When we are young, we think it is our birth right, an ideal dream even, to change the world in utopian ways. We read four books, and then we are out on the roads for revolutions against injustice, for bringing ‘change.’ Without measuring the meaning behind the word ‘change,’ we delve into a fusillade of allegations against those who should have or could have worked for it. Understanding the world from newspapers, books, theories and textual histories, from the privileged shells wrapping around us, we forget the value of real-world experience. The belief that a scholar can invent ways to improve the condition of an unprivileged vendor from an oppressed caste without having stepped out in their world is shattered to pieces once one learns the actual difference between theory and practice, between the idea of change and the truth comprising of a complex web of multi-layered realities, different for each one of us.

After studying literature and cultural studies, I was drawn to the idea of contributing to ‘change’ through teaching and research. I believed that a teacher could shape young minds. At the same time, the power to bring change resides not with a few scattered scholars but with the united masses. The romanticized idea of being a ‘true scholar,’ as injected by the exposure to campus politics for a couple of years, was to become a keen observer, a critical thinker, a voracious reader, a passionate writer, and a rigorous activist. However, I could never fit the phenomenon of teaching in this schema, let alone teaching in a rural area, after staying in urban academic spaces for almost a decade.

As I went to teach English literature and language in a small government college in a rural area,  I began wondering if I had gone away from what I should have been doing. My should-have-been, could-have-been revolved around going to a big university campus for a doctorate, to study the dark, gloomy sides of rural India in a globally recognized university of a metropolitan city outside India. Here, I represent the prototype of average Indian scholars or scholars-to-be, trying their best to delve deeper into the ‘dark realities’ by staying as far from them as possible. But as I stepped inside a small college to teach, my ideology, my way of observing the world, my entire life went topsy-turvy. Indian postcolonial critic Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak sums up this phenomenon in the remark, ‘First world scholar in search of the third world.’ An average urban Indian scholar is not far from this, with rural areas being the third world compared to metropolitan cities.

Each day, each lecture presented a new challenge to me. Some days, I would be shocked to find eighteen-year-olds unable to spell a word as simple as ‘fruit.’ How could I teach them about literature and society? Seeing my complacent, constantly exhausted, tea-drinking colleagues, having neither any spark in their eyes nor the zeal to bring change, I felt repulsive towards the system. Can one change the system only by protesting against it from outside? I started feeling otherwise as the days passed. I developed warm bonds with people, both colleagues and students, so much so that I am barely saving myself from passing into the tea-drinking-government-college-professors category. But as I started from scratch in my classrooms, from discussions on life, education, art, purpose and society, I realized that rural classrooms are the largest experimental laboratories, brimming with the possibilities of ‘change.’ Activism cannot be confined to holding candle marches and sit-ins at the centre of large campuses. It starts at the heartlands of nation-states – the villages. It starts from the academic spaces where the future of any society is getting shaped. Every student who understands the importance of ideas, discussions and critical thinking, is a revolution, a seed of change in themselves.

Sometimes, life seems exhausting, with or without the idea of bringing change. We chase goals throughout our lives, walking, stumbling, getting hurt. One day, finally, we reach there. Then, what? What water have we turned to wine? Which four students of your class are ready to conquer the world? Which sacred song have you composed with your naïve desire to bring change?

What is ‘change’? We chase the need and the means to bring change long enough until the realization that each thought planted in a student is a seed of change. Each lesson students learn and embrace can become a gift to the world. Revolutions do not come in days or weeks. Not everyone you teach will grow up to change the world. However, that does not lessen the value of teaching.

Every learning journey is different; it can be simple or demanding. It can emerge as an engaging activity or a long, arduous process. At present, I am still learning to make people think and smile!

About the Author

Paridhi Khanna

Paridhi Khanna is an Assistant Professor of English at Government College, Derabassi, Punjab. She completed her Master’s in English literature and cultural studies from Panjab University, Chandigarh. Paridhi is dedicated to exploring art cinema, postcolonial poetry, visual storytelling, Indian art and literature.

The place I call home, ghar, the place where I feel a sense of belonging is Purnea, a small district and town in northeast Bihar, about 200 miles away from the capital city, Patna. Initially a sarkar under the subah of Bengal in precolonial India, it was formed as a district on 10th February 1770 under the jurisdiction of the East India Company. The origin of the word Purnea has many contestations; one of the more plausible ones is that the name comes from the Hindi word aaranya, meaning ‘forest.’ The expansive green foliage, which led to pleasant climatic conditions, is also why Purnea was nicknamed ‘Poor Man’s Darjeeling,’ a milder cousin of the chilly hill station in West Bengal. Of course, the current sweltering summers may cause locals to rethink the sobriquet.

Ghar is about memories, about being as comforting as a plate of dal bhat chokha. For me, Purnea does not merely exist as a dot on the map sandwiched between Araria and Katihar. To slosh about categorising it into neat statistical indexes of population figures and area estimates seems a rather jarring exercise. Instead, it is the place where you can find the most delicious gajar ka halwa at the famous Maheshwari Mithai Shop, a foot’s throw away from R.N. Shaw Chowk, or the spiciest pani puris outside my old school, Ursuline Convent. It is the place of potholed roads that would cause bumpy rides in cramped autos while my friends and I echoed with laughter during school days. It is home to the charmingly named Dollar House Chowk, the residential area where my family has lived for the last 16 years. If local stories are to be believed, one of the sons from the titular house went to the United States several decades ago. He sent back dollar bills to his family in Purnea. These dollar bills from an unknown land were a source of immense fascination for the locals; hence, the name Dollar House Chowk stuck!

