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Colonialism and Postcolonialism – An Introduction

Colonisation

According to Kozlowski, colonisation or colonialism is “the extension of a country’s rule to

lands beyond its own borders.” The new lands established by the parent country are called
colonies. The parent country that controls the colonies is called the coloniser (colonizer) and
the countries or people controlled by the coloniser are called the colonised (colonized).

Colonies may be settler colonies or dependencies. Settler colonies are those into which
colonists or colonisers move permanently. Dependencies are those into which few colonists
move permanently. These dependencies are completely controlled by the parent country.

Effects of Colonisation in Settler Colonies

In settler colonies, there is usually displacement of the colonised’s culture, religion, and
language. Sometimes, even the people of the colony are eliminated or made slaves. ccc

Effects of Colonisation in Dependencies

In dependencies, total displacement is not possible. But where there are minority groups in a
colony, displacement takes place.

Decolonisation

Decolonisation is defined as the act of getting rid of the coloniser. It is the process of freeing
a colony from its coloniser. The aim of decolonisation is to restore independence to a colony.

Postcolonialism

Postcolonial means occurring at the end of colonial rule. Postcolonialism is the academic
study of colonialism. According to Leela Gandhi, “It is a disciplinary project devoted to the
academic task of revisiting, remembering, and crucially interrogating the colonial past.”

Postcolonial Literature

Postcolonial literature is of different types. Some of it is based on the theme of colonisation.

It focuses on the relationship between the coloniser and the colonised. It discusses the
colonial past and describes how difficult life was under the coloniser. Further, it also
discusses how the natives (the colonised) struggled and fought against the colonisers.
Another type of postcolonial literature describes the social, political, economic, and religious
situation in a country after becoming independent. The third type of postcolonial literature
discusses various aspects of life. What makes it different is that it is written by a writer from
a postcolonial country.

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Evolution of Colonial Literature

In order to understand postcolonial literature, it is necessary to understand colonial literature.

According to Ashcroft et al (and the others), there are two stages in the development of
colonial literature. In the first stage, literature was produced by the colonists or colonisers.
They described the colony in great detail (nature, the people, their culture and religion). But,
they always showed that the parent country was always superior to the colony.

In the second stage, literature was produced by the colonised, but under the supervision of the
colonists. Although the colonised writers spoke about their country, everything that they
wrote had to be approved by their colonial masters. The natives, by being allowed to write,
were made to think that they were special.

Postcolonial Literature

The most important feature of postcolonial literature is that it replaces the coloniser’s
language with a language that is related to the colonised place. In other words, postcolonial
literature uses discourse that is suited to the colonial experience. It decolonises language.
According to Ashcroft et al, this is done in two ways – abrogation and appropriation.

Abrogation: Abrogation is the refusal to accept the coloniser’s language as the centre.
Postcolonial literature does not accept the coloniser’s attitude to ‘standard language’ or the
‘accepted norm.’

Appropriation: Appropriation is the process by which the coloniser’s language is adapted and
given a new identity. This adapted language is used to describe the colonial experience.
According to Raja Rao, appropriation means to “convey in a language that is not one’s own
the spirit that is one’s own.” In other words, the coloniser’s language is modified and used as
a whiplash against him.

Postcolonial Writers

Some of the famous postcolonial writers are V.S. Naipaul, Derek Walcott, Ben Okri, Edward
Said, Chinua Achebe, Kiran Desai, Sara Suleri, Wole Soyinka, Judith Wright, etc.

Source:

Ashcroft, Bill, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin. The Empire Writes Back. 2nd edition.
Routledge, 2002.

Gandhi, Leela. Postcolonial Theory: A Critical Introduction. Allen and Unwin, 1998.

Kozlowski, Darrell J. Postcolonialism. Chelsea House, 2010.

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“The day the Igbo language dies is the day the word ‘Igbo’ will be no more. Many Igbos are
working hard to keep this prophetic ‘dying day’ from coming to pass and we hope it never
comes.” (Chigbu, 2008:5)

Towards the end of 2006, a report of the United Nations in one of the Nigerian dailies had it
that Igbo language, among other minor African languages will be extinct by the year 2050.
Emmanuel Asonye.

