‘Drape me in his scent’: Female Sexuality and Devotion in Andal, the Goddess
One of the most remarkable changes brought about by the Bhakti Movement was the spiritual space it accorded to women. Some of these women, such as Andal, one of the 12 Vaishnavite Alwars, were celebrated as ‘Poet-Saints’.
The following excerpts from Andal: The Autobiography of a Goddess, which comprises her poems, translated and presented by Priya Sarukkai Chabria and Ravi Shankar, provide a historical and literary background to her poetry
Editor's Note
The Bhakti Movement, as it is called, was responsible for the inauguration of a new practice of Hinduism, namely, an intense love and devotion for the chosen deity, which replaced ritualistic stipulations and hierarchies. Beginning in 7th to 8th century South India, Bhakti spread all over the Indian subcontinent. It was, in its impact, far more than a theological intervention or new form of worship: through the composition of devotional poetry, it enriched Indian literary cultures; and, in its rejection of traditional hierarchy, it was a powerful social movement.
Poet-Saints were central figures around which Bhakti sects blossomed, each dedicated to different deities in the Hindu pantheon, such the Shaivite Nayanars or the Vaishnavite Alwars. Poet-Saints began as mortals, who acquired the status of Saints due to the strength of their devotion, which was most expressed through poetic compositions, which were transmitted both orally and through compendium.
The second most important feature of the Bhakti movement was the spiritual space it opened up for the marginalised, i.e. women and ‘lower’ castes, who had heretofore been excluded based on notions of ritual purity. By allowing them to express their devotion in the language of the common person, the movement offered them a medium with which to articulate their devotion. Women Poet-Saints, while fewer in number than men, were – and continue to be – celebrated in their own right.
Several women poet-saints emerged from the region which is now Tamil Nadu, and left their indelible mark on Tamil literature. One such poet-saint was Andal, who was “elevated to goddess status within a few centuries of her birth” and was the only woman in the ranks of the 12 Vaishnava Alwar saints. As per legend, she merged with Vishnu (or Tirumal, the ‘Dark One,’ as he is called in Tamil) at the young age of 16. Thus, she is unique in that she was “taken as a bride” by Vishnu in her mortal form itself, and not as a spirit.
She holds immense importance in Tamil Nadu today and is worshipped as one of the primary consorts of Vishnu. Her birthplace, Srivilliputhur is home to twin temples dedicated to her and an avatar of Vishnu, Vatapatrasayi. She is also an important figure in pop culture, finding a place in “films and popular TV dramas” and as a “teen icon” for young girls.
Andal has been credited with producing two works, the Thirupparaithurai (The Path to Krishna) and Nachiyar Tirumalai (The Sacred Songs of the Lady). In the latter, Andal “sings of her individual need for spiritual and sexual congress with her chosen god.” In speaking of sexual attraction as a form of devotion, Andal’s poetry opens up a conversation on female desire that even contemporary art is often hesitant to touch. This does not mean, of course, that there are no hindrances: many hymns from the Nachiyar Tirumalai are not sung in public.
At the same time, Andal’s legend and poetry are about much more than the participation of women in a male-dominated space. She is also one of the foremost legends of classical Tamil poetry and a study of her life also brings up important theological questions.
In order to illuminate these various facets, we bring to you excerpts from Andal: The Autobiography of a Goddess, a collection of Andal’s poetry translated by Priya Sarukai Chabria and Ravi Shankar. The preface, written by poet Mani Rao, provides an insight into the act of translation, as well as the life of a ‘text’ in the Indic literary tradition. The introduction, written jointly by Chabria and Shankar, provides a brief sketch of Andal’s life and myth, along with a glimpse of her poetry.
(Quotes, where unattributed, are from Andal: The Autobiography of a Goddess).