Take a cycle ride through Sipahi Tola and Maranga, and you will find peaceful fields of unripe, green wheat gently swaying in the breeze. Visit the local Bhatta Bazaar and listen to the excited gaggle of multiple dialects of Hindi–Angika, Magahi, Bhojpuri, and Maithili. Pouches of panch phoran, the quintessential Bengali spice mix, are sold in grocery stores like Subash’s alongside steaming plates of momos doused in fiery tamatar chutney served by roadside vendors. The marketplace and the wares sold there are testament to the wonderful and diverse confluence of people in Purnea–Assamese, Bengali, Nepali, Oriya, and Santhali.

I remember my class 12th Hindi teacher recalling with pride that Purnea was the birthplace of Phanishwar Nath Renu, one of the iconoclastic figures of modern Hindi literature. There is Rangbhoomi Maidan, where melas and political rallies happen from time to time; Girija Chowk, named after the old, towering Anglican church near it; the Indira Gandhi Stadium, named after Gandhi who had come for a rally to Purnea in the late 1970s (I gleaned this bit of information from the ayah who stayed with us; her mother had seen and spoken to Gandhi when the latter had visited), and the Mata Puran Devi Mandir, the oldest temple in Purnea and one of the possible origins for the district’s name. These names and locations tussle for space in my mind, mingling fact and memory into the deliciously addictive concoction of what can only be nostalgia.

Growing up in Purnea, I never imagined placing my small town in one of the tomes of history my ICSE primary education demanded that I read. The history I read was ‘grand,’ and within this grand narrative of vibrant New Delhis and Calcuttas, to place a dusty semi-rural Purnea–a town which seemed unsure whether it should be spelled with an ‘e’ or ‘i’–seemed uncanny.

However, as I begin to understand the flaws in dominant historiography, I am keen to seek out the historical story of my town. Names fascinate me–both within my hometown and ones that I encounter in various states. Such as Gulabh Bagh (rose garden in Hindi), Oli Tola in Purnea, or tongue-twisting ones like Chirayinkeezhu and Pathanamthitta in Kerala. These small tangles of consonants and vowels can reveal so much about a place–its rich history interwoven with local beliefs, cultures, and languages. With immense curiosity about this quest, I began to see Jhanda Chowk of Purnea in a different light.

The reason why Jhanda Chowk got its name is interesting. As a child, going past the roundabout into Bhatta Bazaar, I rarely gave a second thought as to why Jhanda Chowk was named the way it was. To me, it was simply one among the other intriguing names like Line Baazar or Baksa Ghat; the latter, I thought for a long time, was a ghat filled with cardboard boxes!

Jhanda in Hindi refers to ‘flag,’ and chowk is the quintessential name given to the area at the junction of two roads in any small Indian town or semi-rural region. Jhanda Chowk got its name when the tiranga was hoisted there in the year of independence. After the international Wagah border between Amritsar and Lahore, Purnea is considered the only place in the country where the flag is unfurled at midnight.

As locals enthusiastically recall, on 14th August 1947, a group of people were anxiously riveted to their radios late at night, around 11 p.m., at the Chowk (then, unnamed perhaps). They were tuning in to the proceedings from the fifth session of the Constituent Assembly of India, which had assembled in New Delhi. Sipping cups of lal chai, all were expectantly waiting for Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru’s speech, his declaration of ‘India’s victorious tryst with Destiny.’ Shortly after, one of the attendees, Rameshwar Prasad Singh, decided to hoist the national flag at the Chowk to coincide with Nehru’s unfurling of the tricolour in the Central Hall of Parliament. A well-known barrister, Singh was one of the most vocal supporters of the Indian National Congress at that time, having participated in Jail Bharo Andolan, the Non-Cooperation Movement, and the Dandi March. Alongside stalwarts like Satinath Bhaduri, a well-known literary figure, Singh unfurled the flag to shouts of Bharat Mata ki Jai ringing all around. Men and women flowed out of their houses in excitement, breathing in the night breeze of a new country, awakening, as Nehru declared, to ‘life and freedom.’

Whether the statistics regarding this celebration are accurate or not is a story for another day. What is, however, evident is that there were large-scale celebrations around the Chowk, people mingling in joyous camaraderie. Locals even recall hearing about throngs of women blowing on conch shells, usually used during evening puja, as symbolic of ushering in a new dawn.

Rameshwar Singh’s family has continued the tradition of hoisting the flag at the eponymous Jhanda Chowk. It has been carried forward for over 75 years, first by Rameshwar’s son, Suresh Prasad Singh, and now by his grandson, Vipul Kumar Singh. The Dainik Jagran recently reported that the local MLAs and MPs are rallying that the Chowk is given the distinction of a state site, judging by its historical significance.

Purnea’s fascination with flags continues. In 2016, the town held the record for making and displaying the world’s longest tricolour flag at an estimated 7,100 metres. To the dismay of the residents of my hometown, this record was unfortunately broken three years later by Chhattisgarh’s Raipur.

My exploration of names continues in Hyderabad, where I recently started my post-graduate studies. On a recent metro ride, this writer was jostled out of her weary state at the startling announcement by the metro rail as it arrived at the Lakdi Ka Pool station. But that is a story for another day!

Sources:

https://www.jagran.com/bihar/bhagalpur-independence-day-2020-as-soon-as-12-oclock-in-the-night-purnia-resonated-with-the-sound-of-bande-mataram-flag-hoisting-took-place-at-jhanda-chowk-its-beginning-is-interesting-22981967.html

https://www.bhaskar.com/local/bihar/purnia/news/know-the-history-of-jhanda-chowk-of-purnia-130189854.html

https://www.indiatoday.in/india/story/midnight-tricolour-unfurling-independence-day-purnea-bihar-1029659-2017-08-14

https://purnea.nic.in/about-district/history/

https://www.bhaskar.com/bihar/purnia/news/activists-launched-campaign-to-get-jhanda-chowk-state-status-085505-4979523.html

About the Author

Joanna Philip

A postgraduate student of English Literature, Joanna has a budding interest in studying the heritage monuments of India and the contours of history, culture, and time that amplify them! When not writing a poem or two, she likes to spend her time talking (to herself) or trying to finish a task from her gazillion to-do lists.