“You know, I love growing things. Maybe I was a mali in my last life,” she said, laughing.
Badibua felt a surge of affection for her cousin, her mother’s sister’s daughter. Life had
treated her so harshly, no husband, no children, yet she was always so happy. “You couldn’t
have with those pretty, plump hands,” Shashi said giving her aunt a hug. Choni threw the
potato she was peeling into a cauldron of water and said, “You could be a mali even now,
masi. Might earn you some money instead of asking for charity.” She gave her aunt a
sideways glance. “She never asks for charity, Choni, I think you are being very rude to masi,”
said Shashi. Malarani laughed and ruffled Shashi’s hair. She did not mind Choni’s words.
What did it matter what anyone said?

Eating Women, Telling Tales by Bulbul Sharma

Garuda felt tremendous rage when he saw the thin Kuchela-like form of Lakshmana right
next to him, appearing suddenly like a bear let loose in the middle of a service for Shiva.

Samskara by U.R. Ananthamurthy

You taught me language, and my profit on ’t

Is I know how to curse. Act 1: Scene 2 The Tempest

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Brides of the Well – Shekhar Kapur

https://shekharkapur.com/blog/2011/01/brides-of-the-well-a-short-story/

Well, I say morning because the birds had begun their morning raga’s. Long before the
beautiful hues of blue streaked the sky across the dry land. It was the one time that the land
felt magical and mystical. A land claimed over the years by the desert. Few shrubs remained
to tell the story of long gone days of the changing of the seasons through hues of green, to
golden and then brown. Furrows cut and burnt into the white caked mud told the story of a
river that once must have flowed.No one spoke much in the village of Baramur. What needed
to be done was simple and ritualistic. Nor was there the usual merriment of festive occasions
provoked by the mating rituals of young men and women. For if heard carefully this was a
village of older people. The dominant sounds of the day would be the dry cracked sounds of
older vocal chords, not contradicted by the clear sing song lyricism of the young men and
women.

Quietly Saraswati put on the bells on her anklets, making sure that the sound would not wake
up her husband. She loved this sound, and would walk with a step harder than normal, so that
the other women at the well would her be envious of her anklet bells. It was the only thing
her parents could give when she left her village in a time that seemed so far far away now.
And as Saraswati walked by her husband she rebelliously put her foot down hard to play with
destiny a little. But she knew that the emaciated body ravaged by the desert and by age,
snoring through an open toothless mouth would not wake up till the flies flowed
uncomfortably across his mouth looking for left overs.

But a thrill passed her every time she did that. Imagine if he woke up to discover that his wife
was not at all the woman that he stored away in one corner of his mind ! Saraswati rushed
out, bent over and coughed. Her back ached, but there was no escape. They said that this was
how it was, but at fifteen Saraswati’s heart played a song with what lay on the horizon,

And so it was everyday. Just as the hues of blue showed the silhouette of the village, young
girls emerged like ghostly shadows from a fairy tale. These were the child brides of the well’
as they had become known to villages far away. As the rivers and the wells retreated into
their distant sanctuaries, leaving in their wake villages and communities desolate but for older
people unable to move to the cities to fight another existence, another life, as always the
Caste system provided the solution. This was after all a village of higher castes.

The priests let it be known that for young virgin to be married into a higher caste would
absolve her whole family and their lineage of bondage into servitude. Young low caste girls
were consecrated by the priests in temples (some for periods longer than normal) and amid
much ceremony, a procession of 20 young girls were sent from outlying villages to Baramur.
It was a strange sight – young girls nervous and giggly, walking into a village to welcomed
by bent old men and women, anxiously looking for young high caste men that had agreed to
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marry them. Only when the marriage rites began, and as the drums played and the girls
emerged from the huts with coy smiles on their faces did they realize that the bent old bodies
in tattered turbans were about to become their husbands.