Story
PREFACE
Andal’s life and legend is so completely founded in the divine that merely thinking of translating Andal ought to make one speechless, struck with ineffability. Additionally, the genre of ancient Tamil poetry to which the Thiruppavai and the Naciyar Thirumoli belong is said to incorporate inner spaces, hidden meanings. How, then, might a translator go about the task of translating Andal, if one dares at all? Priya Sarukkai Chabbria and Ravi Shankar seem to derive their translation strategy from this openfield in Andal’s poetics.
There are two Andals in this book: Priya’s Andal, and Ravi’s Andal. The two translators do not divide Andal, they share her entirely, translating the same poems. Reading their translations one after another may alarm a reader who has dogmatic expectations of translations, or fixed ideas about fidelity; she may stop and wonder, which is the ‘real’ translation, which particular, ‘true’? Are Andal’s breasts in Pasuram 8 the ‘full hills’ of Priya’s translation or supple ‘upturned blossoms’ of Ravi’s?
Recognising the distinct styles and divergent translations of Priya and Ravi calls to mind the story of the Septuagint, where seventy-two translators come up with an identical translation of the Hebrew Bible. While this example is usually cited to establish the authenticity and the fidelity of that translation, it has always raised for me another question, the reality of the process. Can the translator be said to exist, if she is transparent? Even Anne Carson, whose exacting translation of Sappho places us as if right next to a poem fragment on an ancient papyrus, admits: “I like to think that, the more I stand out of the way, the more Sappho shows through. This is an amiable fantasy (transparency of self) within which most translators labor.” Every translator has a unique lens. This is not just about interpretation, an intellectual activity, this is also about personality, personal history, biography. An Urdu couplet explains it well: Ishq ki chot toh padti hi har dil pe iksaan. Zarf ke farq se avaaz badal jati hai. ‘The strike or the hurt of love falls the same way on each heart/mind, but depending on the material (i.e., nature, character, what stuff the person is made of) it sounds different.’ We must expect translations to be individual, otherwise the task of the translator may as well be the ‘task of the computer,’ or even the ‘task of the dictionary.’
Andal’s life and legend is so completely founded in the divine that merely thinking of translating Andal ought to make one speechless, struck with ineffability. Additionally, the genre of ancient Tamil poetry to which the Thiruppavai and the Naciyar Thirumoli belong is said to incorporate inner spaces, hidden meanings.
Priya uses imperatives (‘come, make this vow’), nouns as verbs (‘to hymn his magic’), and graphic images (‘lightning nerved air’) for a translation charged with momentum and force. Her triptych in Nachiyar is an enactment (abhinaya) much like in a dance-drama, where a statement is presented once, and then again, and then again, slightly different each time, the rasa more heightened. Assuming the first part is most literal, or as literal as you can get with Andal, and the second stanza yet another translation or telling, carrying an echo or trace of the first, the third stanza is a mutter, a trailing off, an entry into the psyche of Andal and the translator so impacted that she continues to voice her, not quite consciously. Ravi’s translation startles expectations that we may have of men-translators translating a woman-poet. In Take Me to the Land of My Lord, Andal asks, ‘[l]eave me there on my haunches,’ the limbs of Hrisikesa (Krishna) ‘quivering in time like a veena string’ – his translation embodies Andal. Ravi also circumambulates the ideas and images of a poem with each stanza, but works his imaginary into a smooth, narrative flow. Both translators bring us the textures of Tamil; whereas Ravi intersperses Tamil words in his translation, Priya’s English itself seems shaped by the source language. Their two Andals walk alongside. If Priya’s Thiruppavai is solemn, chant-like, Ravi’s Thiruppavai is conversational. Priya tells us that the gopis’ hands are too small to enclose the udders of the cows. Ravi tells us the udders groan to fill the pots. Two sets of eyes trained on the scene, the vision of the reader gains depth; and returning to the same poems from two different angles that are also rich spectrums in themselves drives the reader into the deep, of Andal. While Priya and Ravi respond to Andal, they also seem to respond to each other. What Ravi presents in Dark Flower expands into a bouquet in Priya, or perhaps Priya first shows us the flowers, and then Ravi the bunch? The collaborative strategy has an expansive effect, it is Andal who proliferates.
