Storying Anthropocene Waters: Advocacy through Resacralization in Postcolonial River Narratives of the Indian Subcontinent

Abstract

Against the background of contemporary debates about the Anthropocene and the attendant danger of global warming and climate change, which is causally linked to the unchecked exploitation of the earth by humans, narratives which embody an earth-centric scientia sacra become tools of advocacy for the ‘resacralization’ of the earth. This paper explores three South Asian river narratives that offer a blueprint for mindfully inhabiting the earth under the shadow of the Anthropocene. Calling for a participatory relationship with the holiness of water, they challenge the construction of water in a rapidly globalizing, uneven society shaped by a colonial hydrology in which the ecological relationship between land and water is out of balance. Drawing attention to the multiple ways in which the human and non-human world are enmeshed in the Anthropocene, these narratives engage with environmental justice concerns and challenge the hierarchy or perspectives and worldviews regarding accepted notions of subalternity. These texts construct a triptych suggesting an embedded ecotheology of the material and the spiritual, thereby sensitising the reader to the endangered waterscapes of the Anthropocene and also to the promise of the Symbiocene through an awareness of the fluid relational field that we share with the greater-than-human world.

1. Introduction

The much debated term, the Anthropocene or the Age of Human, denotes an era marked by excessive human activities leading to a depletion of the earth’s resources, thereby leading to a ‘dark ecology’ (to use Timothy Morton’s term) in which humans and the non-human world remain inextricably enmeshed (Morton 2016). Frederic Jameson refers to this as the “radical eclipse of Nature”, a consequence of the ‘apotheosis’ of late capitalism and neo-colonialism that have objectified and destroyed Nature1 to such an extent that the “other of our society is in that sense no longer Nature at all, as it was in precapitalist societies, but something else which we must now identify” (Jameson 1992, p. 35). This essay explores the multifaceted implications of the Anthropocene, examining its impact on religious and ethical perspectives, the need for new cosmologies, and then follows it up with a study of the indigenous responses to the Anthropocene through an analysis of South Asian river narratives as a means of navigating this complex epoch.

The term ‘Anthropocene’ has been considered “obfuscatory” and scholars point out that any discussion regarding excessive activity fuelled by human greed is a fallout of “the tragedy of the ‘Capitalocene’” and therefore feel that the term ‘Capitalocene’ has to be used “to dramatize the relentless pursuit of the accumulation of capital at the expense of both humans and the environment and to use performance to render visible those dysfunctions vis-à-vis the nonhuman world that have been normalized into invisibility” (Arons 2023, p. 38). Hence navigating this period of intense anthropogenic activity requires a redefined relationship between humans and nature, and a heightened dedication to the well-being of the earth. This navigation exhibits clear tendencies, such as re-evaluating religions amidst the current ecological crisis, as they shape worldviews and ethics that underpin core attitudes and values across diverse cultures and societies.

Religion in the Anthropocene remains a challenge since it implies the re-introduction of biocentric values regarding the non-human world in an anthropocentric world shaped by the Western logic of domination that has long expunged the idea of the sacred in the world of Nature2. The Descartian reduction of nature to a soulless machine which can be manipulated, destroyed and subjected to anthropogenic change and the hyperseparation from nature that this paradigm advocates has been the basis of all fracture lines along race, class and gender, which has informed colonial aggressions and more recently the uneven development patterns of globalization. When we refer to religion, we are not talking about an institutionalized system defined by specific beliefs or practices. Instead, we mean a framework that shapes how people perceive and interact with the world. This perspective encompasses the narratives, symbols and ethical principles that provide meaning and guide the behavior of its adherents. As Deane-Drummond notes, “religion has a powerful influence in shaping both morality and ethics. In religious views, ethics more often than not take the form of a normative ethics, meaning what is right or not is laid down through given principles. Religious narratives can also reflect simply the nature of religious experience, so religion is about the way people tell particular stories” (Deane-Drummond 2018, p. 58). These narratives have the potential to nudge the reader into an renewed awareness of what Syed Hossein Nasr calls “scientia sacra”—the “need of ethical action toward all natural beings on the basis of a knowledge of the order of nature corresponding to an objective reality, a knowledge that is itself a sacred science…” (Nasar 1996, p. 223). Nasr underscores the importance of interconnection to awaken to this sacred science which had always been the realm of action in primal communities, the forgetting of which has proven to be disastrous for humans. Hence, the scientia sacra for an Anthropocene world is based on “a relational ontology” that is “founded in the ability ‘to see as’, to put oneself in the place of the other in order to relate to it” (Conty 2019, p. 13). Extending this logic, another aspect of the Anthropocene’s sacred science is what Donna Haraway calls “becoming with”—fostering connections with non-humans to cultivate a broader sense of Selfhood crucial for survival. ‘Becoming with’ acts as resistance against the threats of extinction and involves how “we tell stories through and with other stories” (Haraway 2015, p. vii). Tony Walting argues that “new cosmologies and sacred visions are essential for re-imagining the human/environment relationship, as they provide a framework for understanding the interconnectedness of all life and the need for a more sustainable and harmonious relationship between humans and the natural world” (Watling 2008, p. 3).

Within the expansive sense of selfhood demanded by the Anthropocene, there is an urgency to redefine our worldviews, as culture and nature are no longer polar opposites in this mutually imbricated continuum. Therefore, embodied earth ethics in the Anthropocene is a call to embrace the totality of this continuum and to acknowledge the inherent sacrality of these toxic and polluted earth-scapes in order to heal them through compassionate activism and the power of imagination. The narratives of nature described by critics like Serpil Oppermann as “narrative agencies of storied matter at every scale of being in their mutual entanglements” are re-constructed by literary texts that deploy narrative strategies to comment on the material and symbolic aspects of the earth’s resources that have historically informed their abuse in capitalist world-ecologies (Oppermann 2013, p. 57).