Picture this – a canvas of captivating tales, vividly painted across the silver screen, entwining the past with the present. Indian cinema acts as a mesmerizing storyteller, weaving together the fabric of our cultural narrative and preserving the tapestry of our rich history. From the days of silence to the vibrant present, filmmakers have harnessed their craft to breathe life into historical events, characters and societal shifts. Beyond mere artistic endeavours, the portrayal of history in Indian cinema serves as a conduit, ushering historical wisdom into the hearts of the masses. This article explores the captivating synergy between Indian cinema and history, discovering how the reel has immortalized the real.

A Prelude of Silent Whispers: The Silent Era

Let us journey to the nascent days of Indian cinema, where silence spoke volumes. The 1910s marked the awakening of historical portrayal with masterpieces like Raja Harishchandra (1913), sculpted by the visionary Dadasaheb Phalke. These pioneering endeavours laid the cornerstone for the portrayal of ancient myths and sagas. Inspired by the epics of yore – the Ramayana and the Mahabharata – these celluloid chronicles ushered our heritage into the realm of motion pictures.

The Gilded Age: Echoes of Freedom and the Indian Soul

As the cinematic tapestry unfurled, the 1940s and 1950s ushered in a Golden Era, intertwining with the fervour of India’s struggle for freedom. The silver screen wore hues of nationalism and identity. Mother India (1957) and Shaheed (1965) were among the films that breathed life into the stories of those who sacrificed themselves for the nation. Years later comes a contemporary gem like Rang De Basanti (2006), where the echoes of revolution transcend time, resonating with a new generation’s quest for meaning.

A Dance of Truth and Imagination: Walking the Tightrope

While Indian cinema masterfully unfurls history, it often treads a tightrope between authenticity and artistic flair. At times, vivid strokes of creative liberty veer into historical inaccuracy, sparking debates. Films like Jodhaa Akbar (2008) and Bajirao Mastani (2015) found themselves under the scrutiny of historians and critics alike. Yet, in this delicate dance, cinema breathes life into forgotten stories, engaging hearts and minds.

When Dreams Shape Reality: Cinema’s Call to the Past

The impact of historical cinema reverberates far beyond the screen – it shapes the landscapes we traverse. With each scene, the audience witnesses ancient palaces, landscapes and monuments. Films like Padmaavat (2018) and Baahubali (2015) act as wondrous guides, beckoning travellers to explore the grandeur in person. Not only                                                                      does tourism prosper, but history comes alive in the                                                                        footsteps of reels, connecting the tangible with the                                                                          imagined.

Echoes of Change: Uprooting Historical Stereotypes

Indian cinema, a harbinger of transformation, confronts and challenges stereotypes. Works like Lagaan (2001) and Gandhi (1982) carve new narratives, inviting us to re-evaluate the prism through which we view colonial rule and resistance. These cinematic tales spark introspection, fostering discussions that unravel the layers of historical truth.

Resurrecting Unsung Legends: Heroes of Yore on the Silver Canvas

The cinematic tapestry of India is incomplete without the brushstrokes of unsung heroes. Manikarnika: The Queen of Jhansi (2019) and Guru (2007) rekindle forgotten stories, throwing light on the valour and resilience of those marginalized by time. Through celluloid, history finds a new voice and the gallant spirits of the past march into the hearts of a new audience.

A Tapestry of Tomorrow: Charting New Territories

In the realms of Indian cinema, history is not a stagnant tableau but an ever-evolving narrative. As technology leaps forward, cinema takes on new hues, bridging past and present. This captivating reel dance, a conduit between generations, ensures that the essence of history remains alive and thriving.

Conclusion

The marriage of Indian cinema and history isn’t just a fleeting romance but an enduring saga that unfurls across time. With each frame, the silver screen etches our heritage into collective memory, ensuring that the symphony of our past resonates with the generations that follow. As we move toward an ever-evolving future, the presence of history in the cinematic realm remains an integral facet of the Indian narrative – a symphony that continues to play on, transcending time and space.

About the Writer

Aditi Katariya

Department: Editorial Board

Aditi is a law graduate by education, content writer by profession. She is a travel enthusiast and loves visiting historical places. She is always looking for opportunities to learn new things!

For the uninitiated, armchair travelling is a thing indeed and brings great joy to the readers. As an armchair traveller myself, I can vouch for the same. I have spent decades being an armchair traveller, but last month I broke the norm and opted for the real deal.

Yes, I chose to travel and see with my own eyes the beauty of nature instead of partaking in someone else’s vision. I occasionally go out on day-long weekend trips, but overnight stays have been a strict no-no for me for the past one-and-a-half decade.

For a person in a wheelchair, it is a little difficult to leave one’s known surroundings. At least, that’s what holds true for me.

So when I made plans for the Bangalore trip, my family was astonished but thrilled at the same time. Naturally, it was I who called all the shots. From booking hotels to researching sightseeing places—I did it all single-handedly. It was fun, though a little daunting. I was, after all, leaving behind the comfort of my home and venturing into the unknown after so long.

The prospect of travelling to Bangalore did not trouble me. I was more anxious about the staying overnight part. I was worried about the hotel and the bathrooms. Especially the bathrooms. They can be treacherous things. All glinting and gleaming—perfect terrains for painful falls. However, I didn’t let the prospect scare me. I just kept praying as we set out for the airport. Just to encounter the first bump.

I was asked to give up my personal wheelchair at the check-in counter as it would have to be stowed away in the cargo. In its place, I was allotted a flight-appropriate wheelchair. The sight of it made my insides scream. It was a rickety thing promising a steady supply of butt-pinching and thigh-grazing.

