sizes, stretching between the Indian state of West Bengal and Bangladesh. In the words of Nirmal from the book, ‘The islands are the trailing threads of India’s fabric, the ragged fringe of her sari, the ãchol that follows her, half wetted by the sea.’ Its unique landscape, shaped by the ebb and flow of tides through the complex web of tidal rivers and narrow waterways, sprawling mangrove trees with intricate roots that emerge from the mud, the Sundarbans is a world in itself. The Hungry Tide covers a spectrum of themes, which include but are not limited to environmental degradation and the need for conservation, traditional knowledge vs. modern science, cultural clashes and identity, the impact of colonisation, displacement and a sense of belongingness. The central storyline of the book finally resonates with two major issues: first, the brutal treatment of the state against the marginalised communities due to the contradiction between traditional land use and government policies, and second, the vulnerability of the marginalised in the face of Nature’s destructive forces.  

There are two timelines in the novel. The one that runs in the present traces the narratives of Kanai Dutta, a business owner and translator coming from New Delhi and Piya Roy, an Indian-American cetologist, aka marine biologist who has come to the Tide country to study the rare Irrawaddy dolphins. The other timeline, of the 1970s, is intertwined with historical accounts of the colonial past (particularly the refugee crisis after the Partition) come from the journal of Kanai’s uncle Nirmal, who was involved in the cause of the Bengali refugees settled in Marichjhapi, an island in the Sundarbans. All these characters and the themes of the novel are intimately connected by Fokir, an illiterate local fisherman who possesses a deep understanding of the tidal lands and its waters. His character symbolises the harmony between humans and nature that is deeply embedded in the region’s culture. 

As the novel proceeds, one learns about how the community navigates their lives within the ecosystem, highlighting the interdependence and coexistence between humanity and the natural environment. The mangrove region has a significant influence on the character’s lives. Kanai’s uncle Nirmal was highly concerned about the vulnerability of humanity before the power of nature. One such notable instance would be that while telling the stories about past cyclones to young Fokir and inspecting the Bandh, the barrier made to protect the village from the wreck of a cyclone, Nirmal says, “how long can this frail fence last against these monstrous appetites — the crabs and the tides, the winds and the storms? And if it falls, who shall we turn to then, comrade? […] Neither angels nor men will hear us, and as for the animals, they won’t hear us either.” (p.172) Nirmal’s anxiety shows the helplessness of those living in the coastal villages of the Sundarbans and suggests almighty nature’s indifference to humanity. 

Although the author doesn’t talk directly about climate change in the book, the harsh reality of it is definitely expressed through the unexpectedly devastating cyclone that hits the region. Fokir and Piya, out on the creeks for their expedition, had to face the storm, and Fokir, using his body, saves Piya from the impact of the strong wind and debris, which finally takes a toll on his life. His death serves as a poignant moment that encapsulates the novel’s representation of nature’s power and the vulnerability of humans while also highlighting the strength and resilience of those who survive in the Sundarbans. 

Through the story, the author has shown that collaboration between traditional ecological knowledge and modern conservation efforts has the potential to yield great results. Piya finds Fokir on her very first day of exploration in the Sundarban waterways, and he later agrees to help her spot the Irrawaddy dolphin’s habitat. Although they spoke no common language, their silent communication reflected mutual respect for each other. Piya’s appreciation for Fokir’s skill and the importance of local wisdom for a deeper understanding of the Sundarbans created an amalgamation of various sources of knowledge when it comes to nature. Although Fokir had an untimely death, his knowledge and wisdom survived through the GPS device. Piya and Fokir’s interaction illustrates how cultural interactions and personal connections can transcend barriers, leading to mutual learning and growth. 

The novel paints a picture of environmental and social injustice towards the native population as well as displaced refugees in a post-colonial setting in the form of displacement, lack of access to education, healthcare, economic exploitations and cultural marginalisation. At the same time, the native populations have been portrayed as resilient and resourceful, and able to negotiate for their rights. The aftermath of British colonialism, Partition and the refugee crisis scarred both countries. After the Partition, many Hindu Bengalis, mostly belonging to the upper and middle class, fled East Pakistan and took refuge in West Bengal. Most of the marginalised Hindu lower caste people who came during the later phase of migration were sent to the rocky and inhospitable wastelands of Orissa, Madhya Pradesh and Chhattisgarh with an excuse that West Bengal could not accommodate more refugees.  Before coming to power, the Left was in support of resettling the migrants in West Bengal. However, their refugee policies changed after forming the government in 1977. These refugees, from marshy coastal wetland areas of East Bengal, resisted staying in the inhospitable barren areas of central India and started returning to Bengal (Jalais, 2005). 

A significant part of the novel talks about the Marichjhapi massacre of 1979, where with a violent clash, thousands of Bangladeshi migrant refugees who settled on the island after returning from central India, were forcefully evicted while many were allegedly killed by the erstwhile Left Front government of West Bengal. According to the government, the refugees violated the Forest Act by illegally occupying protected forest land, which is a part of the project to save tigers. Kusum, Fokir’s mother, who was a part of the Marichjhapi community, raised a pertinent question to Nirmal, ‘Who are these people, I wondered, who love animals so much that they are willing to kill us for them? [….] No one could think this a crime unless they have forgotten that this is how humans have always lived — by fishing, by clearing land and by planting the soil.’ 

