The Universe is not made of atoms, it's made of stories.

Landscapes tell tales, geographies contain histories,

trees express emotions, houses are characters and rocks can be moody.
could go on in this vein, but for low these few sentences will suffice as exemplars of some of the, most important
(earnings that I have received from a lifetime spent in reading and making comics ard graphic novels.But before
anyone, gets the wrong idea, I am not talking here about the anthropo-morphizing tendencies of cartoons and
comics Art; or the power of speech that the medium potentially bestows on any object within its universe--via the
convenient device of a speech bubble with a tail, I am referring, rather, to the centrality of visual language in
graphic narratives.
My earliest memories of reading comics go to the well-thumbed copies of Indrajal comics, Amar Chitra Katha and
Nonte Phonte doing the rounds between nir older brother and his friends. But was that really "reading"? My juniorschool class teacher certainly didn't think so--looking upon our fascination With comics as detrimental to the
devefopientof our literary abilities. In One sense she was right--I know I absorbed the largest amount oft
information about what was going on in those comics from looking at the pictures.
For example, I understood the essential nature of the Phantom Fantasy, indeed of all fantasy, riot from the text.-which I could barely yet read--but from the fire-lit scenes within the mysterious. forbidding exterior of the 9reat
Skull CoLve, which contained in its intimate, recesses a chronicle chamber, costume room and radio room. The
entrance of the Skull Cave became the first magic portal that opened a way forme to cross over from the
concreteness of the real world to the fluid, pulsating world of the imaginary.
Out where my teacher was wrong was in assuming that this did not contribute to fry process of learning. In fact,
know now that imagination and cisualization are key tools we use to make sense of the world around us, arid that
we rarely excel at subjects--be it mathematics or medicine--that fail to fire our imaginations.
My Father was cartographer, and I grew up around mapping inatruments--going on field trips with him and
observing how he plotted land-scapes with lines, markings and colour codes. And thus geography became an
early repository of stories for me.The two dimensional surface of a map was a veil that needed only to be lifted to
reveal a brave new world of distant mountains, hushed forests and glimmering fakes.
Around the same time, the influence of two niast-ers of their respective crafts--Herge, creator of the Tintin series,
and Soctyajit Ray, whose film Sonar Kella seeri and been swept away by--got me started on my own Comics
making. I was around 12 or 13, and had acquired enough proficiency with pencils and paints to actually
contemplate undertaking such a task. Evem through the first few attempts were entirely unsuccessful, I have
continuted to draw and write comics ever since-and the construction of narratives of place, location and
geography has rem aired one of the central concerns of my art.
When, in 1991, I started work on River of Stories, my first graphic novel project, I travelled to the Narmada river
valley where my story was to beset, I had no Clear notion of what I was going to do there, but I knew I wanted to
experience the land, meet the, people who belonged tv it, sit on the banks of the ancient and storied river, and
watch it Flow. I had ni et some young activitis in Delhi, and was inspired by the, environmental and social idealism
of the Narmada Bachao Andolan, but had yet to grasp its brae, Significance.
Over several visits, I stayed variously at rest-houses, with Andolan activists in their offices in small market towns,
wi th Ach vas familles in their village homes, and sometimes in remote ashrams and schools managed by
Gandhian organizations. I attended Baghoria festival Fairs, wedding feasts, religious ceremonies and political
rallies, journeying on trains, buses, jeeps, bullock carts, bicycles and on foot. Everywhere, I sketched, made
notes, took. photographs and listened to people stories.
Gradually, the people, the river, the hills, Forests, streams, roads, bridges, plantations, hamlets, house, tools and
objects became in ternalized as a part of the visual vocabulary with which I sought to fashion the story of the
Narmada valley and the struggle of its people. I laboured to riot just capture slices of life, but to absorb entire
chunks of lived experience in the Narmada I felt this was the only war one could tell the truth about a place and its
people.

I used my camera as an aid to record the specificity of visual details, but drawing and writing performed a vital
opposite fun--that of discarding tile super fluous, and paring things down to their essentials. Drowing from life
hones the observational skills in a particular way. Arld this makes me think that the other meaning of "drawing" is
not unrelated, for "to draw"--as in "to extract" or "to pull out"--describes quite accurately the practice of distilling
the essence of a scene into a few tines and marks made on a sheet of paper. In the process, the eye becomes
highly responsive to masses, shapes, tones and textures and begins to perceive everything in those terms.
My sketchbooks be_carne, like a series of densely compacred suitcases containing avast collection of
experienced sounds, sights and interactions, in the form of scribbled pages that I would carry back to my studio in
Delhi--and unpack in order to use for the telling of my story. Through the two years I spent working an River of
Stories, I kept revisiting the sketchbooks, musing over the events, encounters and impressions recorded In them,
and allowing their details to re-emerge from my subterranean memory, where the act of drawing had caused them
to imprint themselves. Even now, two decades later, leafing through those old sketchbooks for this article brings to
memories that are as vivid and fresh as last week's.
River of Stories is about the struggles of the characters that occupy the found of its 500 -odd frames, but their
stories are told as much through the. backgrounds--for, at another level it is a story of living, changing landscapes
of which we humans are but a part.
As my A divasi companions of the Narmada valley night say--"You city folk will learn to live in peace with Mother
Earth only when, like true children, you sit and listen to her stories."
..One day, it occurred to Kujum Chantu that if she ever got up and walked about everyone would fall off and be
killed.
... rubbed some dirt off her chest and shaped it. Kneaded it, squeezed it, and batted it...
... Made a world full of bits and holes, projects and distortions...
Smooth in some places, rough in others, and held it in the palm of her hand, well pleased...
I have made the world, but it's barren. How shall I give it life?
So she made frees, shrubs amd grasses and planted them!
Beautiful look my world. But what shall be the creatures to inhabit it?
She took some clay and started shaping ... shaped some lizards. Made some tigers and bears. Made snakes and
birds..
I was born in a village called Jamli. You've heard of a place called Ballanpur. no? My village is only three hours by
bus from there, by the Rewa river.
I shill remember how, as children, we the banyan trees!
Look, Somariyo, we've almost filled this basket with Mahva flowers already!
I came to the mountains. Tim and bears were roaring. Ranik was crying, 'Now what do I do?' She called
Ratukamai, 'Devvr devur! Our mountain is changing what should we do ?' Said Ratv kamai, 'We shouldgo to the
meal and get the singer Malgu!
So who went? RatukaMai did. Went and caught the king's house and took the path to Malapur. Reached and
called, 'Dada! Dada!'
Malgu gayan sleeps for twelve years and snores for thirteen. He awoke with a start, 'Dada,' he said. 'What bring

you here?'
Said RatukaMai, 'Our big. Our mountain is change Tigers and bears are roding. So I have come to tak replied
Malgu gayan, 'Iwill come at four-five days.
Why all this fuss? Do you think a handful of city people can stop mother Rewa from flowing to meet the sea, her
husband?
Look at you! You are a child of Rewa, just like us. Yet you are prepared to hurt your brothers and sisters for the
sake of your naukri!
After giving it a name, she came to Peepalghat, and from there she went to Omkar Maharaj, who blessed her and
bestowed on her the life-giving gifts. From there, she went froth casscading to Kakrana Jamli, Bhitade ... each of
these places she named.
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