New and Old Twists on Old and New Forms:

An Examination of Bhimayana and The People’s Archive of Rural India

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 What role does form play in telling stories? What role does form play in telling the stories

that we do not normally get to (or want to) hear? Bhimayana is a graphic novel done in Gond

artwork that depicts the struggles faced by India’s Dalit community historically and in the

present moment. The People’s Archive of Rural India is an online archive of videos,

photographs, and stories featuring the often silenced and now potentially disappearing diversity

of India’s rural tribes. Both of these texts can be considered a new twist on an old form, or

alternatively an old twist on a new form. Through deconstructing the traditional form of a

graphic novel, Bhimayana builds a narrative that speaks to the cyclical trauma of the Dalit, while

also forming lines of solidarity with the also oppressed and silenced Adivasi. As an online

database rather than physical archive, The People’s Archive of Rural India not only preserves the

cultural traditions of India’s diverse rural communities, but it provides an egalitarian space where

members of those communities can participate in their own representation, and in its very form

cannot be read in a way that promotes a single narrative or single perspective.

The graphic book Bhimayana recounts the life of Bhimrao Ambedkar, renowned Dalit

activist and author of the Indian constitution. However, while episodes in Ambedkar’s life frame

the narrative, to a larger extent the text is an account of the injustices faced by the Dalit

community both historically and in the present moment. It is a highly didactic text, structured as

dialogue between a man critical of the supposed “special preferences” given to members of

India’s Scheduled Castes and a woman seeking to correct his misconceptions and inform him

(and us, the Reader) of the numerous trials the Dalit must go through to obtain adequate water,

shelter, transportation and respect. Given Bhimayana’s genre as a comic book, many would not

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consider the work literary in the traditional sense; however, this form allows the text to stand out

for its clear and accessible message.

That being said, Bhimayana is hardly the first work to envision the graphic novel as a

political form. Since 1980, comics and graphic novels have gained prominence for their role in

narrating experiences of exclusion and trauma. Marjane Satrapi, Joe Sacco, and Art Spiegelman

are well known for using the comic book form to give accounts of the Iranian Revolution, the

plight of Palestine, and the Holocaust respectively (Dauber 278). And a great deal of scholarship

has argued that the apparently simple super hero tales of the Golden Age of comic books helped

forge a Jewish sense of community that had otherwise been excluded from the United States’

predominantly WASP economy and culture (Dauber 277, 278). Just as the comic book

foregrounded narratives originally on the margins of a newspaper, it also foregrounded narratives

of those at the margins of society. Bhimayana, it would appear, is in good company.

However, while Bhimayana does inherit a great deal from the comic book form it also

looks to break that form. This is most evident through the book’s use of Gond tribal artwork,

which does not employ the three-dimensional perspective or cinematic establishment shots of

traditional graphic novels (Anand 100). Rather, the figures of the narrative seem to appear as if

on a singular plane and the text makes use of a great deal of animal imagery. Speech bubbles of

sympathetic characters take the form of birds, while those of aggressive characters take the form

of scorpion stings (Anand 101). First class train cars become great cats while lower class ones

appear to be rabbits; clocks take on the face of a rooster; a lake turns into a fish, and a the joy of

the untouchables of seeing Ambedkar is shown through the image of a dancing peacock (Vyam

et. al. 32-34, 54, 79). That Bhimayana, a narrative about the persecution of scheduled castes in

India would employ tribal artwork (and tribal artists) to convey this narrative reflects the work’s

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larger call for solidarity in the face of injustice. The book criticizes Gandhi’s refusal to address

the larger grievances of the Dalit in the wake of Indian independence, citing his desire “to save

[the Untouchables] against themselves” (Vyam et. al. 91). As a hybrid text of Dalit content and

tribal form, Bhimayana rejects this kind of closed off and patronizing activism, for it draws

attention to the fact that the Dalit and Adivasi are participants in a larger struggle for economic,

cultural, and historical representation in India, but nonetheless avoids homogenizing the voices

of that struggle.