It is well known and well documented that the man-eating tigers claim dozens of residents’ lives every year, and there are a few incidents of that in the novel as well. This neglect towards the needs of the marginalised in the name of ecological conservation has been done for decades. In the name of conserving natural resources, injustice towards the downtrodden population and disposing them of their life and livelihood by the state has been portrayed here. With his critical stand on the government, the author clearly tried to reinforce why the human rights approach must be embedded within the environmental approach for a sustainable future.  

A devoted Marxist, Nirmal could not stand the leftist government’s ideological betrayal towards the refugees and decided to directly engage with the local population for their cause. With the local realities of Marichjhapi, as Weik (2006) explains, Nirmal could rethink his abstract political views. As a postcolonial historian and an outsider, he started his journey in the Sundarbans as a school teacher at Lusibari and viewed the Sundarbans through an academic lens. His transformation from an outsider to an insider comes to an end with his death following the Marichjhapi massacre of 1979. His life’s journey illustrates how personal connections can reshape one’s sense of belonging. 

The concept of Topophilia, first propounded by Tuan (1990), is quite prominent in the novel. Topophilia talks about the attachment or an effective bond with a place or an environment. The story also proves that one can be topophilic even if they are not born in that region. It is very interesting to note that none of the main characters, including Fokir, were born in the Sundarbans, yet they have developed a close tie with the Tide country. The so-called outsiders like Kanai and Piya can be thought of as the representatives of the global cosmopolitan culture. But as the story proceeds, one can see how they also developed a sentiment with the place. In the end, from the epilogue, one gets to know about Kanai moving to Kolkata and of his plans to write a story from Nirmal’s diary. Piya decides to stay at Lusibari permanently and devote herself to a project for the conservation of the dolphins. Although there were a lot of international funds available, she expressed her desire to Nilima that she wanted the project to be under the sponsorship of Nilima’s Badabon Trust so that local fishermen could also benefit from it. This shows her eco-cosmopolitan views, which seek solutions to environmental injustice involving human as well as non-human needs at the local level (Weik, 2006). 

In conclusion, The Hungry Tide by Amitav Ghosh weaves together intricate narratives about environmental challenges, human relationships and culture. Set in the Sundarbans, the novel presents the story through the characters whose lives are deeply interwoven with the local environment. With Ghosh’s skilful exploration of postcolonial themes, as the characters navigate their individual journeys, there is no doubt that this powerful story will linger in the reader’s mind long after the final pages are turned. 

References

Jalais, A. (2005). Dwelling on Morichjhanpi: When tigers became ‘citizens’, refugees’ tiger-food’. Economic and Political Weekly, 1757-1762. 

Tuan, Y. F. (1990). Topophilia: A study of environmental perception, attitudes, and values. Columbia University Press.

Weik, A. (2006). The home, the tide, and the world: eco-cosmopolitan encounters in Amitav Ghosh’s The Hungry Tide. Journal of Commonwealth and Postcolonial Studies Vols, 13(14.1), 2006-2007.

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Paraja

Paraja by Gopinath Mohanty, translated by Bikram K. Das, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1997, 384 pages, ISBN: 9780195623918, Rs. 545

By Tahseen Fatima

“When there was no poison in the fresh air,

But only faith;

And no mosquitoes drank our blood,

And there were no snakes to bite our heels;

When there were no paths in the jungle for the outsider,

Jhodia shoulders carried no burdens except their own.

And when it was time to die,

They laid themselves down on land which they,

And not the outsider, possessed.

And in this land of hills and valleys, the earth belonged to the Jhodia,

And to nobody else” 

– Mohanty, 1987, p.94

Gopinath Mohanty’s Odiya novel Paraja and its English translation by Bikram K. Das is an ode to the Paraja tribe living in the hamlets across the Eastern Ghats, the roads that link to the towns of Koraput and Rayagada. The above song from the book contains within itself a vivid description of the tragic lives lived by the tribal communities. It describes their life amidst nature, hills, and valleys before outsiders, what Mohanty calls mosquitoes and snakes, launched an invasion to ‘drink their blood’ and ‘bite their heels’. Such an invasion brings death, destruction, and loss to the community that had stood the test of time. Paraja, written in 1945, is the tale of a family living their daily mundane lives with contentment and hope towards a better future. This hope gets attacked by the outside world as laws, and state administrators forcefully separate its inhabitants from nature. This separation does not make any sense to the people who have always lived in the jungles and considered its produce to be their own. This forced estrangement of humans from their natural surroundings gives us a glimpse of the upcoming destruction that would change forever the simple lives of a tribal family consisting of a patriarch and his four young children. 