My husband transferred me into it with difficulty, for the authorities did not inform us that the hand-rests could be lifted at will, and thus the waist pokes were not necessary. The wheelchair bearer just stood there, picking his teeth.

Then we hurried into the elevator that would take us to the frisking zone. I was asked to remove several things from my purse, which I obliged without any fuss. I did ask why I had to take out my mobile phone from my purse when I was already giving them the entire thing.

“Life’s first flight, is it?” the bearer pushing my wheelchair asked me rudely.

No, it wasn’t my first time on a flight. As a child, I had flown lots of times. I had flown twice or thrice as a teenager as well. The thing is, on all those occasions, I had walked on my own two legs, albeit with difficulty. Forgive me if I had not paid attention to your protocols and instead focused on not tripping over my legs.

At this juncture, I need to disclose my disability, I know, because you would be wondering what ails me. Right? Ah! Curiosity is but natural in all humans. Suffice it to say that I suffer from a progressive degenerative genetic disorder. In simple words, I have mobility issues.

Anyway, I did not take the bearer’s slight personally. And while my family was asked to join the queue, I was ushered into the space meant for frisking.

“Khadi ho jao. Stand up,” the lady with the hand-held detector ordered me.

“Mai khadi nahi ho sakti. Aapko aise hi check karna padega. I can’t stand. You have to check me while sitting,” I told the lady.

“Aise kaise? Jo bhi wheelchair par aata hai, yaha khada ho jata hai. Tum kyun nahi khadi ho sakti. How so? Whosoever comes in a wheelchair stands up here. Why can’t you stand?” she rebuked me.

For a split second, I was rendered speechless. Was this lady for real? I understood that she had a trying job, but that didn’t warrant her insensitive behaviour.

“Chalo khadi ho jao. Line mein aur bhi log hai. Come on, stand up. Others are waiting in line,” she grumbled.

I lost my head.

“Mai khadi nahi ho sakti. Aap kaise check kijiyega ye aap ka problem hai, mera nahi. I can’t stand. How you’ll carry out the checking is your problem, not mine,” I said and stared ahead.

It took all my self-discipline to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks. The horrible lady grumbled a lot, but I paid no further heed. I turned deaf to her verbal jabs.

When I came out of the kiosk, my husband came rushing to my side. He looked at my crumbling face and knew something was not right. I did not want a bad start for our trip, so I made up an excuse. I told him it was the airport-issued wheelchair. There was some truth in that; I did not feel bad about lying.

The flight itself was okay. However, when we landed in Bangalore, I was reminded of the second bump. As our airport shuttle, I wanted to hire an accessible taxi. I had read about this company offering the service and had immediately blessed them from the bottom of my heart. Before coming to Bangalore, I got in touch with them. I had asked for the fare they would charge for the airport to hotel commute. I intended to book a cab.

Their answer came as a shock to me. They were asking ₹5,500 for the 34 km trip! Parking and toll extra, I was informed. Were these the good Samaritans whom I had sent my blessings, or were these people out to fleece us? Let me tell you, the actual fare happens to be somewhere between ₹900-₹1,000.

Anyway, we took an Ola at the airport and reached the hotel. Transferring from my wheelchair to the car was slightly tricky, but we managed.

The stay in Bangalore was fabulous. We visited almost all the tourist places of interest. I could not go inside the Bangalore Palace, but the management there regretted it more than I did. I really liked their approach.

The next stop was Mysore. We had no idea that Dasara was such a huge deal there. There were crises of all kinds there, we were warned. Did we have a hotel booking? Had we arranged for transport? The manager of the hotel where we had put up in Bangalore asked us again and again.

I assured him that we had hotel bookings though transport was yet to be arranged. I told him the said hotel had taxi services. Thus assured, our lovely manager sighed in relief and wished us a good time.

As you have probably guessed, Mysore was a disaster. Firstly, instead of the promised three-and-a-half hours, it took six hours to reach there. Secondly, when I called up the hotel, they said our booking had been cancelled as they were oversold and it had been the booking provider’s fault.

I called the call centre of the said booking company whose response was classic. They couldn’t help. End of discussion. I tried to reason with them, pleaded with them, and even tried to threaten them as a last resort. They remained detached and disconnected the call. I saw my family growing frantic.

Thankfully, I had booked two different hotels. I had booked a villa in a farmhouse for my parents, meant as a surprise for them. Naturally, I had to tell them, and we all headed to the villa.

The manager had called earlier to confirm our arrival, and I now told him about our dilemma. The good man said the villa was big enough for four people and had extra bunk beds. What a relief! He assured us of a good stay and immediately mailed me the updated invoice for four guests.

However, our elation did not last long. The villa was quite far from the city, and it took us more than an hour to reach. Talk about convenience, and on top, the villa was not accessible.

True to its description, the villa was in the middle of nowhere, with no one far and beyond to disturb the guests. Trees formed the skyline. “Come, enjoy a farm life with no traffic, pollution, or technology to mar your stay,” the ad had promised and delivered!

At least we are not spending the night on the footpath. At least we have a roof over our heads in this foreign land. These were the only thoughts that kept us going.

The villa in itself was enchanting. The simple farm food of chapati and chicken curry was delicious. There was so much peace around; at one point, I was happy that our booking at the other hotel got cancelled.

I longed to explore the property. But that was out of the question. The entire campus was strewn with gravel, and my wheelchair refused to budge even an inch. So, I had to keep indoors while I sent out the rest of the family to take a look.

My husband came back a little later and showed me the video he had made of the place. It was our thing. If I couldn’t see anything on my own, he would go there and make a video for me to get a feel of the place. The farmhouse was great, complete with a bonfire, karaoke, dinner under the stars, and a pony for riding. I sighed and took refuge in my husband’s welcoming arms.