Saraswati remembered Paras, from another village who ran away screaming half naked. She
was just 12. Three weeks later she returned. her family had closed the doors to her, busy as
they were paying obeisance to the higher Gods of the high caste community. She was sent to
the temple to be purified of her sins by the priest, the rituals of which had gone on for 3
weeks. Finally Paras had nowhere to go, but to where she was told that her new Gods and her
Karma had deigned for her. The village of Baramur to her 73 year old husband.

Saraswati and most of the other girls were more fortunate. Their husbands had little interest
in their young bodies, or the energy to indulge even if they did. But there were more
immediate pressing needs. Some of the old people needed nursing even in the daily chores.
The houses needed to be cleaned and meagre kitchens needed to be kept going. But beyond
that there was a more fundamental need that the girls had been brought for.

Water.

The nearest working well was 12 kilometers away.There was no path even and the only way
to get there was by foot.That’s how the name came – “Child Brides of the Well”.Each day the
girls walked 4 hours to the well, and back 5 hours laden with pitchers of water.As they would
for the rest of their young lives.

But there was something about Saraswati this morning. Paras was intrigued. For 3 years they
had walked together to the well. Mostly in silence. After all there was not much that could
provide young girls fodder for gossip in Baramur. And little drama. When Paras’s mother in
law had started to beat her in a drunken state. In a fit of rage Paras had slapped her back and
the whole village decided that she needed to be taught a lesson. For two whole days Paras
was not allowed a single drop of water.

Then there was the time when Saraswati had started her menstrual cycle. She panicked and
could not tell anyone. Terrified that blood stains would be found on her clothes, Saraswati
would tie a rag full of fine desert sand around her parts to absorb the blood, and so naturally
she had an internal infection. Each day Paras and Saraswati would use a couple of handfuls of
water to clean her parts. That was the secret that bonded them together.

That they had used a little of the water they carried all the way back to the village for their
own use.

As the evening shadows came, and Paras and Saraswati would approach the village after
hauling their now full pots of water. Exhausted, they would pause by the lone tree at the
outskirts of the Village and pray fervently. When spotted they would swear they were dutiful
wives praying for the long lives of their creaking husbands. But the prayers were secretly
directed towards a different God. Rather than the God of Eternal Youth, they would be
praying to the God of Water. Praying for the Well to dry up.

The Gods seem to be answering their prayers too. The well was going dry. The next well was
too far to comprehend. When the water ran out, the girls would be freed. Their village would
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finally die out and the young girls, no longer needed, would be free to go. Having fulfilled
their Karma, the High Caste God’s would deliver them a different destiny.The Well was used
by all 14 villages in three districts that it served. Only one of the villages used to get water
supplied in a tanker pulled by two tired cows, as a dirt track still led to the village. That was
because the distant cousin of the mistress of a district politician owned land there, and would
visit with friends in noisy modern four wheelers. That was always an occasion, because the
villagers would pick empty beer bottles left in their wake. Anything to store water in. Paras
and Saraswati often wondered at the exciting lives of the young girls that went to that village
to get married.

But Paras still wondered at the spring in Saraswati’s step today. The bells on her anklets
seemed to beckon even the birds to gossip. Paras wanted to know what secrets the birds
shared with Saraswati. Her footsteps on the parched earth were no more the rhythm of the
plodding of a cow. The parched earth seemed to come alive with uncertain dance of each
step.

But Saraswati would not tell. She just giggled and put a distance between her and Paras. The
shadows cast by the early sun were still long enough to connect the two, and Paras tried to
capture the secret by constantly tugging at Saraswati’s shadow. But then Saraswati took her
Pitcher off her head, and lay down on her back. Stretching her arms wide to feel the coolness
of the yet young earth on her body. The shadow was gone, and Paras suddenly felt
completely naked. Never before had she taken this journey without the comfort of another
shadow always walking side by side. The rhythm that kept them going these years, was
suddenly broken.

Now if you were a Vulture swooping down to investigate, you would be forgiven for being
confused. For lying still, hands stretched in the vast flat yellow landscape were two young
bodies. It is not often you saw food potential so still yet breathing life as if they had just
discovered it.