Bikram K. Das notes that Gopinath Mohanty had spent a lifetime trying to understand the lives of the tribal communities living in the mountains and the forests. He belonged to a generation of writers to whom social commitment came naturally. Mohanty has told stories of the tribal communities through a variety of novels, among which Paraja stands as a testament that feels entirely contemporary. Mohanty was awarded the Jnanpith Award in 1974 and it was stated that “in Mohanty’s hands, the social is lifted to the level of the metaphysical” (Das, 1987, p. vi). Paraja transcends the boundaries of a fictional novel with its deep realist symbolism and tragic pessimism. The story begins with a description of the lush forests housing happy populations, singing and dancing in their age-old folk traditions. Soon this would become a tragic memory, not just in the story but also in the lives of many such tribal communities living in the vast expanse. “The blissful innocence of the tribal existence cannot endure: it is foredoomed” (p. vii).

Paraja consists of one hundred and fourteen chapters that take us to the hamlets of the eastern ghats and make us witness the rapid changes brought into the lives of a slow-living community. The conflict over ‘Jal-Jungle-Jameen’ between the actual inhabitants and the modern state apparatus leads us to the tragic end of the easy, peaceful, communitarian lives of the tribal folks, which underlines the backdrop of the story. The story revolves around Sukru Jani, who lives in the hamlet of Sarsupadar along with his two sons, Mandia and Tikra, and two daughters, Jilli and Billi. Sukru’s wife, Sombari was taken away by a man-eating tiger three years ago. He misses his wife, but as Das remarks, he finds the event comprehensible as it was a part of their lives. 

“What he cannot comprehend, however, is the infinitely convoluted process by which he and his children are transformed from free men into gotis or serfs, bound to the sahukar (moneylender) forever. He cannot comprehend why a man should be arrested and fined for cutting down trees in the jungle” (p. vii).

Sukru Jani is happy with his life and has envisioned a big and fulfilling future, with his sons and grandsons living and cultivating across the vast fields. This vision leads him to the forest guard to ask for his oral permission to cut down the jungle trees in order to convert the land into an agricultural plot where his sons could make their little huts. While the forest guard allows him to do so, he has sinister gains in his mind. The guard desires Jilli, Jani’s elder daughter, and wants to have her against their will. The guard cannot take their refusal and considers it to be disrespectful. He returns to the village with the state machinery and accuses Sukru Jani of illegally felling the trees of a preserved forest. The members of the tribal community have always been scared of the outside world and its laws and have lived under a constant threat of being accused of things that they do not even know. One can easily feel the loss of community and solidarity that has developed with this outside interference. When Sukru is accused, no other member of the community comes forward to bear witness to his innocence and the sly play of the guard. The family is fined “four score rupees” (Mohanty, 1987, p. 36), which marks the beginning of their slow destruction. 

Sukru, along with his younger son, Tikra, leaves for the sahukar’s house to convert themselves into gotis who shall work for the lord to arrange the fine amount. The sahukar represents the existence of exploitative feudal relations, where the time for which the father and the son are bound to him remains undetermined. In the due course of time, Mandia is accused of illegally distilling liquor without a license. He too gets a fine of fifty rupees. All these laws and concepts of illegality make no sense to a community that has always lived off natural produce. Liquor is a very important dietary substance in the lives of tribal populations who have to toil in difficult terrains. Liquor enables them to quench their hunger and tiredness and enables them to work. The accusation leads Mandia to the sahukar who is soon transformed into a goti as well. These men are forced to divorce their pristine ways of living their daily lives and are separated from their families and land. Sukru gets a chance to return to the village during the harvest festival, and the readers get a glimpse of sadness in the atmosphere surrounding the festivities. It is during this time that Mandia and Jilli’s prospective partners decide to ditch them and instead get married to each other. The loss of love, friendship, and companionship further pains the already disheartened and disturbed siblings. 

Jilli and Billi are left alone in their home and are unable to sustain themselves for a long time. They have to take up the work of migrant labourers and shift out of their village. While the newness of their surroundings fancies them, soon they realise their physical and sexual exploitation in the labour camps. They grow sad and lonelier day by day as they miss their life back in the jungles where women would assemble at the pond to bathe, talk, and fetch water. They sense alienation and a loss of their life and community in the outside world. While Sukru Jani mortgages his land to set himself free and gets back his daughters, he comes to understand that the landlord has no interest in returning his precious land. He initiates legal procedures against the lord but loses the battle as the villagers and magistrates are bribed against him and his case. In the meantime, a relationship develops between Jilli and the landlord much to her father’s dismay. After losing the case and his daughter to the landlord, Sukru Jani along with his sons decides to go to the lord and ask forgiveness as a last resort to bring an end to their miseries. The drama unfolds when Mandia loses his cool and raises his axe to bring down the sahukar’s head. The curtain drops with Jilli running away and the father and his sons surrendering at the local police station. 

Paraja is a story which shows that the entire ethos of a materialistic civilisation is based on encroaching upon and engulfing a primordial and elemental way of life. It is about the aboriginal tribes and their relationship with the nature that surrounds them. It reflects the harrowing changes that are experienced by marginalised communities. The story also provides interesting insights into several other themes. One notices that there exists absolute freedom experienced by the young folks to choose their partners and even run away, thus indicating their choice to get married. However, this choice is limited to people belonging to the same tribe. Sukru’s unhappiness is visible when he finds out about the developing relationship between Jilli and the sahukar. While the sahukar’s sinister plot cannot be forsaken in this understanding, a sense of patriarchal control over a woman’s sexual choice and agency looms large. Further, a sneering contempt for the dombs represents the hierarchies that exist even in these social settings. Sukru Jani’s dream of converting the forests into far and wide agricultural lands shows some form of insatiable greed that surrounds human beings. These intricacies prevent us from romanticising the jungle’s existence as absolutely egalitarian and give us a critical lens for understanding and situating the family’s lives.