A 14th Century bronze statue of Andal
In order to appreciate, understand, or just locate the methodology of this Andal translation, it is useful to consider the conventions of how a ‘text’ or a source thrives in the Indian tradition. When we find railway metaphors in a song attributed to circa 15th century Kabir, we know that the corpus of Kabir represents an imaginary, Kabir songs pay homage to the collective idea of Kabir. And we do not split hairs over the definition of the Tulsidas Ramayana, wonder whether it is a translation, version, adaptation, creative translation, transcreation, retelling or commentary. It is multiplicity that achieves the transmission and continuity of source texts, whether oral, or written. Texts that we think of as ‘fixed’ also assimilate the voices of readers. Look at the tradition of Gita dissemination—it has relied, and continues to rely, on people who study, recite, translate, explain and comment on the Gita while drawing from previous commentaries (bhasyas). It is only in the context of modern book-culture that we expect a Gita translation to be the ‘representation’ of a source text, and expect commentary within footnotes and with reduced emphasis. And if we do not regard many Gita translations as many Gitas, that is a comment on our expectations of translations, and on our naiveté about interpretation, not on a translation’s management of fidelity.
In order to appreciate, understand, or just locate the methodology of this Andal translation, it is useful to consider the conventions of how a ‘text’ or a source thrives in the Indian tradition. When we find railway metaphors in a song attributed to circa 15th century Kabir, we know that the corpus of Kabir represents an imaginary, Kabir songs pay homage to the collective idea of Kabir.
Then the bhakti tradition admits intuition as methodology. In The Flute Calls Still, Dilip Kumar Roy writes about Indira Devi who became his disciple in 1949 in Pondicherry. Indira was such an intense seeker and bhakta, devotional singing sessions sent her into trances. She had visions of Mirabai singing in “a voice throbbing with “love’s yearning and pain,” recalled and wrote down these songs, and sang them. Commenting on this phenomenon, Sri Aurobindo (who was Roy’s guru) said, it was evident that “her consciousness and the consciousness of Mira are collaborating on some plane superconscient to the ordinary human mind.”
This book is a translation that must also be located within this Indic tradition, deriving its freedoms from it. It is a conversation with a mystic text, and must be appraised as one. Priya and Ravi utilize a range of methodologies from past and contemporary rubrics of translation, they are Indian and not only Indian, they are translators and poets besides, they work from Andal’s text and over and above, they translate, and they do more. Dear reader, may you be open to Andal in all sorts of ways.
– Mani Rao
INTRODUCTION
Andal and her Poetry
Andal (often referred to as Andal/Aandaal or Antal), the 9th-century mystic poet was elevated to goddess status within a few centuries of her birth in the southern Indian state of Tamil Nadu. She was the only woman among the twelve medieval Vaishnava saints, known as the Alvars who ‘dived deep and drowned themselves in the love of god’ implying their complete devotion to Vishnu-Narayana, one of three main deities in the Hindu pantheon, often called Tirumal, The Sacred Dark One, in Tamil. Unlike other mystics Andal is unique in demanding to be taken as bride by Vishnu not as spirit but as a living maiden. Legend goes that when she was around sixteen she merged with her god at his temple in Srirangam, Tamil Nadu. Since then she has existed as myth and deity.
The Alvars, along with their counterparts, the Siva-worshipping Nayanmars, are the earliest proponents of the bhakti movement, a devotional and socially radical form of worship that emerged in medieval India which emphasized the quality of god as saulabhyam, or easily accessible to all. This celebration of personal prayer stressed composing in the poets’ mother tongue –as against Brahminic Sanskrit – some see it as striking against the caste system. Even as kings ‘re-converted’ to Hindu faith, the bhakti movement became a popular force instrumental in the retreat of wealthy Buddhist and Jain sects and, simultaneously, curtailed Brahmin monopoly on religion.