Paras felt as if she could hear Saraswati’s wild heart beat through the fluid earth. She felt hers
responding, afraid that miles away, back in the village they would hear their rebellion.

“you were touched ?” Paras almost afraid of the next word “……..Where ?”

Their fingers touched. Lost in some imaginative world, Saraswati gently led Paras’s hand to
her breast and laid it there.

“and .. ?”

As Saraswati took Paras’s hand down and held it between her thighs , Paras panicked and
tried to escape. But Saraswati suddenly leaned over and looked straight into Para’s eyes.
Holding them with a fierceness and intensity that told the story of the unimaginable.

Something changed that moment. Did the winds pick up ? Carrying Saraswati’s words across
the land to her lover ? The birds went wild, confused at century old rules being broken. The
desert throbbed in resonance with Saraswati’s breathless words as she poured out every acute
memory of her encounter with absolute intimacy. Not even the Gods, nor centuries old
tradition had the power to stop the discovery of a young girl of her feminine self.
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“Who …”Caught in the first flush of Saraswati’s forbidden words, Paras was now panicking.

“The boy”Saraswati was suddenly coy. Had she revealed too much ? Would Paras possibly
carry the secret in her belly forever ? But Saraswati was feeling brave today. She felt a surge
of power.

“The boy that comes every six months with his father to sell medicinal oils”

It was all too real for Paras now. The panic swept up engulfing her entire self. She leaped up
and screamed at Saraswati.

“Sin ! Sin ! “The Vulture squawked as the birds died down. Paras kicked dirt into Sarawati’s
face. Again and again.

The sun was stronger. Higher. The shadows were much much shorter.

Saraswati ran after Paras. The Pitcher precariously balanced on her head. Desperately trying
to keep up with Paras’s shadow. For where could she go without it ?

“I will die if you tell”Saraswati screamed. “I will deny it ! The whole village will know you
are a liar “.

The wind was not listening anymore. The birds had lost interest. The Vulture looked for other
prey. The sun directly overhead now, was casting no shadow. Paras and Saraswati were free
of each other, but Saraswati kept shouting, till she was hoarser than the morning crows.

Paras whirled around. and slapped Saraswati hard. So hard that Saraswati’s pitcher fell down.
But even then the instinctive laws of Water kicked in. Paras caught the Pitcher on time and
roughly handed it back to Saraswati.

“He swore I was the only one”

Paras’s confession was not as passionate as Saraswati’s, but just as fierce.

The shadows were long again as the sun wilted and got tired of the hot day. But Saraswati
and Paras no longer cared to be in each other’s shadow as the Well came into sight.

Nor did they pay much attention to the 50 odd women fighting for the narrow space on the
perimeter of the Well. The Pitchers defined the Caste of the women. The upper caste ones
had brass pitchers, but even though adopted into the higher caste, Saraswati and Paras could
only afford clay Pitchers. It was a struggle to get your pitcher into the well and yet avoid it
smashing against the brass ones or the side of the well. But this was a daily chore and both
the girls went through the paces. Other matters on their minds.

Paras carefully watched her footsteps. She carried a much heavier load on her head than when
she started. Balancing her pitcher on her head, she wondered if Saraswati still had a spring in
her step. She had left Saraswati far enough behind for her not to notice. Paras tried a spring in
her step. Like a little dance. The pitcher almost fell and Paras just caught it in time. But a
little laugh escaped her.
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“Paras !!”

Paras froze. Had Saraswati noticed her ? She looked around, and Pitcher carefully balanced
on her head, Saraswati was running towards her. Secretly Paras was glad. Five hours was a
lonely walk back without another shadow to keep you company.

Saraswati came up to Paras. She looked down and danced a little step. Daring Paras to do the
same. Paras did, and the two young girls, having discovered a common spring in their steps,
giggled.

“He’s not coming back for six months”

“And we will be on this journey everyday”Replied Saraswati.

“For the rest of our lives”said Paras sadly.