Mohanty’s story writing has the capacity of transporting people to lands they have never visited. Paraja is a similar experience. The tone of the story makes one feel as if they are sitting beside the characters with red flowers in their hair, visiting the pond, plucking fresh produce, and cooking mango seed powder. One can sense the smells and the sounds of the village situated between the mountains. Mohanty showcases the ability to transform a story into a work of social awareness. The lives of certain communities are based upon the nature that surrounds them. Any attempt to distance their relationship is bound to bring death and destruction. The use of folk songs throughout the narrative brings a sense of calm and provides direction to the art of storytelling. Bikram K. Das states, “No translation can hope to capture the varied riches of Gopinath Mohanty’s Odiya prose, vigorously colloquial and forthright at one moment and sublimely effervescent and lyrical at the next” (Das, 1987, p. viii).

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The Archaeology of the Nātha Sampradāya in Western India, 12th to 15th Century

The Archaeology of the Nātha Sampradāya in Western India, 12^th to 15^th Century By Vijay Sarde, Routledge, 2023, 228 pages, Hardback, £120.00 GBP, ISBN: 978-1-032-21564-8

By Mihir Keshari

Nath Sampradaya as a distinct religious tradition might not be popularly unheard of, particularly after the rise of Yogi Adityanath as the chief minister of Uttar Pradesh in India. However, when one goes into details, the tradition remains as elusive as ever, given the incredible amount of diversity and variations that it encompasses together with continuous and often contradictory transformations throughout its history.

Nevertheless, to begin with, the Nath Sampradaya broadly represents a mediaeval Shaiva ascetic order, with its roots in Tantrism and a distinct type of yoga tradition possibly known  as Hathyoga. Philosophically and religiously the Nath tradition can be said to be linked to various cult-like traditions, namely Tantric, Yogic, Rasayana, Bhakti or Sufi religious currents. 

The uniqueness of the Nath tradition lies in the fact that unlike the popularly held assumption, which links spiritual quests in the Indian religious landscape with the attainment of liberation (moksha/nirvana), the Naths strived for the attainment of siddhi. Siddhi in a layman’s understanding can be thought of as the attainment of control over both the ‘natural’ and the ‘supernatural’. This is the picture that emerges from the legends associated with the Naths, where they’re shown as having control over rain, floods, diseases, epidemics and even death and the Gods. For the attainment of such siddhi, the Naths engaged in practices ranging from tantric, yogic to alchemical. It won’t be wrong to say that it was this supposed mastery over nature that separated Naths from the domain of the ‘natural’, and hence, made them the object of both fear and admiration, sought after by both kings and peasants alike. 

Modern academic engagement with the Nath Sampradaya has been long, though not sustained. Nonetheless, we do have considerable work on the Naths. Most of the present study on the Nath Sampradaya has been either ethnographic or literary-historical (for a detailed literature review on Nath Sampradaya see Bouillier, 2013 and 2017;  Mallinson, 2018). Archaeological studies regarding the Naths have been limited. Whatever studies we get are rather fragmentary and documentary in nature, concerned with collecting archaeological and epigraphical discoveries. Though some works such as that of M. N. Deshpande (1986) does exist. In his study, Deshpande tried to build a narrative by largely situating his study within the domain of archaeological material. However, his work exclusively focuses on the Western Indian archaeological site of Panehal Kaji. 

In this background the current book under review, The Archaeology of the Nātha Sampradāya in Western India, 12^th to 15^th Century Vijay Sarde, is of particular importance, given it happens to be among the first comprehensive study of the Nath Sampradaya through the use of archaeological data collated from more than 500 sites spread across Western India, though mostly situated in Maharashtra and Gujarat (p. 3). The book is divided into six chapters, with the first being the introduction on the history and tradition of the Nath Sampradaya, along with the methodological approach of the work and the existing literature on the topic. Sarde’s intent is to revisit and re-examine various ethnographic and text-based assumptions regarding the Nath Sampradaya through the use of diverse archaeological data ranging from architectural remains, sculptures to epigraphical material, in addition to early Marathi literature (pp. 2-3). The methodological approach within which Sarde situates his chapters, is the ‘Cultural Landscape’ model, which aims to understand temples and icons not through the prism of political affiliation or patronage but rather by seeing them as part of a larger cultural landscape (p. 3).

The second chapter is titled “Early Marathi Literature: Beginnings of the Nātha Tradition”. The prime aim of this chapter is to not only argue for an early institutionalisation of the Nath Sampradaya but to also situate Western India as a region that facilitated the emergence of the Nath Sampradaya along with its transmission to areas such as Eastern India and Nepal. 

The argument for early institutionalisation of the Nath Sampradaya in Western India is based on the analysis of Lilacharita and other early Marathi texts, as reflected in the usage of terms like ‘panthi’ in the early Marathi texts for Nath ascetics. Moreover, prominent identity markers, which are said to be characteristic of  the Naths such as sringi, mudra, khapari and a distinctive style of salutation, are shown to be already present in  Nath ascetics found in early Marathi literature. These, as per Sarde, demonstrate the early institutionalisation of the Naths. 