Perhaps the largest departure from traditional graphic novel form is the work’s refusal to

employ conventional paneling. Panels largely emblematize comics and graphic novels, but the

creators of Bhimayana adamantly would not “comprom[ise] on the credo of not forcing people

into boxes” (Vyam et. al. 102). In this respect, the rejection of panels becomes a larger rejection

of the systems of social stratification that justify the exploitation of the Dalit and the Adivasi.

However, given that traditional comics employ panels in order to portray change and the

narrative’s passage of time, Bhimayana’s rejection of this convention forces us to rethink how

time and change present themselves in the lives of the Dalit.

According to Toral Jatin Gajarawala, Dalit literature imagines time very differently than

does upper caste and Western literature (576). He argues that Dalit chronology “bears little sense

of triumphant nationalism or privileged modernity despite being “postcolonial”” and that it

“largely lacks the historic signposts that would allow it to participate in a nationalist historical

chronology” (Gajawarala 576). Dalit literature has neither the privilege nor the paradigm to

imagine itself within the forward progress implicit in nationalism’s linear expressions of time,

because the Dalit experience is one of ancient, cyclical, and ceaseless trauma. The structure of

Bhimayana reflects this cyclical experience of time. Instead of panels, we see a flattened

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overlapping of narrative moments traced over by lines of digna, design patterns that ornament

the walls and floors of Gond homes (Vyam et. al. 97, 102). One of Bhimayana’s two artists,

Durga Vyam, compares these digna borders to fences in a field (Vyam et. al. 97). This

comparison is interesting for it illustrates that what separates each image, each moment in time,

is not a natural boundary, but an artificial human invention. Page twenty four depicts a young

Ambedkar asking his mother why he cannot drink from the tap at school like the other boys, and

she responds, “Every day you have to ask me this? You know why. Because you’re untouchable”

(24). Ambedkar’s mother explains that Bhim should feel lucky to even be in school, that if his

father and grandfather had not joined the white people’s army, the family would still be cleaning

up the village’s rubbish (24). Given his mother’s response, it would appear that Ambedkar is

never satisfied with this answer, and this cyclical resistance to cyclical trauma is reflected in the

cyclical structure of the page itself (24). To be a Dalit, it would appear, is to be stuck in time, in a

cycle of trauma, in an infinite loop of a social logic that knows only how to justify itself.

Page thirteen of Bhimayana shows this idea more concretely. It features a series of

(summarized) news articles detailing recent incidents of injustice faced by Dalits. “A dalit

woman has been ordered to pay compensation to the high-caste owners of a dog she fed,” reads

one of them (Vyam et. al. 13). “19-year-old girl and her boyfriend were allegedly bludgeoned

and electrocuted to death,” reads another (Vyam et. al. 13). Rather than have these events

displayed as they would typically appear in a newspaper—that is—in orderly blocks and

columns, they instead appear on the page in overlapping circles. The events are dated from 2006

to 2010, but follow no chronological order. Many of them are written tilted or sideways, and

along the right hand side of the page an actual newspaper heading lies superimposed:

“Untouchability alive & kicking in India” (Vyam et. al. 13). By interpolating a historical account

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of Dalit struggle with these recent tragic events, the makers of Bhimayana further illustrate that

India is not the “post-caste” society that it often pretends to be. What is also interesting about this

page is that the rotated text forces the reader to interact with the page more than she would with a

standard book. Rather than view the page from a singular angle, she must instead turn it in her

hands and literally take on a multiplicity of perspectives in order for these tragic events to

become legible. This of course echoes the overall work of the text—Bhimayana works to

undercut the conventional narrative of Indian history and the singular perspectives that are

associated with it. It forces the reader to interpret the past through new lenses—those of Adivasi

form and Dalit trauma—and to bear witness to the memories and voices of marginalized peoples.

Another work that is engaged with this project is The People’s Archive of Rural India.