Tamil Poster of the 12 Alwars
Andal’s first work – composed when she was about thirteen – the Tiruppavai (The Path to Krishna) is a lyrical description of the vows undertaken by young women to obtain a good husband; it is a song of congregational worship. In her second and last work, Nacciyar Tirumoli (The Sacred Songs of The Lady), Andal sings of her individual need for spiritual and sexual congress with her chosen god and of an abundant female desire explicitly sited in the body which too is holy. The Tiruppavai and the Nacciyar Tirumoli are included in the circa 11th century compilation Nalayira Divya Prabandham (Four Thousand Divine Compositions) that Tamil Srivaishanvas consider on par with the Sanskrit Vedas. The compilation’s literal translation is ‘Four’ (nali) ‘Thousand’ (aayiram) ‘Divine’ (divya) ‘affection’ (pra) ‘bonding’ (bandham) again is indicative of the Alwars’ intimacy of address to Vishnu-Narayana.
Andal calls to Vishnu, The Pervader, the cohesive principle of sattva, supreme illumination. The Brhad-devata (2.69.[213]) suggests his name may originate in the Sanskrit root vis which means to spread, to enter and to surround. “Having created the universe, he entered it” states the Taittiriya Upanishad (1.2.6. [274]). In Vaishnava theology, Vishnu is the Self in all of life and manifests endlessly in the world of forms and orders of creation, “just as from an inexhaustible lake thousands of streams flow on all sides” to guide and protect creation. Vishnu is prayed to as Hari, Remover of Sorrow and Illusions which is especially poignant in Andal’s case as she beseeches him time and again to accept and to save her. She addresses him variously: as Narayana (who moves on causal waters on the serpent Seshnaga), as Narayana Nampi (Universal Abode), Tirumal or Mal (The Dark One of Tamil theology) and through seven of his ten prominent avatars. But most often she addresses him as Krishna, divine child and lover.
Andal (often referred to as Andal/Aandaal or Antal), the 9th-century mystic poet was elevated to goddess status within a few centuries of her birth in the southern Indian state of Tamil Nadu. She was the only woman among the twelve medieval Vaishnava saints, known as the Alvars who ‘dived deep and drowned themselves in the love of god’ implying their complete devotion to Vishnu-Narayana, one of three main deities in the Hindu pantheon, often called Tirumal, The Sacred Dark One, in Tamil.
Each of Andal’s pasurams (songs) is drenched in the way the sacred is embedded in every material that constitutes ephemeral life; at the same time she summons timeless grace, arul, to illumine her. Her work calls to question all markers of identity and boundaries as she passionately sings for bliss to enter her body and spirit. When we receive Andal, we must keep her youthfulness in mind. She conflates extreme violence with swooning surrender; splices the desires of the sexual body with visions of cosmic temporality. Yet we refrain from applying the term ‘transgressive’ to Andal as it suggests a deliberate breaking of rules. It appears she did not bother with any social conventions or rules at all – except those of poetry.
From Saint-Poet to Goddess and Teen Icon
Andal’s first work – composed when she was about thirteen – the Tiruppavai (The Path to Krishna) is a lyrical description of the vows undertaken by young women to obtain a good husband; it is a song of congregational worship. In her second and last work, Nacciyar Tirumoli (The Sacred Songs of The Lady), Andal sings of her individual need for spiritual and sexual congress with her chosen god and of an abundant female desire explicitly sited in the body which too is holy. Andal eventually would become a teenage saint-poet and then a goddess, when she became Vishnu’s consort, famously rejecting any marriage to a mortal man, considering herself betrothed to the divine.