The third chapter titled, “The Archaeological Evidence: Sacred Landscapes in Western India”, bases its analysis on the archaeological and architectural remains of Western India, including temple remains, sculptural depictions and cave engravings. This chapter aims to trace the geographical spread of the Nath Sampradaya in Western India, by situating it within the evolutionary archaeological terrain, in a bid to showcase the ways through which earlier diverse religious traditions which existed and operated within the same cultural landscape such as that of the Pasupata-Kalmukhas, Kapalikas, Tantric and Yogic traditions contributed towards the formation of a distinctive Nath tradition. 

The next chapter titled, “The Iconography of Devotion: Images of Nātha Yogis in Context”, presents a detailed iconographical study of sculptures of Nath ascetics engraved on various architectural structures ranging from temples of Maharashtra to the step-wells of Gujarat. Apart from iconographical markers of individual Nath ascetics such as that of Matsyendranatha, Gorakhnath and others, the chapter also summarises the common identity markers associated with the Naths as drawn from the visual representations of the ascetics.

The fifth chapter, “Haṭhayoga: The Visual Record”, explores the visual representation of complex yoga posture depictions engraved on temples and other structures associated with the Naths, and hence, argues for the early linkages between the emergence of the Nath Sampradaya and Hathyoga traditions, as these depictions are possibly the earliest material evidence of Hathyoga. Hathyoga, involves the control and manipulation of prana (ether) and bindu (semen) in the body through the performance of complex bodily asanas (postures). Earlier this control and manipulation was attempted primarily through the mechanism of the mind such as through meditation. Hence, this development made possible the depiction of yogic techniques in the form of complex body postures on temple walls and other such structures. This archaeological study is complemented by the findings of Hathyoga techniques and ideas from the early Marathi texts.

In conclusion, the author gives an overview of the presence of the Nath Sampradaya across the Indian subcontinent, and concludes by highlighting the research gaps which need further investigation. 

The work under review is a significant addition to the studies on the Nath Sampradaya. Through an extensive use of archaeological data complemented by vernacular Marathi texts, the work has contested many previously held assumptions about the Nath Sampradaya which were primarily based on textual or ethnographic studies, such as highlighting the early institutionalisation of the Nath Sampradaya, along with its link with Hathyoga. The most admirable aspect of the research lies in its primary data collection and analysis, as many unexplored sites have been studied for the first time in relation to the Nath Sampradaya. 

What is possibly lacking in this  work are fresh new questions that could shed light on less explored areas of Nath history, such as the social base and social location of Nath ascetic order, this is significant given the supposedly unorthodox nature of the sect under study. The author does promise to explore such aspects, particularly with reference to patronage, but does not appear to work in that direction, instead engaging with the already much-debated questions of origin, spread, cultic markers, and practices.  Although the author proposes to base his work on the ‘Cultural Landscape’ model, its actual application in the work is somewhat faint, as he continues to view temples by associating them with successive political monarchies in Chapter 3.

Moreover, what could have added to the research, is an exploration into Hathyoga depictions on various structures in relation to the surrounding natural landscape, as one of the supposed outcomes of such practices was a mastery over nature and the natural. This mastery was primarily manifested in the form of control over one’s own as well as on other’s body and bodily functions, accompanied by claims of immortality. And secondly, it was reflected in the control over various natural phenomenons such as rain, pest attacks etc. Briggs (1938) has collated various legends associated with the Naths, where we find Gorakhnath and other accomplished Naths, exercising control over rains, transforming themselves into frogs and flies, and performing a host of other such fantastical miracles. 

This would have contributed to the growing interest in understanding the Nath claim to power and its relation with the much-purported claims of yogic charisma. As D. G. White proposes that the Nath claims to political and economic power were a ‘logical extension’ of their supernaturally powerful bodies, which they achieved through various yogic practices (see Stuparich & Bevilacqua 2022, p. 15 , cited White). 

Nonetheless, the work is a much-needed intervention in Nath studies which have been dominated by ethnographic and text-based studies. It’s bound to inspire future research on various aspects of the Nath Sampradaya through archaeological methodological approaches. 

Bibliography

Bouillier, Véronique. “Religion Compass: A Survey of Current Researches on India’s Nāth Yogīs.” Religion Compass 7, no. 5 (2013): 157-168.

Bouillier, Véronique. Monastic wanderers: Nāth yogī ascetics in modern South Asia. Routledge, 2017.

Briggs, George Weston. “Gorakhnath and the Kanphata yogis.” (1938).

Deshpande, M. N. The Caves of Panhale Kaji. Memoirs of the Archaeological Survey of India No. 84. New Delhi: Archaeological Survey of India, 1986.

Mallinson, James. “Nāth Sampradāya.” Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism, 2018.

Stuparich, Eloisa, and Daniela Bevilacqua. “The Power of the Nath Yogis: Yogic Charisma, Political Influence and Social Authority.” The Power of the Nath Yogis (2022): 1-722.