Additionally, there have been several attempts at selective adoption and appropriation of religions and religious practices ever since Rudolf Otto’s advocation for resacralization of nature through the revival of religious and spiritual practices that recognize the sacred in nature (Otto 1923). For example, in proposing a ‘public theology’ in the Anthropocene era, Dan Smyer Yü argues that an intersection of religious practices and academic research is crucial for developing new environmental ethics in the context of the Anthropocene. He illustrates his argument by selectively appropriating concepts from Christian theologians and ‘socially engaged Buddhism’ in the West (Yu 2023). Arne Naess’ concept of “species egalitarianism”, encapsulated in his idea of “the maximal realization of potentials among the maximal diversity of life-forms” is another example of such an adoption (Naess n.d., p. 2). What is common to all these tendencies is an attempt at “re-sacralization of nature”—acknowledging and revering the inherent sacredness and interconnectedness of the natural world.

Story-telling in the Anthropocene is one of the re-sacralizing tools that can help overcome the fundamental illusion that humans are separate from the earth. “The ecological unconscious”, according to eco-philosopher Theodor Roszak, is the bedrock of human identity which remains dormant due to the false conditions created by a mechanised, industrialised way of life (Roszak 2007). Story-telling can therefore become a powerful tool for human awakening from the stupor of anthropocentric hubris. Alexa Weik von Mossner argues the concept of the Anthropocene can be reimagined through storytelling to emphasize the interconnectedness of human and geological agency (Weik von Mossner 2016). Similarly, Jennifer Hamilton and Emily Potter have explored the role and significance of storytelling and proposes the term “storyism” in addressing the climate emergency (Hamilton and Potter 2024). Postcolonial narratives enrich this reimagining by foregrounding indigenous traditions, worldviews, and lifestyles, thereby introducing alternative discourses that challenge dominant Eurocentric knowledge and belief systems. For example, Rebecca Macklin has demonstrated how environmental justice and environmental racism are deeply intertwined by examining how indigenous authors like Simon Ortiz and Linda Hogan employ literary forms to address issues of environmental racism and justice within the context of settler colonialism. She argues that centering indigenous perspectives and responses is crucial for addressing the ecological crisis resulting from colonialism and anthropocentric thinking (Macklin 2022). However, the implications of postcolonial narratives for developing eco-theological frameworks essential for ‘staying alive’ and navigating the Anthropocene involve revealing the contextual nature of concepts like sacrality and profanity.

These discussions promote important questions: How do postcolonial narratives achieve this goal? What are the implications for developing an eco-theology suited to the Anthropocene era and for discussions that move beyond anthropocentrism in relation to water ecologies? Furthermore, how do rivers shape human collective and individual identities, challenging human efforts to control them? Additionally, to what extent do postcolonial narratives reveal the importance of integrating spiritual perspectives with commitments to eco-justice when addressing environmental challenges? Lastly, what specific insights can be drawn from South Asian river narratives regarding the thoughtful inhabitation of a world shaped by the Anthropocene? This paper will address these inquiries by examining select postcolonial narratives from the Indian subcontinent, exploring the intersection of postcolonial literature, eco-theology, and environmental justice.

Secondly, the concept of ‘indigenous response’ poses challenges in countries with colonial histories where hierarchical perspectives prevail. The dominant worldview often aligns with Western notions of progress and centralized nation-states. For such a worldview, development frequently facilitates the rapid depletion of residual/existing natural resources following colonial exploitation. Conversely, underdevelopment provides these countries with both excuses and pressures to engage in such destruction. Gandhi alluded to this dynamic when he proposed the worldview of tribal communities as an ‘indigenous’ response:

The world has enough for everyone’s need, but not enough for everyone’s greed. The tribal communities of India have lived in harmony with nature for centuries. They have not exploited the earth’s resources, yet have achieved peace and prosperity. We should learn from them and embrace their simple, sustainable way of life.

(Murphy 1991)

The texts chosen for analysis are: Manik Bandopadhyay’s The Boatman of the Padma (1936), a realistic novel set on the river Padma, the easternmost stretch of the Ganga devoid of the latter’s religious significance and spiritual status; Orijit Sen’s River of Stories (1994), a graphic novel depicting the destruction of the culture of Adivasis caused by the damming of the Narmada River, and Arun Joshi’s The City and the River (1990), a fable reflecting on the periodic destruction of Man and his civilizations. Together, they form a triptych highlighting the subalternization of both human and non-human entities, thereby suggesting an embedded ecotheology rooted in the material and mutable earth. Additionally, these texts challenge the doom-mongering of the apocalyptic grand narratives of the Anthropocene by focusing on local river systems and foregrounding ‘specific instances of human/natural interactions’, as Deane-Drummond suggests. This forward-looking shift in perception will “help us shoulder the mantle of planetary stewardship”and help usher in “a good, or at least a better Anthropocene…” (Ellis 2012, p. 6). These texts also explore what it means to think with water and reflect on the plurality of water since “water in the Anthropocene is never in the singular…Water is of course everywhere and all connected, coursing through the geological veins of anthropocenic imagination and dread. We are all paddling as best as we can in rising water, lack of water, polluted water, bottled water, borrowed water; but significantly, to paraphrase Kathryn Yusoff (2015), we are not all in the same water together” (Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos 2022, p. 1). Hence Global South waters which bear memories of extractive disruption and social injustice have little in common with the serene and regulated Global North waters. These murky Global South waters also contain the bedrock memory of water as one of the important ‘panchamahabhutas’ (five primary elements) bestowing life and fertility celebrated through metaphor, myth and embodied cosmogonies. The sacred and profane waters are the self-same faces of a ‘wet ontology’ whose flows, connections and becoming point to the submerged histories of both the human and non-human world in the Global South (Steinberg and Peters 2015). Ghosh’s idea that the climate crisis signifies a “crisis of culture, and thus of the imagination” further deepens the analysis by framing these texts within a broader critique of how cultural narratives shape and are shaped by ecological crises.