Vatapatrasayi, the avatar of Vishnu worshipped at Srivilliputhur
Performative interpretations of Andal’s life of an all-surrendering love and passionate piety are enacted in Chennai during the annual music and dance festival as ‘high’ art, as also in films and popular TV dramas. Dingy roadside photo studios exhibit saturated images of girls in their coming-of-age ceremony dressed as Andal in vibrant silk saris, flower garlanded, hair dressed in a small bun on the right and then left to cascade. (The girls are also photographed variably as faux geishas, in salvar-kameez ‘suits’, as Bollywood starlets in jeans and spangling tops etc, thereby co-opting every current image of desirability. The Andal iconographic image, however, is a constant.) Perhaps the photographs imply that each girl is a fit bride for a god or perhaps they are shaded with upper caste aspirations, but it seems possible that there is a more powerful and unfathomed cultural imagination at work 13 centuries after Andal’s brief life.
Andal’s first work – composed when she was about thirteen – the Tiruppavai (The Path to Krishna) is a lyrical description of the vows undertaken by young women to obtain a good husband; it is a song of congregational worship. In her second and last work, Nacciyar Tirumoli (The Sacred Songs of The Lady), Andal sings of her individual need for spiritual and sexual congress with her chosen god and of an abundant female desire explicitly sited in the body which too is holy.
Andal’s first work, Tiruppavai (The Path to Krishna) is famed in Southern India, especially Tamil Nadu and sung by devotees during the sacred month of Markali. It is a lyrical and bhakti-filled description of vows undertaken by young women to obtain a good husband and is a song of congregational worship. However, in the later Nacciyar Tirumoli (The Sacred Songs of the Lady), Andal sings of her individual need for sexual congress with her chosen god. Except for Hymn Six – which elucidates her dreams of the marriage rituals and is sung at weddings even today – the other 13 hymns are not as often heard, perhaps because they speak of an abundant female desire explicitly sited in the body. Similar to the Gnostic texts which were omitted from what is commonly referred to as the Judeo-Christian Bible for their more overt sexual symbolism and heterodoxy which verged on the heretical, many of Andal’s hymns from the Nacciyar Tirumoli are considered by many (though not by us) to be ‘transgressive’.
Prismatic Soundings
We, the two translators of this project, are poets ourselves and so approach the translation with neither a historiographical nor theological approach, but rather a poetic one that sees her utterances as songs that need an innovative approach in order to sing fully in English. Priya grew up hearing Andal’s collection of hymns sung at weddings and festivals. For decades, the holy-poet-become-goddess hovered in her imagination like a cloud over the sea, nebulous yet lit on the horizon of the liminal, until one day she decided the goddess must land on the shore of her first language: English. At this time she met Ravi Shankar, the Indian American poet and professor, who shared her passion for Tamil literature and Andal in particular.
Andal Temple at Srivilliputhur
That’s how the two of us became collaborators and in working together, we realized that a new approach was necessary if we were to do justice to the richness and spiritual intensity of these poems. Our intention is to make the poems come alive in English and so we dispensed with attempting a literal translation, verging instead into a polyphonous mode of capturing the multiplicity inherent in Andal’s songs by experimenting with form and sometimes including multiple versions of the same poem, as well as more collaborative translations. We spoke about our aspirations for this project to the elder of the two scholar-poets whom we consulted for help with the manuscript, octogenarian S.V. Seshadri, who helped us understand the complexity of Tamil Sangam era (2 BCE–2 CE) poetics in which Andal composed.
Andal’s first work, Tiruppavai (The Path to Krishna) is famed in Southern India, especially Tamil Nadu and sung by devotees during the sacred month of Markali. It is a lyrical and bhakti-filled description of vows undertaken by young women to obtain a good husband and is a song of congregational worship.
To provide a sense of the difficulty in translating Old Tamil, consider the following saying, poem and verse which present conundrums because of specific poetic codes and suggested ‘unmarked’ meanings compressed in each.
‘If you wish to destroy a thorn tree, call for the axe.’
When told of her lover’s interest in another woman she smiled and said:
Drunk
with honey
from the opening lotus
pond the bee flies
to its hive in the sandalwood grove.
Bring me his garments translucent, yellow, shimmering
as pollen through which the dark majesty of his thighs rise
glistening and drape me in his scent
so my every pore is perfumed. Then shall I be content!