The next day we set out to see the city. Our first stop was the Mysore Palace. It was brimming with people. I knew immediately that it wouldn’t be possible for me to go inside the palace. There were several stairs. My husband parked my wheelchair inside a barricaded section that had no crowd. A man sitting there was shouting instructions in the air.

“What do you think you people are doing coming here in a wheelchair and trying to get inside?” the man said while spraying me with spittle, his eyes protruding from the sockets. The way he spoke was scary and humiliating. He didn’t stop there.

“Get out of here. Go,” he shouted.

“Excuse me! You have no right to address my wife thus,” my husband roared.

“Just take away the damn wheelchair from here. People are getting disturbed,” he shouted.

I was stunned into silence. Had it not been for the timely intervention of my father, the situation would have escalated beyond control. At this point, I can only say that some people can be callous.

Our next stop was Chamundi Hills, which turned out to be another disappointment. The administration had diverted traffic and was not allowing vehicles to ply on the road that would take one directly to the temple. This alternative route, which was open, led to a spot where one had to climb several stairs to reach the temple.

We tried to talk to the traffic policeman guiding the vehicles. We wanted permission to take the road that would take us to the vicinity of the temple. He denied. Then grew angry and said there was no place for a wheelchair there!

The rest of our stay in Mysore was a repetition of these incidents. We still had a day before our flight back home. I wanted to return to Bangalore, to our hotel where things had been so good. So once again, we enjoyed the hospitality the metropolitan city offered us.

I am back now with mixed feelings about the trip. Am I discouraged? Nah. I will make another plan soon. I cannot keep myself away from the world just because some people think that’s what I deserve. My free spirit cannot be chained to an armchair; I have a wheelchair that has promised me possibilities.

And what have I learnt from this trip? That a percentage of people may not be willing to share space with someone like me, but it is my world too, and I belong. So, see you till the next trip.

Jonali Karmakar

I am an editor, writer, and translator. My work has been published in several journals and anthologies, both national and international. I can be reached at karmakarjonali@gmail.com

Situated in Vadodara, Gujarat, the university was established in 1881 by the Baroda State. It was formerly known as Baroda College. In 1949, the last Maharaja of the erstwhile Baroda State, Pratap Singh Gaekwad, set up the university, fulfilling the wishes of his grandfather Maharaja Sayajirao Gaekwad III. He also established the Sir Sayajirao Diamond Jubilee and Memorial Trust, which continues to exist today, providing education to the people of the former Baroda State.

A student of the Faculty of Arts shall be curious about its history, especially as it is home to the second-largest dome in India. Robert Fellowes Chisholm designed the main structure in the Indo-Saracenic architectural style. It includes Indian and Byzantine arches and domes, a composition of brick and polychrome stone. Inspiration from the huge dome of Bijapur’s Gol Gumbaz is visible in the main dome of the convocation hall. This massive dome is 40 feet high with a magnificently painted ceiling. The Archaeological Survey of India classifies it as a property that needs restoration. With varying courses in languages and humanities, this faculty is one of the largest and best faculties in Western India. 

The university has witnessed many great scholars who have studied and taught here. One such prominent figure was Sri Aurobindo. He taught French and served as Vice Principal in 1905 at the then Baroda College of Arts. Other notable figures include the literary scholar and activist G .N. Devy, poet and academic Sitanshu Yashaschandra, artist Gulam Mohammed Sheikh, Vinoba Bhave, M. N. Srinivas, and Nobel Prize winner Venkatraman Ramakrishnan. 

In the university, the 89 departments are grouped into 13 faculties and dispersed throughout two rural and four urban university campuses totalling 275 acres. It is home to one of Gujarat’s largest libraries, the Shrimati Hansa Mehta Library. Named after the first Vice Chancellor of MSU, Shrimati Hansa Mehta, the library was founded in 1950. The university also has one of the largest botanical gardens in India, which adds freshness to the place. Trees and plants surround the entire campus and create a pleasant atmosphere. Each faculty and department is connected with well-maintained roads, making it easier for students to walk or drive from one place to another.

One of the greatest and oldest universities in India, MSU stands true to its name with a massive student inflow from all over the country and the world. The university brings pride to the ‘Sanskari Nagri’ – Vadodara, not only the home to the Maharaja Sayajirao University but a lively place for Garba in Navratri. 

Do visit MSU Baroda if you get a chance!

Shrimati Hansa Mehta Library

Picture 1 – Source: https://historyofvadodara.in/shrimati-hansa-mehta-library/

Picture 2 – Source: https://www.msubaroda.ac.in/

Fiza Kagzi

Hi, I’m Fiza Kagzi. A postgraduate English literature student with a keen interest in history & culture who aspires to research & teach the same in future. When I’m not seen with a book in my hand, I’m either deeply entrenched in a Korean drama or baking some beautiful cakes and cookies!

Hi, I’m Fiza Kagzi. A postgraduate English literature student with a keen interest in history & culture who aspires to research & teach the same in future. When I’m not seen with a book in my hand, I’m either deeply entrenched in a Korean drama or baking some beautiful cakes and cookies!

Walter Benjamin offers some help here through his seminal essay ‘On the concept of history’. Written in the context of a criticism for the methods and ambitions of the Second International, the essay asserts the importance of seeing history through a dialectical lens which doesn’t distinguish between the “great and small”, ensuring “that nothing which has ever happened is to be given as lost to history”. There remains no “eternal” metaphysical concept of history which bears a sense of something that happened in a distant past, in an estranged time period which holds insignificant impact on the present.