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Cantoras

Cantoras by Carolina de Robertis, Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2019, 336 pages,  ISBN 9780593082461, Rs. 449

By Nipunika Sachdeva

Set in the late 1970s in Uruguay, Cantoras is the story of five women in an increasingly political and oppressive climate who try to carve out a safe, affirmative community on a remote island away from their lives in the city. The term cantoras is a Uruguayan code word for ‘lesbians,’ but translates literally as ‘women who sing.’ Flaca, Anita or “La Venus”, Romina, Malena, and Paz arrive at the coastal Cabo Polonio, trusting each other to be ‘one of them’. The women escape Montevideo, the capital city, going through “the process,” where gatherings are restricted, free speech is limited, political prisoners are plenty, and violence is common, especially against  women. All characters are deeply affected by the violent and oppressive traits of their homes. The women often discuss that they believed the city and country they have called home would never fall under a dictatorship. Despite the shock of the changing political conditions, their biological families and peer groups expect them to study, have a ‘decent’ job, marry a man, have children and lead lives as good women. However, this home feels like a man-made prison where they must hide who they are. Excusing themselves from their families, the women travel together to the coastal village of Polonio, sparsely populated, barely constructed, and holding a vast ocean for its visitors. Closer to nature, in its unadulterated form, with trees, sand, ocean, and open skies, the women feel liberated from the shackles of heteronormativity and patriarchy. 

The characters and the reader know that this is a haven that isn’t the reality of these women’s lives; they must return to their homes, parents, husbands, schools, and jobs, earn money and keep the front of being perfectly normal women. However, Carolina de Robertis emphasises the importance of even a temporary feeling of liberation that gives one the hope that there is a world out there, based on nature, open by the seaside where the male gaze, patriarchal expectations, constant surveillance and violence elude women. The getaway to nature aids the women in understanding their true nature and aspirations by providing a refuge from gender-based violence and the male gaze. Romina, a young activist whose brother is arrested for being involved in a  political party, who faces the repercussions of her political involvement by imprisonment and assault, revels in the ocean at the confirmation that the violence she faced has not led to an unwanted pregnancy. Malena, who is usually quiet and solemn swims the furthest into the ocean feeling freer than in her life back in the city. Despite the initial tensions between former lovers Romina and Flaca, and Flaca’s new lover Anita, a married woman distressed from her husband and wifely duties, deemed “La Venus” for her beauty, and Paz who is a teenager, neglected by her mother and struggling with the thin line of her first queer experience being an assault, the women form a familial bond with each other, much like what is discussed today as ‘chosen family’ accepting each other’s sexual orientation, gender expression, background, views, and aspirations to be truly free. 

At the end of the trip, these women go back to their lives. This is where the contrast of the experience becomes so stark; they return to what seems “normal,” to their butchering jobs, their safe ways which keep them and their families out of trouble, entitled husbands, and the general restriction of movement, expression, and emotions. The capitalist life where these women are supposed to be prim and proper, feminine, silent, dedicated to their husbands and children, and respectful is deemed natural for them; constantly reinforced by mothers, sisters, fathers, peers, and the norms of the dictatorial society. There remains little space for dissent, openness, and most of all, their queerness- experiences they feel inclined to and long to feel in their haven in the coastal, isolated village. Letting a ‘crazy idea’ sink in, the women pool their resources together to buy a shack in Polonio. Despite their family’s backlash and judgement, the women get the house deed in their name, the first in their lives, a house, a home, in their name, their own. Away from the male gaze, free to act how they like, the women, especially Paz, face flak and are arrested by soldiers patrolling the small village. Once again, the women are told by authorities, families, and husbands alike that these are the women to stay away from and focus their attention on their true nature, of being wives and mothers. 

Through the tumultuous journeys of their lives, broken relationships with their biological families, heterosexual marriages, societal expectations, and heartbreak among themselves, Flaca, Anita, Romina, Manela, and Paz see their little, women-owned shack as a lighthouse, their guide, and center from all else, from all the military violence, homophobic oppression, and understanding of who they truly are in their experiences and their lived realities. It is when they are together and in their haven, that they feel the freest and the most of themselves, and this binds this unlikely family together. 

Orbiting away from The Prow, their very own home, on paper and in unconditional acceptance, the nuanced and well-developed characters navigate their truth and the oppression they face differently. Flaca, with accepting parents, continues to live an outwardly queer life as much as she can, taking Paz under her wing, who establishes her own relationships and a smuggling business to support herself. Romina, meanwhile, tries to keep her nature hidden, carrying the burden of being a good, unproblematic daughter for her family. Malena stays secretive, and La Venus explores a whirlwind of relationships and motherhood. At the end of every experience, the women gather back at their home, gaining respite and accepting each other as a community and family. The characters’ pull for their little shack stems primarily from a longing for freedom, and the dictatorship is, indeed, eventually overthrown. 