The meanings of these three distinctive utterances need contextual clues in order to be unravelled. The first is an epigram that translates as words of advice:
If you wish to kill your enemy, O king, do so quickly.
The second is a secular poem in which the woman implies that her lover enjoys her deeply, mutually as she enjoys him, that their love is sweet and as fresh and pure as blossoming lotuses whose roots are deep and entwined as their vows to each other and that he will carry her love with him as faithfully as a bee returning to its hive as he journeys to his home high on the hill far away, and that their love will remain fragrant and long lasting as sandalwood until he returns to her.
The third is a sacred hymn that follows the rules of Old Tamil prosody in making a similar, yet very different erotic demand. Unlike the earlier poem, its desires are not veiled in symbolic allegory. But while it seems direct, it could misdirect, for the desired ‘he’ is not a mortal, but the Protector of Universes, the dreaming Vishnu, who, in the starry cosmic ocean, rests on the cloud-coloured serpent Ananta, who represents ‘the eternity of time’s endless revolutions’. The speaker of this verse is Andal who was possibly fifteen at the time. This instance of sexual and devotional intensity is from the Nacciyar Tirumoli, Song Thirteen, verse one. In theological terms, the yellow silk is often interpreted as the veiling of the sacred wisdom of Narayana’s body. The speaker’s assumed extreme familiarity with god gives these poems their uncanny edge of heightened eroticism.
We have translated her bhakti or devotion-drenched hymns as The Autobiography of a Goddess. Alongside, we refer to the commentary of the 13th century scholar, Periyavaccan Pillai (Veritable Great Teacher) as he is the most revered early interpreter of these hymns.
We have translated her bhakti or devotion-drenched hymns as The Autobiography of a Goddess. Alongside, we refer to the commentary of the 13th century scholar, Periyavaccan Pillai (Veritable Great Teacher) as he is the most revered early interpreter of these hymns. We sought the guidance of Dr S. Raghuraman-Pulavar who has lectured and published extensively on the daunting Tholkaapiyameypaatiyal and is possibly the leading expert on cenor ancient Tamil grammar and poetics. He induced our passion for the holographic Tamil poetic form. At times we consulted Dr Prema Nandakumar, scholar of visistadvita philosophy (qualified non-dualism) to tease out inherent theological references. Also invaluable to us were Vidya Dehejia’s Andal and Her Path of Love: Poems of a Woman Saint from South India (State University of New York Press, 1990) and Archana Venkatesan’s The Secret Garland: Antal’s Tiruppavai and Nacciyar Tirumoli (Oxford University Press, 2010), the two most recent translations of Andal’s work into English, albeit in a very different form and manner than what we have attempted.
Drowning in love and language
As a bhakti saint, Andal composed in cen or Old Tamil. However, this implied following many of the rules codified in the Tolkaappiyam, the classical treatise on grammar and poetics. She did not follow its tinnai conventions that morph moods of love and evocative landscape into symbolic spaces of passion but worked with much of its other riddling complexities. Compounding the difficulty of translating this work, here is the catch: the ancient Tamils relied on the listeners and readers to ‘complete’ the poems by comprehending various allusions, including the invocation of myth and the utilization of complex poetic strategies. This is similar to postmodern reader-response theory that argues against the concept that meaning is embedded in the text, but rather believes that meaning only emerges dialectically between the relationship of text and reader.
Aadi Pooram festivities at the Andal temple, which mark the day the goddess was adopted by Periyalvar
A staggeringly exhaustive and codified compendium, the Tolkaappiyam recommends that both poet and reader immerse themselves in systems of poetics, grammar, versification, forms, metrical and rhythm schemes and possess an adequate mental thesaurus before attempting to read or write poetry. The level of sophistication of classical Tamil poetry is profound and there have been many manuals written on its prosodic elements, which included an elaboration of elullu, or the phoneme, acai, or the metreme, cir, or the metrical foot, talai, or the linkage, ali, or the line, and totai, or ornamentation. Sangam literature, written in classical Tamil, offers us poetic works with re-combinations of the above elements in extremely refined ways.