The historical materialist ought to present the historical narrative in a manner which resists the concept of “history as the history of the victor”, where the victor signifies the ruling class. When we look at history with this perspective, it is easier to recognize who the historian has empathized with, as well as who has been left out. As Benjamin states, “There has never been a document of culture, which is not simultaneously one of barbarism”. A history of kings is entrenched in the history of their prisoners, slaves and peasantry; a history of the upper castes is never without the history of the exploitation of the lower castes; a history of capitalism can never be without the history of exploitation of labour.

For example, the celebration of St. Patrick’s Day in USA is a rich tradition which is a reminder of their Irish heritage. However, it is also a reminder for another grave incident – The Irish Potato Famine of the mid 1800s, which was caused due to a potato blight and heightened by the British Whig’s approach of laissez-faire capitalism. More than a million people were affected by death and emigration. The population numbers haven’t been able to recover since. In April 2021, the population rose above 5 million for the first time since 1851. However, this tragedy benefited America, who required cheap labour for rapid industrialization to occur. This Irish immigrant population became a majority within a span of 50 years. The celebration of St. Patrick’s Day was bound to have a major cultural significance then.  

Figure 1: Ratio to all Population (Irish American), 1880

  Benjamin’s understanding, influenced by Hegel’s philosophy of history, implies a perception of history which is complete, connected and transitional. The ruling class of the current era also benefits from the empathy for the victors of the past, just as an heir would. The oppressor gets an opportunity to validate their empathy for their victorious ancestors, while ignoring the lineage of oppression. The oppressor can be audacious enough to even propose outlandish claims to rewrite history as we see under the current conditions in India. Thus, it is important for us to look at history from a non-conformist distanced perspective to observe the process of transmission that occurs throughout history, culminating in our perception of the present. It prevents a myopic view of the “present” system of oppression, which thrives on the notion of fate, guilt, and subservience. All of these benefit the heir apparent, be it colonialism, feudalism, capitalism or fascism.

D.D. Kosambi, the famous Indian polymath, in his essay ‘The Kanpur Road’, describes the chance meeting he had with a war veteran Sardar, Sardar Govind Singh, who had “campaigned in Abyssinia with Napier, entered Kabul and Kandahar with Roberts” and fought in every harsh climate that marks India’s borders. Despite the medals and land he received for his loyalty to the British, he could never forgive himself for killing his brother who was a rebel against the British during the Revolt of 1857. The Sardar was convinced that it could have never been otherwise because he had given his word to the British, and had eaten their salt. He considered it his duty as a Sikh to protect the outnumbered.

Kosambi likens this story of bravery to the fate of the resistance of King Pauravas against Alexander. After the conquest, Alexander is famously said to have left after making a loyal friend out of King Pauravas by returning his lands and expanding them. However, as Kosambi points out, Alexander’s soldiers were already mutinous due to the length of the campaign and the adverse conditions they fought in. He couldn’t have gone on further without suffering defeat. So, the gift he bestowed upon King Pauravas was in fact the Indian land which could never be garrisoned by his soldiers. Similarly, the salt that Govind Singh ate was in fact Indian salt which was only taxed by the British.  

     Figure 2: A Sikh soldier with medals and pharla, 1920s

To quote Kosambi, “My place was not with the heroes, but with the rabble, […] whose function in the epics was to be slaughtered by the heroes; whose role, according to the historians, was to provide a mere background for the deeds of great men. The heroes of a money-making society rose from the people, at the expense of the people; I could rise only with the common people”. (https://www.marxists.org/archive/kosambi/exasperating-essays/x01/1939-2.htm) When we visit a heritage site, this is the history we probably won’t find in the informative boards. If we refuse to empathize with the victor, we can see the latent histories of struggle and oppression. If we then look to bridge the connections to the present, the reason behind its invisibility will be apparent. The truth of its revolutionary potential will never seem distant.  

Bibliography

1. https://www.marxists.org/reference/archive/benjamin/1940/history.htm
2. https://www.marxists.org/archive/kosambi/exasperating-essays/x01/1939-2.htm 
3. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Famine_(Ireland)#/media/File:Population_(Irish_emigration).jpg
4. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/British_Indian_Army#/media/File:Sikh_Soldier_with_Medals.jpg
5. http://fubini.swarthmore.edu/~ENVS2/sophie/essay_3.html
6. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rhxw51cdHTE

The views, information, or opinions expressed above are solely those of the author(s) involved and do not necessarily represent those held by India Lost & Found and its creative community.

Hi, I’m SUCHISHRABA SARANGI …

Suchishraba is a linguist with an overlapping interest in cuisine, heritage and diversity. He aspires to work on the languages and their historical development in the subcontinental context. He loves exploring every nook and corner of the place he visits, in search of delicacies and stories.

These lines from A hymn to India by Rabindranath Tagore, arguably the most luminous of all the literary figures, modern India has produced, describe not only India’s spiritual legacy but also the might of her sheer presence in terms of what the frontiers of this magnificent country holds within itself. Tagore’s India, a vast sea of humanity indeed, has never been monochromatic; a sea is seldom filled with waters from a solitary river. Displaying many hues and colours, this wavy sea is often found roaring with diversity, each being a representative of the various constituents that came together to build India to what it is today. Gandhara, today lying to the north-west of Indian borders in the regions occupying northern Afghanistan and Pakistan, may be seen as a sea-cliff from where one could stand and revere the splendor of this enormous landmass.  

Gandhara region on a contemporary political map

Origins The region of Gandhara first finds mention in the Rig Veda. Its inhabitants, the Gandharvas, were believed to be majestic performers of dance and music and were companions to the Apsaras, the celestial mythical beauties. The Gandharva School of music under the Hindustani classical style is named in reverence to them.

According to Puranic legends, the Gandharvas were responsible to guard the Soma Rasa, the nectar of the Gods. Further mentions of Gandhara can be found in the epic Mahabharata, from where Queen Gandhari, mother of the mighty yet machiavellian Kauravas, and her brother, Prince Shakuni, belonged.