Founded by Indian journalist Palagummi Sainath, PARI is a digital collection of photographs,

videos, audio-files, and articles giving an account of the everyday lives of people across India’s

diverse rural communities. In one way, this is an act of cultural and linguistic preservation. The

People’s Linguistic Survey of India indicates that the country overall speaks over 780 languages

in 86 different scripts, and that the majority of this variance can be traced back to rural tribal

communities (“About PARI”). However, in a quickly globalizing and modernizing world, these

communities are becoming displaced, and their unique languages, traditions, and cultural

knowledges are becoming forgotten (“About PARI”). By using multimedia to keep record of the

traditional crafts, art forms, and languages of these diverse communities, PARI looks to ensure

that does not happen. One video entry features Tserung Angchuk, a sixty-two year old weaver

from the village of Sneymo showing how he uses his portable loom to create rich cloths in varied

patterns (Angchuk, Saldon). A collection of photographs illustrates and explains the matrilineal

tradition of mandala wall art in Tonk, Rajasthan (Daga).

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 Overall PARI, in some ways is like Norway’s Svalbard Global Seed Vault, but seeking to

preserve a cultural rather than botanic diversity. But rather than hide these cultural artifacts away

in an underground fortress out of anticipation of their eventual extinction or as insurance against

some kind of global calamity, as an archive PARI seeks not only to preserve, but to educate and

inform. It provides a space for tribal peoples to voice their own experiences and perspectives that

counter the narratives constructed by the world’s economic and cultural elite. The series “Foot

Soldiers of Freedom” bears witness to the stories of Adivasi who had fought against British

colonial rule, but had otherwise largely gone forgotten. Demathi Dei Sabar, or “Salihan” is

famous in her village for having fought a British officer with a lathi after he had shot her father

(“When Salihan”). Sainath notes that in spite of Salihan’s courage, when he met her she

was living in degrading poverty in Bargarh district.a multi-coloured official certificate

authenticating her heroism was her only possession. That too spoke more of her father
than of her, and did not record the counter-attack she led. She had no pension, no
assistance from either the centre or the state of Odisha. (“When Salihan”)

In drawing attention to voices like Salihan’s, PARI engages in a project like that of Bhimayana.

It draws attention to the erasure of marginalized peoples from dominant historical narratives as

well as to the economic and social injustices that they continue to face today.

PARI is also similar to Bhimayana in that its very form unravels these conventional

narratives. In Archive Fever, Jacques Derrida writes that the knowledge that can be gleaned from

an archive more likely than not reflects the power structure that went into creating the archive

(18). Museums, censuses, libraries, etcetera are not objective pools of history and knowledge, but

rather texts in themselves that cannot help but reinforce the ideology of those who organized and

funded their creation. PARI stands out as a very different kind of archive. As an Internet archive,

it enables a decentralized means of production—anyone, whether they are a professional

journalist with a fancy camera or some kid with a smartphone can contribute so long as their

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contribution gives voice to “the everyday lives of everyday people” (“About PARI”). Because of

this, PARI features a dizzying array of content, portrayed in numerous languages, in varying

forms of media. While much of the reporting on PARI is still done by outsiders to these tribal

communities, it seeks to conduct this reporting in a way that allows these communities to speak

for themselves. In the video I mentioned earlier of the weaver Tserung Anchuk, his interviewer

fades behind the camera, asking few questions and allowing Angchuk to take center stage as he

narrates his craft (Weaver Angchuk). In every film, those whose lives and experiences are

portrayed receive first credit, highlighting that they are participants in the creation of PARI and

are not merely objects in its study (“About PARI”).

The Internet form also affects how we as readers engage with the archive. The structure

of a book or a film—even a text as unconventional as Bhimayana—is more or less set. We are

expected to enter the narrative through one particular point (the beginning) and leave it through

another (the end). We cannot view any two frames or any three pages at a single time, and we

cannot dictate how any one image is contextualized by that which we saw before it. The Internet,

however, does not play by these rules. While a website will outwardly have a logical structure

like that of a museum or library, this is really just a front for the larger network of hyperlinks that

connect each page to one another like underground tunnels, but that paradoxically seem to

occupy no space in themselves. Each reader necessarily draws her own path through this

network and therefore witnesses a different narrative. I said earlier that Bhimayana, particularly

page thirteen, forces the reader into a participatory role—she must engage with the text and take

on multiple perspectives in order to read what it is saying. PARI, as an internet archive, takes this

to the next level, for not only do its readers participate in creating the archive’s content, but

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through the thousands of paths they trace through the site, they in turn trace thousands of

different narratives, and thus thousands of different perspectives.