A note on the concept of ‘advocacy’ in the title of this paper is warranted. With the advent of structuralist theorization, ‘advocacy’ has ceased to be a contentious term in literary criticism. Marxists have long viewed literature as a tool for social transformation, while postcolonial critics, feminists, queer theorists, and environmentalists have increasingly recognized literature as a powerful vehicle for advocacy, offering a voice to the marginalized. An early proponent of this view was Frantz Fanon, who, in The Wretched of the Earth, famously stated “Each generation must, out of relative obscurity, discover its mission, fulfill it, or betray it” (Fanon 1963, p. 206), a call for revolutionary theory and praxis. Among the authors selected for analysis, Manik Bandyopadhyay (1908–1956) was avowedly sympathetic to leftist ideals, immersing himself in Marxist socialist philosophy. He actively participated in mass movements, became a member of the Progressive Writers’ Association in the early 1940s, and joined the Communist Party of India in 1944, remaining a member until his death. Orijit Sen (born 1963) participated actively in the Narmada Bachao Andolan, collaborating with activists like Baba Amte and displaced Adivasis. He “read writers like Paulo Freire and Frantz Fanon” (Sen 2023) and created a comic book to advocate for the displaced Adivasis. Arun Joshi (1939–1993), an Indian English modernist writer, was disillusioned with modernism by the time he wrote The City and the River, opting to use the mode of a fable, a time-honored tool of advocacy.

2. The Hidden “Earthen Breast of the Padma”: A Secular Theology of the Elemental in The Boatman of Padma (1936)

In the midst of the vast river is my broken boat

The boat is made up of old wood

Without knowing or learning don’t go anywhere

Never sail out without oar

Never try to rule over the river (Ghose 1993)

Padma Nadir Majhi (1936), a realistic Bengali novel that espouses a materialist view of nature in its delineation of the political ecology of a village on the banks of the river Padma, has been translated into English twice3 and adapted into two films: Akhtar Jung Kardar’s Pakistani Urdu film “Jago Hua Savera” (The Day Shall Dawn, 1959) and Gautam Ghosh’s Indo-Bangladesh joint production Hindi feature film “Padma Nadir Majhi” (1993). The novel subtly promotes a secular eco-theology, presenting a universe devoid of traditional religious references. Moreover, it illustrates how the exploitation endured by the fisherfolk within the narrative mirrors broader historical and colonial injustices, thereby underscoring its themes of social and environmental justice. The controversy surrounding Jago Hua Savera4 adds another layer to its narrative, highlighting the power of storytelling to challenge authority. Focusing on the interdependence between human life and the natural world in Manik Bandopadhyay’s novel5, this section aims to shed light on a previously unexplored facet of the text: the subtle emergence of an eco-theology within the narrative.

The overriding concern of The Boatman of the Padma is the exploration of the symbiotic relationship between humans and their environment. The river Padma, the novel’s setting, transcends being merely a backdrop; it is, in fact, the central character itself that can shape the destinies of the people living along its banks—echoing the Indian poet-philosopher Rabindranath Tagore’s description of the river Padma in one of his verses: “The whole village stands shuddering in constant fear of the heartless stream” (Tagore 2004, p. 369). The secular and paradoxical nature of the river is also identified in several waterscape studies:

But shorn of its sacred grandeur the Padma has embraced its secularised and earthier image with some muscularity, audacity and flair. The “mohonas” (meeting points) where it combines with the Brahmaputra/Jamuna and later the Meghna in romantic and raucous exuberance, make the river almost “oceanic” in its scope, and create a river system that is not just mighty and heroic, but almost epic in its scale, consequences and contradictions (simultaneously “sarbo-nasha” i.e., destroyer, and “jibondatri” i.e., life giver).

(Ahmad 2023)

Manik Bandyopadhyay’s portrayal of the river as omnipresent, both physically and symbolically, seems to be aimed at embodying not only the practical aspects of survival but also the deeper spiritual and cultural dimensions that shape the community’s identity. Early in the novel, the narrator hints at this central theme when he says, “There was a never-ending flow of water in the river, a ceaseless flow of human life on water and land” (Bandyopadhyay 2012, p. 8). By juxtaposing the two flows—the river’s flow and the flow of human life—the novel suggests a profound intertwining of nature and humanity, where both are inextricably linked and mutually influence each other’s existence.

Divided into seven chapters, the novel chronicles the events spanning roughly a year. It commences at the peak of the monsoon, the season of ‘ilish’ and concludes just after this season subsides. In between, the seasons shift, cyclones unleash devastating storm surges, floods reshape the soft banks of the river, forming mounds of silt in its midst that gradually evolve into an island over time. The river shows no favouritism. However, the river’s changing temperament and the shifting seasons are experienced differently by those residing along its banks.

The ‘political ecology’6 of Kethpur is meticulously divided into various quarters, such as the Brahmin quarter and fishermen quarter. As the narrator observes, “the Brahmans and the lesser gentlemen kept them (the fishermen) pushed back” (p. 13) despite the entire region’s economy relying on the diligent labour of the boatmen and fishermen. From this perspective, while the fisherfolk can be called the ‘ecosystem people’, the elite section of society referred to as the ‘gentlemen’ in the novel can be regarded as the ‘biosphere people’ who have untrammelled access to resources.7 The narrator succinctly sums up the life of the exploited fisherfolk: “Here the flavour of life consisted merely in satisfaction of hunger and thirst, of lust and pity, in selfishness and meanness” and remarks: “If you were looking for God, go there—the gentlemen’s quarter. It was useless to look for Him here” (p. 13).

The novel presents a God-less oikos in its depiction of a village devoid of references to God, temples, rituals, prayers, superstations and godmen. Apart from the aforementioned reference to God, there are only two more occurrences in the entire novel. The second one, appearing on page 40, essentially echoes the first reference. Here, the narrator describes the peaceful coexistence of the Muslim and non-Muslim populations in the village: “However different their religious beliefs might be, there was scarcely any difference in their lifestyles. All of them equally observed a greater irreligion than religion—poverty!” (p. 40). The final reference to god/religion arises when the village is struck by a violent storm. The god invoked in this instance is not an institutionalized deity (with a capital G)8, but rather the tempest itself perceived as a deity by the village women. They envision the tempest as an elderly, enraged man who needs appeasement! These women lay out wooden planks in their courtyards for the tempest deity to sit upon and be pacified. At this juncture, the narrator ponders “Was this the wrath of god? What caused this visitation?” (p. 69)9. In the absence of God and religion, what then guides the ecosystem people and offers them solace?