As a bhakti saint, Andal composed in cen or Old Tamil. However, this implied following many of the rules codified in the Tolkaappiyam, the classical treatise on grammar and poetics. She did not follow its tinnai conventions that morph moods of love and evocative landscape into symbolic spaces of passion but worked with much of its other riddling complexities.
For example, Andal’s Tiruppavai is written in eight-line stanzas in the koccakakalippa meter, or four metrical feet, whereas the Nacciyar Tirumoli employs five different meters in lines that range from four to eight feet. We have not attempted to mimic that complex meter in English, as it would be a virtual impossibility, as well as resultant in a stilted form of poetry. We have instead attempted to abide in her imagery and metaphor, and find a suitable form that reinforces and mirrors the ecstatic content of her songs, especially as relates to the traditions of Tamil love poetry.
Take this anonymous verse about amorous poetry which states:
Aagapaattuvaannam
mudindadu polmudiyadadi
aahum
Here’s a literal translation, compounded by the difficulty that Tamil morphology is akin to a mantra with a maraiporul, or a secret hidden meaning:
Love-poetry sounds/forms/presents
complete as if not complete
is like that
or, put another way:
Love poetry seems
completed
but isn’t.
The loop is only completed when the listener participates in the performance of the poem somatically and collectively, and that kind of participatory model of interpretation points to the thriving local literary culture that existed at that time. Translating this element of historicity for a contemporary audience now provides us the space and freedom to make multiple connections between lines and between verses, and productive misinterpretations notwithstanding, allows for the liberation of imagination in trying to bring to light the numerous flowing undercurrents and holographic affects that are taking place simultaneously. For this reason, we have developed a radical mode of translation meant to illuminate a wide spectrum of Andal’s spirit, rather than to slavishly hew to the letter of her work.
This excerpt has been carried courtesy the permission of Zubaan Books. You can buy Andal: The Autobiography of a Goddess, here.
Priya Sarukkai Chabria is an award-winning translator, poet and writer acclaimed for her radical aesthetics. Her books include works of speculative fiction, literary non-fiction, poetry collections, and translations from Classical Tamil. She has written several books, includingNot Springtime Yet, and Generation 14.
Ravi Shankar is a Pushcart-prize winning poet, author, editor, translator, and professor. He has authored and edited over fifteen books and chapbooks of poetry, including the Many Uses of Mint: New and Selected Poems: 1998-2018; Language for a New Century and Deepening Groove. Translated into over 12 languages, Shankar has taught at esteemed institutions like Columbia University, Fairfield University, the City University of Hong Kong and the University of Sydney.
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An exchange of open letters between Rabindranath Tagore and Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, in which they argue for 'Cooperation' and 'Non-Cooperation', respectively, with a focus on the idea of ‘Soul-force’ (as opposed to ‘Brute-force’)
A chronicling of the history of caste politics in Bihar, from the Janeyu Movement of the 1920s and the Triveni Sangh, through Ram Manohar Lohia, the JP Movement and Karpoori Thakur to the making of Lalu Prasad Yadav
In his own words, read Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi's views on the proselytising efforts taken on by the organisations such as Arya Samaj, Tabhligi Jamaat, and the Church Missionary Society of England.
In the colonial period, the threat of the lecherous male gaze was used by the new patriarchy to restrict access to employment and public space for women, maintaining a patriarchal division of labour. Read how this process unfolded in our newest excerpt.