However, this is where Robertis reminds us that life is deeply complicated and intricate. Deep anxiety and trauma remain constant for the Cantoras. The violence, the insecurity of never finding stability in queer relationships, the conversion therapy for their homosexuality, and the societal expectations and disapproval of their families all thread through their lives over the decades. As things become safer, democratic, and affirmative, the story reminds the reader that the intensity of homophobia and patriarchy will always lead to some losses and some gains, and some families will always be left behind. The reality for queer people and especially queer women, continues to persist even today. The end of the book takes the reader back to the coastal village, but this time in 2013, where the ocean and the island have become a hub for queer people, free to be themselves, free to marry legally, and for tourists to explore its queer history. The isolated shacks, small shops, and trees are now considered a hidden gem for queer people, and the cantoras, the remaining four visit it again when they have grown well into their 60s. Their resonance with their ocean reflects in their friendship spanning decades, and their sense of survival, community, and queer love, which has always existed and continues to exist outside of the man-made city, governance, and gendered rules. 

Mystics and Sceptics: In Search of Himalayan Masters

Mystics and Sceptics: In Search of Himalayan Masters edited by Namita Gokhale, Harper Collins India, 2023, 336 pages, 23 x 15.3 x 2.9 cm, ISBN: 9356295727, Rs. 699

By Sukrit Banerjee

   “Is it we who invent the stories and thus inform the land, 

                               or does the land invent the stories, thus inventing us?”

Paula Gunn Allen (Kaul, 2018, p.83)

The relationship between space and the social sciences has been a dynamic one, with the fluctuating importance of space as a factor in human agency from time to time. Initially, as Chetan Singh points out in his work Himalayan Histories, geographers and historians cooperated in research that showed how “humans and their natural surroundings were seen as interacting and influencing each other in bringing about long-term social and natural transformation.” (Singh, 2019, p.1) Gradually, however, with the increasing capability of humans to control nature and improve their material conditions, an anthropocentric attitude emerged. According to Singh, “territories and regions came to be regarded even more explicitly as the physical background or theatrical stages upon which historical actions are performed.” (Singh, 2019, p.2) 

The book Mystics and Sceptics: In Search of Himalayan Masters, which has been edited by Namita Gokhale, challenges this reductionist view of seeing nature as a mere receptacle in the study of human consciousness and actions. Simon Schama, in his work Landscape and Memory, remarked that-

“For although we are accustomed to separate nature and human perception into two realms, they are, in fact, indivisible. Before it can ever be a repose for the senses, landscape is the work of the mind. Its scenery is built up as much from the strata of memory as from layers of rock.” (Schama, 1995, p.6-7)

Diana Eck, in her book India: A Sacred Geography, explains how India’s rivers, mountains, hills and coastlands are imbued with the stories of Gods and heroes. Likewise, she also shows how every myth or legend is connected to a certain place. The geographical features are revered as representations of the divine. Eck, therefore, uses the term ‘Sacred Geography’ in order to refer to this ‘imagined but lived landscape’- one that may focus on a particular temple, hill or river but sets it in a wider frame. It is a landscape as the features are connected and linked to a wider whole of epic cosmology and pilgrimage networks. For example, we have the 51 Shakti Peethas, which connect the different abodes of the Devi throughout the country into a single narrative frame. This is achieved, as Eck terms it, through the ‘grammar of sanctification’- involving the description of acts which either led to the manifestation of the divine at a particular spot or its attachment therein- thus sanctifying the site. (Eck, 2012)

Thus, we see in Diana Eck’s work how the footsteps of the pilgrim create a landscape based on myth, memory and association that shape human perception of nature. This was, therefore, an act of map-making which lent a certain meaning to the geography it was concerned with, which, in turn, shaped human actions of pilgrimage and trade across such networks. Therefore, humans and nature have a reciprocal relationship in the making of this sacred landscape. (Eck, 2012)

In a similar manner, this book shows us how the sacred landscape of the Himalayas has been created by human beings and is imbued with a power of divine meaning, which has, in turn, given meaning to and influenced human actions in the region. This gives us a new understanding of regions which are no longer defined through objective attributes, rather, are seen as outcomes of a “dynamic relationship existing between an area and the social processes and ideologies that give it meaning.” (Singh, 2019, p.3) This relationship of regions with humans influenced how David Knight saw the nature and metamorphosis of territories- “In a sense, territory is not, it becomes; for territory itself is passive, and it is human beliefs and actions that give territory meaning.” (Singh, 2019, p.3)

Given their topography and immense cultural diversity, the Himalayas are one of the best sites where one can study the interaction between nature and humans. It has often been argued, in the context of Mountain Studies, that mountainous physiography has a preponderant impact on human beings and, therefore, creates societies that perceive themselves distinctly from plain based societies. Moreover, it has also been argued that the presence of such similar ecological conditions across mountain-based societies would generate similar social responses (Singh, 2019). Irrespective of the veracity of the claim that mountain societies across the world are largely similar, the intensely close relationship that humans maintain and negotiate with nature while living in the mountains is a fact. Given this context, the Himalayas deserve to be brought into any discussion on the relationship between humans and nature.

Therefore, the book is a valuable contribution to the study of the interface between nature and human lives or actions. It is a collection of 25 essays on the spiritual experiences, or the lack thereof, that different individuals have had in their interaction with the Himalayas. The contributions come from a diverse range of individuals- spiritual beings, diplomats, journalists, travellers, and many others. The perspective of the believer and the sceptic, the initiated and the disillusioned- all find their place in this volume. 