We present one example to illustrate what guides the ecosystem people of this godless fictional village. Kuber, the protagonist, has married Mala, who is physically disabled. Before or after her marriage, she has never been looked down upon or pitied for her disability. Instead, the community accepts her as she is, celebrating her uniqueness and appreciating her talent for telling fairy tales. Kuber, without any regrets, embraces their marriage, stating, “Since Mala had no mobility, it was within his own heart that Mala’s confined and concentrated life had surged up and flourished” (p. 63). As she narrates her tales to the children, seated on the uneven mud floor of her hut under the decaying straw thatch, the narrator observes: “The atmosphere was one of aboriginal barbarity; the performance that of an urbane civilization” (p. 55).

Though Kuber occasionally feels hurt by people’s insensitive remarks and may express anger, it is never directed at Mala because of her disability. Later in the story, when her younger sister Kapila attracts his attention, he ensures that Mala is not hurt. Ultimately, when Kuber plans to move to the island, Mala is certain to accompany him, while Kapila is not. When Kapila asks him if she can join, Kuber remains silent. However, the narrator suggests, “Let Kapila come along” (p. 155). Thus, Mala’s story illustrates that it is not religious principles but rather evolved ethical standards, nurtured by their close connection to nature, that guide and shape the lives of these people.

The novel’s narrative is propelled by two central conflicts faced by the ecosystem people: one against the oppressive and unjust social and economic system, and the other against the hostile and impersonal natural environment. Despite their survival strategies, refined over centuries, proving effective in navigating the unpredictable disasters of nature, their capacity to address the social environment is less successful. In the novel, the ecosystem people are portrayed as individually targeted subalterns, facing diverse challenges in addition to natural calamities. They constantly find themselves at a disadvantage, confronted by the relentless greed of the omnivores, which adds layers of complexity to their predicament. For instance, early in the narrative, the village’s topography is vividly described, highlighting the juxtaposition of vast open plains with densely packed shanties in the fishermen’s quarter. This apparent narrowness initially seems self-imposed, depriving them of ample land. However, upon closer reflection, it becomes clear that their limited space is a consequence of socio-economic constraints, with the entire plain monopolized by the landlord: “for these people, that was all the space allotted and available to them for having a roof over their heads. The entire plain was the sole preserve of the landlord” (p. 12).

In the novel, fishermen endure relentless toil, labouring day and night to eke out a living, yet their most fundamental needs remain unfulfilled. The image of Kuber10, the boatman, serves as a poignant symbol of the struggles faced by the ecosystem people:

Even as his eyes were drooping from drowsiness and exhaustion, they were about to burst into tears of sorrow and anger. He was the poorest of the poor and far too lowly among the lowborn. So everyone had assumed the right to deprive him without any prick of conscience as just another social or religious custom. He would not even be able to protest. He had no right to utter what everybody knew deep inside as true.

(p. 11)

The character of Hossen Miya epitomizes the unquenchable greed and self-serving nature prevalent among the omnivorous individuals in the novel. Not content with his numerous businesses in the village, he acquires an island, Moynadwip11, an island in the Padma River, harbouring aspirations of establishing a zamindari or landlordism by populating the small island. Moynadwip is his “fresh green breast of the new world”12 (Fitzgerald 1952, p. 182) which he literally clears for the founding of his dream world. In her otherwise perceptive analysis, Sravani Biswas misunderstands Moynadwip as “a metaphor for liberation where people work together without being exploited by privileged classes” (Biswas 2011, p. 29), possibly taking Hossain Miya’s words for its face value and overlooking the island’s re-enactment of a colonial project. Biswas interprets Miya’s vision of establishing a classless society on the island as signifying “the ultimate cross over to a new world order that abounds in equality and justice” (Biswas 2011, p. 29). It should be noted that Hossen Miya either entices families burdened with perpetual debt and facing starvation from the fisherfolk community to migrate to the island, or orchestrates situations that leave them with no alternative but to do so. For instance, when Kuber is falsely implicated in a theft case and seeks refuge with Hossen Miya, Hossen offers to absolve him of the charges on the condition that Kuber agrees to relocate to Moynadwip. Thus, though Kuber’s move to the island is depicted as “crossing over to a new world”, it lacks the attributes of “equality and justice” (Biswas 2011, p. 29). Essentially, by arranging for the transportation of several families to the island, Hossen manipulates individuals like Kuber into compliance, exploiting their vulnerabilities for his own gain and turns the ecosystem people into “ecological refugees”13. The novel subtly draws parallels between Hossen Miya’s project and the British colonial endeavours on the subcontinent. The protagonist’s experience during his brief sojourn on the island serves as a poignant illustration of this exploitation:

Kuber spent the first few days making rounds of the island and acquaintances of its people. The paddy crop had been harvested; some mustered, gram, and pea seeds had been sown … Further inland, a small tract of land was being cleared for testing whether the soil was suitable for the rabi crop. Every day in the morning a crew of men, weeding tools in hand, went walking nearly a mile into the jungle, cut off trees and bushes, uprooted the stubs of trees digging with crowbars and then came back in the evening with weals all over their bodies from their bodies from mosquito and insect bites. Kuber went there to have a look and came back horrified. The clearing in the midst of the dense forest all around looked so dreadful that it seemed as if the woodland which had been virgin ever since the day of creation of this island had had a handful of flesh torn away from her breast!

(p. 118, emphasis added)

The description vividly portrays Hossen Miya’s actions on the island as not only unethical but also criminal, inflicting profound damage to the ecosystem. The repercussions of his exploitation will undoubtedly be shouldered by the ecosystem people, further exacerbating their already precarious circumstances.