As it happens in case of frontiers, Jerusalem and Constantinople being case in point, legends of various traditions often seem to overlap each other. On these lines, Gandhara’s origin also finds mention in the Zoroastrian book of Avesta where a place called Gandarewa is mentioned. It is believed that the Ahura-Mazda, the supreme lord of Zoroastrians, while creating the earth ranked Gandarewa and its surrounding areas as one of his favourites.

In recorded history of the Indian subcontinent, Gandhara is mentioned as one of the sixteen Mahajanapadas that existed around 600-400 BCE. These Mahajanapadas were distributed throughout the Indo-Gangetic plains and can be termed as the first empires to have taken root in India. Out of these sixteen, Magadha rose to a position of absolute supremacy, especially under the Mauryans around 300-200 BCE. The Mauryans were successful in creating the first pan-India empire, whose borders ranged from the Bay of Bengal in the east to beyond the Indus in the west. The Mauryan Emperor Ashoka was instrumental in introducing Buddhism in the region during his reign.

In this period when India herself was witnessing a consolidation of power never seen before, regions lying around the Hindukush Mountains were also experiencing their own rumblings. The conquests of Alexander had left a vacuum in this region and his successors clashed within themselves to claim the spoils. Selucus Nicator, one of Alexander’s Generals emerged victorious in establishing his own Seleucid Empire and started making further claims to the regions around Gandhara.

It is right here when these two maximal powers established themselves on either side of the Gandhara region that the wheels of time turned. The alliance between Chandragupta Maurya and Selucus, who gave the former his daughter, Helena, in marriage, led to a relatively peaceful co-existence of the two empires in this region. This made sure that the region was left with an unmatched legacy of heritage and history, one that combined the very best of the two continents.  

Western Influence

The cultural amalgamation in the region became a symbol of the newly evolved Greco-Buddhist culture. Further blossoming under the patronage of the Buddhist Kushans in the first century of the Common Era, the region continued its Mediterranean outreach with flourishing relations with the Romans which again influenced the region’s art and architecture in its own way. This influence is visible via the numerous motifs found on the archaeological remains of the region showing the presence of angels and cupids holding wreaths, curly vine scrolls and even a few Greek mythological creatures like the tritons and the centaurs.

It should be noted here that the Greco-Buddhist culture didn’t emerge as a separate religious movement but was more of an incorporation of Greco-Roman elements in the native narrative of Buddhist theology and its various visual depictions. Excavations at Hadda in modern day Afghanistan in the first half of the 1900s depict a number of clay and plaster objects seemingly representative of this influence. Whether it is the portrayal of people drinking and playing music on amphorae, the Stupa canopies resembling the capital of Corinthian pillars or stone palettes depicting mythological scenes, the enriching impact of these Hellenistic features stand out in Gandhara art.

It is also believed that the present portrayal of Buddha as we find today is said to have originated in Gandhara sometime between 100-200 CE. The depiction of Buddha as a human was made possible via the tradition of Mahayana Buddhism, also patronized by the Kushanas, and the subsequent representation of the Bodhisattvas, enlightened beings who achieve the ideals of Buddhism. The Buddha head found in Takshashila from the second century CE portrays typical Hellenistic features. A thick layer of curvy hair, protruding eyeballs with half-closed eyes and elongated ears mark the sculpture’s high complexity of creation. The detailing is evident by the delineation of the protruding planes of the eye-socket and that of the nose that extends to the forehead. The gentle expression of calmness adds to the attraction of this sculpture.  

The Buddha head of Takshashila

  Other statues from the Gandhara School depict Buddha and the other Bodhisattvas like Maitreya, the Buddha of the future, standing with a gesture of reassurance, also called as the abhaya-mudra. The body is adorned with a robe which itself is embellished by an impossibly real-looking flowing drapery. Presence of halo around the head of the deity is often shown. One cannot help but compare these figurines to the numerous statues of the Greek gods who themselves are represented on similar lines with well-proportioned bodies, wavy hair and sharp facial features. Depiction of the Bodhisattva Vajrapani, who holds a thunderbolt and is responsible for the protection of Buddha, is usually traced back to Zeus, the principal Greek god, or his son Heracles, the god of strength.

The various Bodhisattvas can be differentiated on the basis of minute changes in their representations. While Maitreya carries a small flask in his hand, Padmapani is gracefully shown holding a lotus. Amitabha, the Buddha of infinite light, is usually shown in varada-mudra, the gesture symbolizing granting of wishes. Vajrapani as mentioned above is shown with a thunderbolt. Seated Buddha is often shown in the dhyana-mudra, a state of meditation. Despite such subtle differences, the overall styles of their depictions aren’t too different from one other, and are strongly guided by the framework of the Gandhara School.  

Maitreya

Padmapani

Another binding agent of the Gandhara School is the depiction of elaborately carved stylized turbans atop the Bodhisattvas. Some sculptures show miniature devotional scenes on the crest of the turban with a pair of devotees offering prayers to Buddha himself, who is placed as the centerpiece of the turban. One remarkable feature found in almost all the Bodhisattvas from Gandhara is that their feet are never depicted naked. All of the sculptures are found with slippers or sandals, reminding one not only of their human origins in the spiritual world but also of their Roman influence.  

Buddha on a Bodhisattva’s turban

Conclusion

The pluralistic nature of the Gandhara School demonstrates an endorsement of provincial ingenuity coupled with excellent absorption of external influences that resulted in a completely new and independent artistic language. Anna Filigenzi from the University of Naples describes Gandhara as ‘a frontier land where regionalism and universalism found a melting pot with Hellenistic models, offering a bridge to elsewhere and anywhere.’ Influence of the Gandhara School on the domestic Mathura School has been well analysed, which went on further to aid the depictions of deities in Hinduism in a more stylized manner as well. The crux of the article lies that in a world where no borders have ever been permanent all throughout history and where elements of culture along with ideas flows with time, it is our great responsibility to preserve such syncretic creations in an age where artificial boundaries are again being made to rise. After all, Tagore did talk about the awakened mind of the holy land that is India.  