The individual experiences of several monks or spiritual renunciates are covered in these essays. For example, Andrew Quintman and W.Y. Evan Wentz talk about one of the greatest spiritual masters in the history of Tibetan Buddhism- Milarepa. They show how even the mundane geographical features of the Himalayas, like lakes, glaciers, mountain peaks and valleys, came to be imbued with meaning through Milarepa’s spiritual experiences and how these features continue to play an important role in the life of the Himalayan communities to this day. Navtej Sarna, in a similar fashion, tries to show how a Sikh sacred geography was formed by retracing the journey of the Sikh Gurus like Guru Nanak and Guru Gobind Singh through the Himalayas. We get an understanding of how famous sites like Manikaran and Paonta Sahib emerged. Holly Gayley and Ranjit Hoskote question the patriarchal dominance in narratives of spirituality by highlighting how women like Yeshe Tsogyal, Khandro Tare Lhamo and Lalleshwari/Lal Ded led their lives and impacted the communities in whose midst they lived. In Lhamo’s case, we get an interesting glimpse of how spiritual experience gave certain women leadership roles within Himalayan communities.

Coming to more recent times, we have Makarand Paranjape’s essay which describes the importance of the Himalayas to the spiritual experiences of Swami Vivekananda, who returned repeatedly to the Himalayan pilgrimages and its natural features as a source for his inspiration and vigour. Paramhansa Yogananda fondly reminisces about his escape to the Himalayas as a school kid. Sujata Prasad describes the journey of the polyglot and polymath Rahul Sankrityayan, who, despite being a sceptic, made painstaking efforts to travel across the Himalayas, particularly in Tibet, to retrieve and disseminate texts belonging to both the Hindu and Buddhist traditions of South Asia. The transcript of the interview that Rajiv Mehrotra conducted with the 14^th Dalai Lama gives us an understanding of Tibetan Buddhism.

Besides such accounts, we have essays which talk about the contributor’s individual spiritual experience of some ritual, event, place or even interaction with a person. The volume’s editor, Namita Gokhale, fondly writes about being spiritually transformed through her interaction with Neem Karoli Baba and Siddhi Maa and the location of their Ashrams amidst the Himalayas which seems to have added to the experience. Ramola Butalia talks about the Siddha tradition, Madhu Tandon talks about “letting go” after her disillusionment with a spiritual figure, and Alka Pande talks about the Shakti Peethas like Naini Devi and Jwalamukhi which have moulded her personality.

Four essays particularly stand out for their association of spirituality with the Himalayas and how Himalayan people themselves (and not outsiders) react to such an imagery. For example, Western observers like Alexandra David Neel have illustrated Vajrayana Buddhist practices like ritual possession. In Alexandra David Neel’s own words- 

“Shrouded in the moving fogs, a fantastic army of trees, draped in livid green moss, seems to keep watch along the narrow tracks, warning or threatening the traveller with enigmatic gestures. From the low valleys buried under the exuberant jungle to the mountain summits covered with eternal snow, the whole country is bathed in occult influences. In such a setting it is fitting that sorcery should hold sway.” (Gokhale, 2023, p. 98-99)

These words not only bring out the close connection between the geography and climate of a place with the society and culture of the people living there, which was discernible to the observers’ eye, but also allow a glimpse into the typical Western fascination with the idea of a spiritual hermitage or ‘Shangri-La’ in the heights of the Himalayas, offering solace from the anxieties and dislocations of a post-industrialized West. The same attitude is evident in two essays of Rene von Nebesky-Wojkowitz, which again focuses on the theme of ritual possession and how the Himalayan landscape plays a role in it.

One of the most interesting essays, which stands out from the others in the volume, is the one by Vaibhav Kaul. Kaul portrays how the landscape of the Thanggu Valley in Sikkim- dotted with glaciers, moraines, lakes, and rivers- is imbued with a sacred meaning by the people who live there. Not only are these natural features worshipped as divine, some of them, like the mountains, are seen as guardians of the landscape and protectors of morality. Whenever any geophysical disasters such as flash floods or avalanches occur, the people of Thanggu Valley take it as a functioning of the law of Karma– divine punishment for human failings with regard to respecting the sanctity of the landscape or failing to abide by piety and righteousness. Vaibhav Kaul sees in such an attitude a different kind of environmental ethics, which can be effective when engaging with indigenous and marginalised communities to ensure the sustainability of their landscape.

Mystics and Sceptics, therefore, is a valuable contribution to the study of the interface between nature and human lives or actions. It particularly focuses on how human spirituality, in the case of South/ Central Asia, has been shaped by the Himalayas and how, in turn, humans have created the landscape of the Himalayas. The impact of this dual interaction on the actions and consciousness of the Himalayan communities has been well covered by the essays in this volume. Therefore, it is an essential read for those interested not just in religion and spirituality but also in the history of the Himalayas. 

Bibliography

Eck, D. (2012). India: A Sacred Geography. Harmony Books.

Kaul, S. (2018). The Making of Early Kashmir: Landscape and Identity in the Rajatarangini. Oxford University Press.

Schama, S. (1995). Landscape and Memory. Random House.

Singh, C. (2019). Himalayan Histories: Economy, Polity and Religious Traditions. State University of New York Press.