Indeed, “The Boatman of the Padma” deliberately avoids institutionalized religion, symbolized by its setting on the river Padma, which lacks the religious significance and spiritual status associated with the Ganga. Instead, the novel articulates its own secular eco-theology, advocating for the interconnectedness of various life forms and emphasizing the “symbiotic” relationship between humanity and nature. It acknowledges the intrinsic value of every human being, including those with disabilities, and advocates for a compassionate coexistence among all beings. Secondly, the novel realistically portrays the Padma river’s natural tendency to flood during the monsoon, situated within a vast deltaic river system fed by numerous streams. This makes it a formidable force revered by the fisherfolk living along its banks. A poignant illustration is the breaking image of a one-month-old baby asleep on its mother’s breast, taken by the waters of the Padma while the parents slept (p. 57). This scene vividly captures the destructive nature of the harsh waterscape of the littoral region. Therefore, although the river sustains life, it also has a destructive impact. Human-induced erosion and siltation exacerbate the hardships faced by the fisherfolk. It is within this paradoxical context of the river’s dual nature that the novel emphasises the profound connection between social justice and environmental justice. It underscores the urgent need to address both aspects to foster a more equitable and sustainable world. Its ultimate message, “Never try to rule over the river”, encapsulates the humility and respect humans should have towards the natural world, reinforcing the importance of living in harmony with it rather than seeking to dominate it. This lesson is particularly poignant when considering the colonial peak, a period marked by aggressive expansion and exploitation of natural resources.

3. Little Narratives and Primal Waters: Writing the Adivasi in River of Stories (1994)

We must go to the source of the river.

To the story of the original inhabitant,

the Adi-vasi. (Sen 2022, p. 12)

If The Boatman of the Padma, published during the peak of colonialism and resistance to it, metaphorically equates the ecological challenges of the Indian subcontinent with the colonial project, Orijit Sen’s graphic novel River of Stories (1994), published at a time when the evils of ‘modern civilization’14 were becoming apparent, shifts its focus to the self-defeating mimicry of the West in a postcolonial era. Sen’s work pursues two primary objectives: firstly, it underscores the repercussions of blindly emulating the West, exposing the abuses and horrors of development; secondly, it portrays the “environmentalism of the poor” as an organic outcome stemming from alternative forms of perception, experience and resistance. Ramachandra Guha defines the environmentalism of the poor as “the resistance offered by ecosystem people to the process of resource capture by omnivores as embodied in movements against large dams by tribal communities to be displaced by them, or struggles by peasants against the diversion of forest and grazing land to industry” (Guha and Martinez-Alier 1997, p. 12). River of Stories not only dramatizes the resistance of the Adivasi, but also delves “to the source of river” exploring the stories of the original inhabitants to foreground their world view. These “little narratives” (Lyotard 1984, p. 60) challenge the grand narrative of progress and development. This approach expresses scepticism toward linear historiography and celebrates the diversity of lives, perspectives and cultures.

Additionally, the novel challenges yet another grand narrative: that of the Anthropocene. In her meticulous analysis of the discourse surrounding it, Deane-Drummond argues that framing the Anthropocene as an apocalyptic narrative imposes limitations on moral and ethical visions of the future. In response to its tendency to oversimplify and present fatalistic environmental narratives, she proposes focusing on “a local river system and its specific instances of human/natural interactions” (Deane-Drummond 2018, p. 60). According to her, “Rivers of the Anthropocene is … in a paradoxical way… a grand narrative of the global wedded to the specifics of the drama of the local” (Deane-Drummond 2018, p. 60). By shifting the focus to “the specifics of the drama of the local”, Deane-Drummond suggests a more grounded and ethically informed perspective on the Anthropocene can be provided. In its endeavor to capture the nuances and complexities of the relationship between humans and the natural world, River of Stories weaves together multiple conceptually linked narratives rather than causally connected stories, forming a river that ultimately flows into the sea of modern development and performs the unique advocacy function of articulating global resistances regarding the sullying of Anthropocene waters. Drawing on Deane-Drummond’s metaphor, the movement in River of Stories can be described as a transition from “the drama of the local” to a “global narrative” accommodating several lyrics of “individual and specific experience” in its flow.

The river metaphor in the novel15, thus, encompasses multiple dimensions, prominently debunking the grandiose notion of the Anthropocene. It emphasises the materiality and agentic force of nature symbolized by the river of stories, which inherently carries a current of resistance and perpetuates an alternative worldview and way of life. Additionally, it highlights the coexistence of “different historical phases of human activity and action” (Deane-Drummond 2018, p. 56) across various times and places.

The agentic force of nature is conveyed in the verse serving as the epigraph: “The river shaped sacred landscapes, /forming a verdant valley/that gods could inhabit …/where families could grow, /and children could learn” (Sen 2022, p. 12). Within the novel’s ideological framework, both the river of life and the river of stories originate from nature and follow a similar course, as articulated at one point in the narrative: “What started as a trickle has become a stream. What was once a lonely stream has been joined by her many sisters! What was once a rushing torrent has become a broad river! And we know that today’s river will tomorrow join the limitless sea” (Sen 2022, p. 56). Seen from this perspective, the Prologue and Epilogue framing River of Stories are symbolic. The Prologue, titled “Dream”, portrays Vishnu, a young journalist preparing to start his career. In his dream, he turns on the television to find reports about a corpulent minister inaugurating multimillion dollar development projects funded by foreign agencies. The politician offers false assurances of progress, extols the nation’s heritage, and suppresses dissenting voices with accusations of being anti-national, all while receiving adulation from cheering crowds. Vishnu’s skeptical voice of protest goes unheard. As the narrative unfolds, dissenting voices multiply and grow more resonant. By the time we reach the Epilogue, titled “Under the Mahua Tree”, the politician learns a lesson from an alternative perspective about the futility of his projects and the importance of living in harmony with natural systems like rivers.