“No, replied the now optimistic Saraswati “Only till the Well runs dry”.

“Only till the Well runs dry”Agreed Paras, as both the girls lowered their pitchers and knelt
in fervent prayers.

The village of Barmur was creaking to a halt. Getting ready to give up on the rigours of the
day, hoping the dreams of the night would provide an escape to those that could sleep. They
searched anxiously for the last two girls to return from the Well. Needing the Water and their
young hands to do the nightly chores. In the distance the saw one long shadow. Just one.

Had one of the girls run away ? Moans of tired curses escaped the lips of those that imagined
the chores that would get left. Already there was talk of how to make one girl do the work of
two.

But to those that looked carefully, they would have seen two girls, their hands on each other’s
shoulders. A spring in their step.

Two girls and one shadow.

@ Shekhar Kapur

The people knew about the visit of their paralysed landlord’s young
son…So the villagers… were not surprised to see him emerge…from
behind the temple, gun in hand.
Dr. Sujatha Menon
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But they took time to speak…A full year had passed since the new of
the British Raj having been replaced by a native one had reached the
village. People had ceased to be sceptical about the veracity of the
report. They were growing conscious even of the changes taking place
in their own outlook. They did not feel it necessary to prostrate
themselves to the young zamindar as they were wont to do to his
father.

Balbhadra Das offered a lifeless bow and asked abruptly, ‘You killed
the owl of the shrine, did you? How could you?’
‘So what?’ The young man’s voice was no less awkward…
‘You killed the owl, did you? But how could you?’ Balbhadra’s tone
had grown ominous…
‘Whoever I shoot at falls dead. My bullet gives concession to none –
bird or beast, giant or genie! Ha, ha!’ blustered the young man…
‘You can kill giants and get away with that, sir, but the question of the
owl of the shrine is different!’ several voices buzzed…
Only then did Balbhadra and his party grow conscious that they were
headed towards the cutcherry…Not long ago, one had to think twice
before passing by the cutcherry if the zamindar happened to camp
there. Their own conduct now assured the villagers that times had
changed.
A couple of extra hurricane lanterns had come. But they gave little
light though they roared loudly and had to be vigilantly guarded
against the wind.

Dr. Sujatha Menon

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It was a spacious palanquin and rather old; the colourful pictures of

fairies dallying with flowers were quite faded. During the time of the
dead zamindar’s grandfather, the founder of the dynasty, the
palanquin was rumoured to have had strings of pearls hanging from
its roof like bunches of grapes.

‘Tu-whit!’ came the call from the temple…The owl hooted for five
minutes and fell silent…They forgot all about time when the east
began to brighten…
‘Is the rumour I heard in the market the other day, that the zamindari
system will be scrapped, true?’ someone asked.
Nobody cared to reply.

The colonial gaze played a singularly important role in defining

gender relations by marking out colonial women as objects of
particular interest, either as targets of official sympathy or casual lust.

Dr. Sujatha Menon

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The Commissioner went away, taking three or four of

the soldiers with him…As he walked back to the court
he thought about that book…The story of this man who
had killed a messenger and hanged himself would make
interesting reading…He had already chosen the title of
the book, after much thought: The Pacification of the
Primitive Tribes of the Lower Niger.

Complicit
The…Commissioner left them for a while. He told the
court messengers, when he left the guardroom, to treat
the men with respect because they were the leaders of
Umuofia. They said, "Yes sir," and saluted.
As soon as the District Commissioner left, the head
messenger, who was also the prisoners' barber, took
down his razor and shaved off all the hair on the men's
heads. They were still handcuffed, and they just sat and
moped. "Who is the chief among you?" the court
messengers asked in jest. "We see that every pauper
wears the anklet of title in Umuofia. Does it cost as
much as ten cowries?" The six men ate nothing
throughout that day and the next. They were not even
given any water to drink, and they could not go out to
urinate or go into the bush when they were pressed. At

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night the messengers came in to taunt them and to

knock their shaven heads together.

Dr. Sujatha Menon