References:

• PAL, PRATAPADITYA. “Reflections on the Gandhāra Bodhisattva Images.” <i>Bulletin of the Asia Institute</i>, vol. 20, 2006, pp. 101–115. <i>JSTOR</i>, www.jstor.org/stable/24049185.
• https://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O25038/head-of-the-buddha-sculpture-unknown/
• http://sites.asiasociety.org/gandhara/maps/
• https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/38474
• https://www.sundayguardianlive.com/culture/introduction-graeco-buddhism-gandhara-school-art  

The views, information, or opinions expressed above are solely those of the author(s) involved and do not necessarily represent those held by India Lost & Found and its creative community.

Hi, I’m Pushkar Raj …

 I am an observer of people, of places, and of things that go unnoticed in the usual pace of life. I have a thing for history, the story the stones tell, and like to ponder how we, the mankind, ‘evolved’ the way we did.

Image source : Live History India

https://www.livehistoryindia.com/story/amazing-india/red-fort-delhi/

What led James Fergusson, in his book, The History of Indian and Eastern Architecture, to state that, “The palace at Delhi is, or rather was, the most magnificent palace in the East — perhaps in the world — and the only one at least in India….” can be the heritage ecosystem that he found. It was composed of the Red Fort, the Yamuna river and the city of Shahjahanabad; its functionality and architecture being so grand that its ownership ruled the hearts of the people. The design and the architectural style of the Fort- a fusion of Islamic, Persian, Timurid, and Hindu architecture-with intricacies that still seem to amazes visitors centuries after its conception.

Image source : Ummid.com 

https://www.ummid.com/news/2018/May/01.05.2018/red-fort-is-now-dalmiya-fort.html

This inclusive nature of the Red Fort’s architecture extended itself to embrace the various genres of participants of the First War of Independence, in 1857 and proved to be the image of India’s lost valour and independence from colonial rule. Bahadur Shah Zafar, the then Mughal Emperor with little to no teeth left, was once again proclaimed the ‘Emperor of Hindustan’ and the leader of the First War. Participants from all parts of the country flocked to the Red Fort to seek his blessings. It was in this same Fort that the Emperor was soon trialled and sentenced to exile in Myanmar. The capture of the Red Fort by the British government turned a new leaf in history and yet another century of Indian suppression. The British occupation destroyed two-thirds of the Fort’s inner structures, replacing harem courts and kitchens with British barracks for their soldiers. The vandalism viewed in retrospect gave the site a nationalist nature. Another incident contributing to the concept of Fort as a symbol of national pride, and in turn the nationalist movement, was the Red Fort INA Trials of 1945-46. The ‘Dilli Chalo’ slogan, given by Subhash Chandra Bose, reiterated the centuries-old amnesia of Delhi as the centre of authority. This mission, however, remained incomplete due to the alleged death of Bose in 1945. After his death, the British government captured the members of the Indian National Army (INA) — founded and led by Bose— charged them with treason and went ahead with the trials held at Red Fort. The captured members were kept in the Fort — a symbolic replication of a century-old affair. When on the eve of independence, 16th August 1947, Jawaharlal Nehru unfurled the Indian flag at the Red Fort and spoke to thousands that had gathered there- “We have gathered here on a historic occasion at this ancient fort to win back what was ours”- the whole idea was to draw legitimacy from the ‘ancient’ fort which had developed into a  symbol of national pride. From then on, each and every Prime Minister of India has delivered their speech from the Red Fort- reifying the cultural significance of Nehru’s words of 1947.

Image source: Google Arts and Culture 

https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/dawn-of-independence/yAHAWqbTxsQM3g

The trial of Nathuram Godse in 1948, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi’s- father of the nation’s assassin, was initiated at Red Fort too. Over the centuries, the control over the Fort came to indicate control over all of India, thus the political trial by the newly formed Indian State sought to display its power through its ability to hold trials in the historic site which had a history of conducting such hearings against Indians. Today, despite the dissenting views of polarised ring wing narrators, the Red Fort is viewed as the symbol of secularity, democracy and nationalist pride by the masses. It serves to provide a sense of certainty to the citizens of India, their amour propre is derived from their collective identity as the descendants of great leaders, thinkers and rulers, devoid of any religious overtones.

Bibliography 

1. The Print, 2021, Red Fort isn’t just a historic monument. Its breach crossed a red line in Indian mind https://theprint.in/opinion/newsmaker-of-the-week/red-fort-isnt-just-a-historic-monument-its-breach-crossed-a-red-line-in-indian-mind/595114/
2. The Wire, 2020, How the Red Fort Became the Site for India’s Independence Day Celebrations  https://thewire.in/history/red-fort-history-independence-india   
3. The Hindu, 2018, Cultural glimpses of Qila-e-Mubarak https://www.thehindu.com/society/history-and-culture/cultural-glimpses-of-qila-e-mubarak/article24687207.ece
4. Ethics, Evil, Law and the State: State Power and Political Evil, 2011,A Symbol of State Power: Use of the Red Fort in Indian Political Trials https://doi.org/10.1163/9781848880771_005

The views, information, or opinions expressed above are solely those of the author(s) involved and do not necessarily represent those held by India Lost & Found and its creative community.

Hiya, I’m Khyati Srivastava…

Khyati is currently pursuing History Honours from Lady Shri Ram College for women. She believes in the idea that words have the power to change society. Interested in research, she’s expecting to pursue the same in future.