Secondly, Deane-Drummond argues that the different historical phases of human activity and action complicate how one interprets geological signs in the Anthropocene (Deane-Drummond 2018, p. 56). In contrast, River of Stories populates its fictional world—clearly tailored to depict the general scenario in the global south—with characters embodying Homo faber—‘humans as makers’—who manipulate the natural world for their own purposes, alongside Homo consumens, representing humanity as consumers, and Homo colossus, humans driven to deplete exhaustible resources like water. While the first group is named, the latter two remain anonymous, identified solely by their socio-political status and roles. Consequently, all three groups not only coexist but also clash, a reassuring indication: while the latter factions seek dominance through coercive means, the first group endeavours to educate them, aiming to nurture Homo sapiens (‘the wise human’).

This dynamic is encapsulated in the final words of the novel by Malgu Gayan, the tribal bard: when the politician spots the bard playing his one-string instrument, he lands his helicopter and rebukes him for idling away time, inviting him to “enjoy the fruits of progress”. Assuming the old man didn’t grasp his vocabulary, he simplifies: “Earn money, buy land, grow more, sell it for profit, do business, employ others to work while you relax and enjoy life!”. The bard calmly retorts, “Oh I see—But THAT, my friend, is just what I am doing already, till you arrived on that noisy bird of yours!” and strums his one-string “TWONG”! (Sen 2022, pp. 64–65).

Another facet of the river metaphor in River of Stories is its portrayal of storytelling not just as narration but as possessing an intrinsic agentic force—a capacity to shape and influence the world around us. It acts as a powerful tool for interpreting the world, challenging dominant narratives and norms, foregrounding alternative worldviews, preserving cultural identities and traditions, and catalyzing profound transformations in perspectives and societies. The narrative current within this metaphor embodies sustaining, educating and transformative powers.

Sen fully exploits the agentic force of storytelling, harnessing it alongside the graphic mode. For instance, the first part of the novel titled “Spring” juxtaposes two narratives: the mythic tale of Malgu Gayan and Relku, a migrant Adivasi oustee. These narratives symbolize two distinct beginnings: the origin of the world and the onset of modernity in the valley, each representing distinct worldviews. While the first tale—a creation myth—utilises soft grey and pencil-shaded images, complemented by elegant Warli patterns that evoke a primordial essence, the second narrative features cartoonish characters juxtaposed against backgrounds depicting villages, water bodies, offices and agricultural landscapes. While the first narrative relies more on visual imagery and less on textual intersection, the second narrative heavily emphasises textual elements that underscore the doublespeak of the proponents of modernity. The creation myth, as an attempt at the “creation of a worldview” (Logan 2010, p. 7), celebrates the interconnectedness of humans and the non-human world, assigning significance to every element of creation without hierarchy, while ensuring food for all. However, modernity, symbolized by the arrival of the road into the valley without the consent of the local people, establishes a rigid system of hierarchy that frames the Adivasis as primitive people who deserve to be invisibilised since they are obstacles to a rapidly modernising nation. It asserts that the land belongs to the ‘Sarkar’ (government), grossly overlooking the rights of the Adivasi people. Indeed, the arrival of the road is a powerful metaphor in the novel, depicted extensively in one entire section as indicative of the onset of change and resource exploitation as outsiders enter the region, unfolding what Rob Nixon describes as “slow violence”—“a violence that occurs gradually and out of sight, a violence of delayed destruction that is dispersed across time and space, an attritional violence that is typically not viewed as violence at all” (Nixon 2011, p. 2).

In the novel’s final part, titled “The Sea”, the river of stories merges into the sea of modern development, where the environmental concerns of the marginalized gain global attention and support. The narrative hints at a potential future through a revealing episode (Sen 2022, pp. 51–55): At a resort, the chairman of the National Water Commission expresses discontent with his own situation, lamenting, “I’m paying for a bit of peace! Why does life have to be so complicated?” Unexpectedly, a voice responds sharply, “Because you’re the chairman of the National Water Commission, that’s why! If you want simplicity, go live with the tribals!”. At this juncture, the chairman is confronted with reports of protests against his projects detailed in a two-page news article. Reflecting on the article in the subsequent panel, a reader remarks-

Maybe we are coming full circle finally! All these centuries, we’ve been trying to teach all these ‘backward’ people what civilization is all about. But now we have to admit that it is THEY who might have the answer!

(Sen 2022, p. 62)

4. Envisioning Symbiocene Waters: The Material-Sacral Dialectic in The City and the River (1990)

Who knows, who can read the signs,

The workings of the immortal time?

A king I see upon a throne,

In astrologer’s grove the boatmen mourn,

A thing of darkness growing dark,

On the city walls the shadows mark.

The river, I see, from the teacher rise.

The hermit, the parrot, the teacher die.

Under a rain the waters burn,

To his kingdom at last the king returns.

—An Old Prophecy (Joshi 1990, p. 8)

The ancient prophesy that serves as the epigraph of Arun Joshi’s novel The City and the River is interpreted in various ways within the narrative, driving the central conflicts that propel the plot forward. One interpretation involves the Hermit of the Mountain, who pledges allegiance to the river and views the king mentioned in the prophecy as synonymous with God himself. Another interpretation comes from the Astrologer, whose loyalty lies with the city and the Grand Master. He believes the prophecy foretells the arrival of a king, identifying the Grand Master as this prophesied figure.

Both the Astrologer and the Hermit, the disciples of Yogeshwar, are divided by their distinct choices and preferences, as the city consciously distances itself from the values embodied by the river, making reconciliation seemingly impossible. Thus, the “city” and the “river” represent two distinct worldviews, value systems and ways of life. The nameless city in the novel represents the material world, corruption and greed for power. Its topography is distinctly hierarchical: “a narrow brown band of mud huts”, interspersed with green mangroves, inhabited by the nameless people; “rosy pink oval of brick colonies” on higher ground belonging to the administrators and intellectuals; and further north, the picturesque formation of the Seven Hills adorned with immaculate white buildings, housing the seat of the Grand Master’s government. Despite the city’s dependence on the river for its foundation and sustenance, it has deliberately distanced itself from it by siting the seat of the Grand Master far from its shores. This separation from the river hints at sacral disconnect, potentially sowing the seeds of disintegration.