Tagore raises questions about Gandhi’s ‘Cult of the Charkha’ in an essay, following it up with another essay that further stirs things up. Gandhi responds in an essay published in ‘Young India’ and then a postscript, of sorts, to the entire controversy
Why did Gandhi go on a fast unto death to protest separate electorates for Dalits? An intimate glimpse into the days leading up to this decision from the diary of his personal secretary Mahadev Desai
An intellectual portrait of Raghubir Sinh — known to most as a prince and a politician rather than a scholar — told mostly through the lens of his relationships with his mentors, pioneering historians Jadunath Sarkar and GS Sardesai
Manan Ahmed Asif recommends Shafaat Ahmad Khan’s presidential address at the birth of the Indian History Congress in 1935, which elaborated on the Indian historiographical landscape, challenges ahead and possible solutions
Was Lala Lajpat Rai's Hindu nationalism congruent with the principles of secularism? Explore our latest excerpt from Vanya Vaidehi Bhargav's fresh off-the-press book - Being Hindu, Being Indian: Lala Lajpat Rai's Ideas of Nation for more.
Munshi Premchand, one of modern India's most influential writers, addresses the first conference of the Progressive Writers’ Association in 1936, on the nature and purpose of literature
Nehru and Jinnah may have been spokespersons for different political bodies, but their often heated interactions were marked by consistent civility. Read this exchange discussing the question of Muslim representation and the communal question
In 1942, five years before India was independent, two sub-divisions in Bengal not only declared their independence— they also instituted a parallel government. The first in a new series.
In 1942, two sub-districts in Bengal declared independence and set up a parallel government. The second part of our story brings you archival papers in the form of letters, newspaper reports, and judicial records documenting this remarkable movement.
An excerpt from Pramod Kapoor’s book ‘1946 Royal Indian Navy Mutiny: Last War of Independence’ examines the different reasons for the RIN Mutiny as put forward by the British and Indian witnesses in the Commission of Enquiry proceedings
In December, 1946, one of India’s major artists travelled to North Bengal to document India’s “first consciously attempted revolt by a politicized peasantry”. Here are his sketches, art and diary entries on the Tebhaga Movement
Three powerful speeches from one of the few Adivasi representatives in the Constituent Assembly – Jaipal Singh Munda, vocalising the community’s long history of exploitation and their expectations from India an independent nation
On the 75th anniversary of Indian independence, here are eight speeches from the Indian freedom struggle, and around Indian independence, from leaders and thinkers who still have lots to say
Popularly, we think that political cartoons question the powerful but what if this was not the case? What if political cartoons, replicated structures of the socially dominant? Read how in our new excerpt on political cartoons featuring Dr. Ambedkar.
Labelled "one of the shortest, happiest wars ever seen", the integration of the princely state of Hyderabad in 1948 was anything but that. Read about the truth behind the creation of an Indian Union, the fault lines left behind, and what they signify
Was anti-Gandhi rhetoric echoing only within the Hindu Mahasabha, or were princely states involved too? Read a telling excerpt from A E Suresh and P Kotamraju's book, presenting fresh research on Gandhi's assassination
On Republic Day, the Indian History Collective presents you, twenty-two illustrations from the first illustrated manuscript (1954) of our Constitution.
The story of how a provisional parliament elected on a limited franchise passed the first amendment to our Constitution that continues to restrict key Indian liberties
An excerpt from R.C. Majumdar’s book, originally published in 1970, outlining flaws he saw in the historiography of the historians of his time, and their root causes
An in-depth look at Balasaheb Deoras’ two-decades long tenure as RSS sarsanghchalak, analysing his role in transforming the organisation from a fringe party to the national alternative to the Congress
This chapter from Monobina Gupta’s book traces the rule of the Left Front government in West Bengal, illustrating how its desire to hold on to power overpowered its promises to the public, paving the way for the end of its 34 year-long rule
This gripping and incisive chapter from veteran journalists Mark Tully and Satish Jacob's book goes over the key events of Operation Blue Star in detail. In particular, the night of 5th June when the bulk of the combat took place
This chapter from Monobina Gupta’s Didi: A Political Biography looks at the Singur-Nandigram-Lalgarh agitations and how they laid the ground for Mamata Banerjee to emerge as an alternative to the CPI-M in West Bengal
An examination of literature and songs produced by Dalit women, providing a glimpse into their role in building an anti-caste consciousness and the role of Dr. BR Ambedkar as a feminist icon
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