One thing to think about going forward is what PARI and the Internet in general will look

like a few years into the future as Internet access becomes increasingly available amongst these

tribal communities. As the Adivasi increasingly become able to participate in PARI and the

Internet at large, one would expect an explosion of new perspectives and new voices. But at what

cost? Angchuk described how his son is similarly an excellent weaver, but that the younger

generation seems more interested in “picking at their phones” than in carrying on their family

crafts and traditions. While the disordered and decentralized space of the Internet allows for a

democratically structured archive of disappearing rural tradition, it nonetheless seems to

participate in the disappearance of that tradition. And while the scale and powerful memory of

the Internet allow it to record these cultural artifacts and narratives in extraordinary depth and

detail, how will these deep cultural identities and traditions interact with a global cyberculture

founded on anonymity, resignification, and trends that appear and disappear with a flash and a

bang? It is hard to say. Angchuk, however, remains confident that there will remain a space for

these supposedly defunct traditions. He tells his son that cultural preservation “is becoming quite

fashionable these days,” and that skills like weaving “are what you need…to have your own

identity” (Saldon). Perhaps with the expansion of the Internet, and with the help of organizations

like PARI, these cultural forms will not see their extinction but rather their renaissance, enabling

people to find a sense place, of identity, of home in a world where those definitions become

increasingly fraught and where homogenizing narratives become increasingly promoted.

In all, Bhimayana and The People’s Archive of Rural India are texts that seek not only to

give voice to the narratives of marginalized peoples, but also through their forms create unique

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experiences of reading and production. Bhimayana takes a medium that was already inscribed

with trauma—the graphic novel—and appropriates it to represent a Dalit experience of cyclical

violence. Is it paradoxical that it achieved this aesthetic through the artistic forms of a separate

community, the Gond tribals, or is it instead a perfect illustration of solidarity between silenced

and exploited peoples against a History that would rather erase them? I would argue the latter.

The People’s Archive of Rural India, similarly, reimagines the archive. Its home on the Internet

allows it to bear witness to the extraordinary diversity of India’s tribal peoples, and to do it in a

way that allows these people to participate in their own representation, to give voice to their own

stories. Its place on the Internet also forces its readers to interact with these narratives in a way

that reaffirms their multiplicitous nature, and perhaps allows these communities to maintain a

sense of place in a rapidly deterritorializing future.

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 Works Cited

Anand, S. "A Digna for Bhim." Bhimayana: Experiences of Untouchability, Incidents in the Life
of Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar. New Delhi: Navayana Pub., 2011. 100-03. Print.

Daga, Sweta. "Meena Women: Custodians of the White Walls." People's Archive of Rural India.
Web. 12 May 2017.

Derrida, Jacques. “Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression.” Translated by Eric Prenowitz.

Diacritics, vol. 25, no. 2, 1995, pp. 9–63., www.jstor.org/stable/465144.

Dauber, Jeremy. “Comic Books, Tragic Stories: Will Eisner's American Jewish History.” AJS
Review, vol. 30, no. 2, 2006, pp. 277–304., www.jstor.org/stable/4131666.

Gajarawala, Toral Jatin. "Some Time between Revisionist and Revolutionary: Unreading History
in Dalit Literature." Pmla 126.3 (2011): 575-91. Web.

Sainaith, P. "When 'Salihan' Took on the Raj." People's Archive of Rural India, 15 Aug. 2015.
Web. 12 May 2017.

--- "About PARI." People's Archive of Rural India. Web. 12 May 2017.

Saldon, Stanzin. "'The Loom Is My Love, My Legacy'." People's Archive of Rural India. 09
May 2017. Web. 12 May 2017.

Vyam, Durgabai, Subhash Vyam, Srividya Natarajan, and S. Anand. Bhimayana: Experiences of
Untouchability, Incidents in the Life of Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar. New Delhi: Navayana
Pub., 2011. Print.

Weaver Angchuk and His Portable Loom: Part I. Tsering Anchuk and Stanzin Saldon.
Youtube.com. The People's Archive of Rural India, 11 May 2017. Web. 11 May 2017.

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