While nearly everyone in the city, except the Boat people, pledges allegiance to the Grand Master either voluntarily or under compulsion, the Boat people—often regarded the “most rebellious” group—assert their freedom by rejecting the hierarchical social structure of the city. They devote their allegiance to the river, which they revere as their Divine Mother and “… half their time they spend sitting about on the sloping river bank talking, singing, meditating, playing the one-string. When the Grand Master goes out he rarely sees them greeting him” (p. 14). The fact their leader is a woman suggests their defiance of patriarchal norms as well.

Contrary to the city, the river serves as a richly layered symbol of the divine and a vital source of life. It is personified throughout the narrative: “The river flowed by, quietly murmuring, saying things to those who understood her” (p. 29) with only the boatmen truly grasping her essence: “All their lives, for ages beyond memory, boatmen had saluted the great river, and only the great river, who was their mother. They saluted her morning and evening by taking from her a handful of water and letting it run down their close-cropped heads. They did not know how to salute a man, be he a Grand Master” (p. 90). At a poignant moment in the story, in a rare instance of self-description, the river seems to inquire of the Professor16, “Isn’t this that you want? Something like me, peaceful and infinite and free?” (p. 29, emphasis added).

Examining the apocalypse motif of The City and the River, Sagnik Yadaw and Rupsa Roy Chowdhury endorsed Nirmala Menon’s argument that in the novel “… the two rival camps are represented as belonging to the same time but different historical trajectories with characters such as the Headman, Dharma, Bhumiputra, the Hermit, Grandfather, and so on who bear resemblance to rather primitive, rural or even tribal traditions and cultures and characters such as the Commissioner, the Captain, the Advisory Council, the Grand Trader and the Minister of Trade whose names suggest a thoroughly modern system of bureaucratic functionaries—a division that elaborates the binary difference between city versus river” (Yadaw and Chowdhury 2019, p. 364). While it is true that there are two rival camps representing the values of the city and those of the river, reducing the characters associated with the river as primitive, rural, tribal and traditional, and overlooking those bridging the two camps, not only oversimplifies Joshi’s vision, but also complicates the interpretation.

In fact, the boatmen, depicted as embodiments of author’s vision, integrate the principles from diverse traditions and sources. For example, we can discern the echoes of Gandhian principles such as minimal consumption, self-reliance, simplicity and sustainability, alongside tribal perspective of interconnected life with nature and tenets of classical Hindu philosophy. The attire, lifestyle and simplicity of the boatmen strikingly resemble the tribal community Joshi describes in another novel The Strange Case of Billy Biswas (1971). However, they also embody tenets of classical Hindu philosophy like ‘Brahman’ and ‘Karma’. For example, Bhumiputra, the young teacher among the boatmen, distinguishes between the body and the soul as he exhorts them to overcome the fear of the Grand Master: “What does your soul care if a man is powerful and a man commands the guns? Guns cannot kill you, my brothers and sisters …” (p. 146). This echoes a verse from the Bhagavad Gita (2.23): “Weapons do not cut the soul, nor does fire burn it; water does not wet it, nor does the wind dry it”. Similarly, the chief of the boatmen, in her brief discussion with the Professor alludes to the wheel of Karma when the latter talks about the disappearance of Bhumiputra:

“And now the wheel begins to turn. And some day it must come full circle”.

“I understand you are organising a protest”

“A display of souls, yes. That too pushes the wheel…”.

(p. 39)

The wheel referred by the chief is the wheel of karma. Examining the concept of karma in Bhagavd Gita, Bimal Krishna Matilal17 argues that the Gita “tries to resolve a well-known paradox about the interconnection of beliefs, actions and desires… The simplest connection between beliefs, desires and action is this: Beliefs generate desire and desire generates action to obtain results. However, most desires are such that they are seldom satisfied, even when the results are obtained. For they only generate further desires. This creates a vicious circle…” (Matilal 2002, p. 123). This circle is broken when one distances oneself from the fruits of action: “You have entitlement to your actions only and never to the fruits of those actions. Do not be the causal agent of the fruits of actions; nor should you be attached to the state of non-action” (Gita 2.47). Matilal discerns in this verse an implicit formulation of “three alternative action-guides”: karmaphalahetu, where desire motivates the agent to act and enjoy the fruits of the action 18; a-karma, which signifies non-action or renunciation; and niskamakarma, or ‘desireless’ action. The first represents ‘the older karma doctrine’ found in the Vedas and prevailing until the time of the Gita, while the second interpretation was propounded by the Sramanas, who rejected the Vedic way of life. The third theory of action, identified by Matilal as “the third alternative or Krishna’s alternative”, represents ‘desireless’ action, breaking the circle of Karma as the fruits of action do not generate further desires.

The Professor and the chief of the boatmen discuss the wheel of karma set in motion by the Grand Master. The boatmen’s rebellion expresses their free will, unmistakably pushing the wheel further. However, whether it does come full circle is not their concern; their focus is on acting righteously. Matilal elaborates on the significance of this action:

“However, this is the most difficult alternative, as Krishna himself acknowledged. It must be preceded by a prolonged practice of Yoga and other virtues. Very few succeed in attaining this kind of a desireless state of mind. Krishna says that humans in this state approach the divine stage. This is a very significant statement. Just as the Creator God is supposed to have created the universe although he has had no unfulfilled desire from which he should have acted, the person in a desireless state of mind should act (for act she must) similarly, and thereby action would not create any bondage for her. She would be free”.

(Matilal 2002, p. 130)

When the Grand Master declares himself King and unleashes a reign of state terrorism, the already uneasy relationship between the city and the river is utterly shattered. The boatmen revolt, prompting the city to resort to coercive measures to suppress it. Eventually, beyond the coercive power of the City, the river itself revolts and triumphs, illustrating what Rudolf Otto calls the “dual characteristics of the numinous- mysterium tremendum and fascinans”19 (Otto 1923, p. 12): “For seven days and seven nights it rained without a stop. On the eighth day the sun rose and from a clear sky started down at a vast sea of water. The sea was calm and gave no hint of the agitation that had gone into its making Of the Grand master and his city nothing remained” (p. 260).

The survivors of the great deluge are the Nameless-One, an illegal child of the river and the Yogeshwar. The city is destroyed completely but a new city rises from its ruins with its Great Master and all the other characters that peopled the city that was destroyed, including the boatmen. The Nameless-One has grown to manhood, and it is to the Nameless-One that Yogeshwar narrates the story of the city and river of the past. Thus, the vision of history the novel alludes to is cyclical and it grapples with the quintessential Anthropocene question: “Is there no answer to the periodic destruction of man and his civilizations?” Before taking leave of the Nameless-One, the Yogeshwar answers this question:

‘… The main thing is to prevent endless repetition, this periodic disintegration. But to achieve this we need purity.’

‘Purity?’

‘Yes, the city must purify itself if it is not to dissolve again.’

‘Purify itself of what?’

‘Of egoism, selfishness, stupidity.’

‘But how shall I succeed where the hermit failed?’

‘The question is not success or failure, the question is of trying.

And it is not your success that we are speaking of but the city’s. The city must strive

once again to purify. But purity can come only through sacrifice. That perhaps was

the meaning of the boatman’s rebellion.’

(pp. 263–64)

He also suggests how the dichotomy between the city and the river, the material and the sacral, the interpretation of the Hermit and that of the Astrologer can be resolved:

God resides as much in a Grand Master as in you and me. Is not, therefore, always, room for hope? … the prophecy by itself said nothing that was inexorable. How one read it was all that mattered. And, do not forget, it is what you are inside that governs how you read the outside. Once the Grand Master is purified within he will see the world in a different light

(p. 263).

Just as the boatmen do not lose hope despite the oppressive measures of the state, the narrative voice remains hopeful. Secondly, although the novel is not explicit about what the “purification within” implies, it does hint at a “desireless action” of the free agent that reintegrates humans and the rest of nature. This possibility is open to humankind, as in the new city that emerges after the deluge, there are boatmen as well as a Grand Master.

Thus, the novel alludes to a spiritual ecology by acknowledging the deep spiritual and ethical aspects of ecosophy that form the bedrock of any paradigmatic shift in environmental thinking. The novel endeavours to weave spiritual values and awareness into the discourse surrounding soiled Anthropocene scapes articulated through fable, thereby promoting a re-enchantment with nature. Furthermore, by advocating “the interconnectedness of life and all living things”, and acknowledging the potential for spiritual awakening, the fable dramatizes the moment of “entering the Symbiocene” (Albrecht 2016, p. 11).

5. Conclusions

Examining the ways in which “the Anthropocene resists literary fiction”, Amitav Ghosh argues in The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable that the climate crisis signifies a “crisis of culture, and thus of the imagination” (Ghosh 2016, p. 13). He posits that realist literary fiction, constrained by its limited temporal and spatial scope and its adherence to a narrow sense of realism, is fundamentally ill-equipped to grapple with the extreme and improbable nature of events tied to climate change. These events involve “forces of unthinkable magnitude” that forge “unbearably intimate connections over vast gaps in time and space” (Ghosh 2016, p. 53). The triptych of postcolonial river narratives of the Indian Subcontinent, spanning three different modes—a realistic narrative, a graphic novel and an environmental fable—appear to support Ghosh’s assertion. Manik Bandopadhyay’s The Boatman of the Padma, a work of realist fiction set over the course of a year along the banks of river Padma, creates what Ghosh terms “a self-contained ecosystem, with the river as the sustainer both of life and of the narrative” (Ghosh 2016, p. 51). In contrast, the other two novels adopt distinct approaches: Orijit Sen’s River of Stories adopts a graphic mode that allows the narrative to “think in images”, while Arun Joshi’s The City and the River employs the mode of fable that enables it to span vast stretches of “time” and “space”. These two are able to illustrate what Ghosh calls “agency and consciousness that humans share with many other beings, and even perhaps the planet itself” (Ghosh 2016, p. 53).

The postcolonial narratives discussed suggest three potential relationships between humans and nature, each stemming from different ideological premises. The novels portray the river alternatively as a source of sustenance and peril, a unifying force and as an omnipotent and timeless presence. Bandopadhyay’s novel suggests a secular eco-theology through its realistic portrayal of the struggles of fisherfolk on the banks of Padma, rejecting the colonial project and emphasizing the sanctity of the undisturbed wilderness. In contrast, Orijit Sen’s graphic representation highlights the rapacious aspects of tentacular colonial modernity, which ultimately unsettle and destroy indigenous culture and memory. The narrative offers an ethical perspective on humanity’s relationship with nature, depicting the exploitation by omnivores clashing with the worldview of the Adivasi—‘the original inhabitants’, and the tension between a living past and a modernized present. Arun Joshi’s parable recounts cycles of human destruction on an epic scale, proposing a spiritual eco-theology for the existence and purification of contemporary humanity.

In recognizing the vital role of water and eco-spirituality, the postcolonial river narratives discussed exemplify how the materiality and agentic capacity of nature profoundly shape human existence, suggesting a need for a resurgence of biocentric values and a “scientia sacra” that recognizes the sacredness and interconnectedness of all natural beings. Importantly, these narratives diverge from apocalyptic views of the Anthropocene. They advocate for an eco-spirituality rooted in local indigenous knowledge and sacred relationship with water. This perspective permeates all three narratives, offering alternative frameworks for comprehending and addressing the climate crisis. For instance, in The Boatman of the Padma, despite the protagonist’s profound personal impact from the river, he hesitates to collaborate with Hussain Miya due to his disdain for clearing the wilderness on the island. River of Stories critiques the postcolonial mimicry of Western development, celebrating indigenous resistance and storytelling’s transformative power in shaping ecological perspectives. The City and the River explores conflicts between city materialism and river spirituality, advocating for purity through sacrificial acts to avert cyclical destruction. Joshi’s novel proposes a symbiotic relationship between humans and nature as an alternative to the Anthropocene, promoting a more ethically attuned perspective on environmental interconnection.