Talking Sociology Dipankar Gupta in Conversation With Ramin Jahanbegloo Ramin Jahanbegloo Full Chapter

Talking Sociology: Dipankar Gupta in
Conversation with Ramin Jahanbegloo

Ramin Jahanbegloo
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TA LKIN G SOC IOLO G Y
Also by Ramin Jahanbegloo
Talking History: Romila Thapar in Conversation with Ramin Jahanbegloo with the
Participation of Neeladri Bhattacharya
Talking Philosophy: Richard Sorabji in Conversation with Ramin Jahanbegloo
Talking Environment: Vandana Shiva in Conversation with Ramin Jahanbegloo
Talking Politics: Bhikhu Parekh in Conversation with Ramin Jahanbegloo
Talking Architecture: Raj Rewal in Conversation with Ramin Jahanbegloo
India Analysed: Sudhir Kakar in Conversation with Ramin Jahanbegloo
India Revisited: Conversation on Contemporary India
Talking India: Ashis Nandy in Conversation with Ramin Jahanbegloo
TALKI N G SO CI OLO G Y
D IPA N K A R G U PTA
in convers ation with
RAM I N JA H A N BEG LO O
1
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To Professor Yogendra Singh, erudite teacher, gentle guide
Dipankar Gupta: Making Sense of
India and Modernity
I first met Dipankar Gupta at the Reset Dialogues on Civilization

conference in Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi, India. We were
on the same panel, which was presided by my friend, Harsh
Sethi. In his introduction of Gupta, Harsh reminded the audience
that the man who was going to take the floor was justly known
as a ‘blunt intellectual’. In the past ten years, I have experienced
Gupta’s ‘bluntness’ on many occasions, including in the making
of this book. In the case of public intellectuals like Dipankar
Gupta, bluntness is a virtue and a true test of integrity. There is
nothing more pure and beautiful than an intellectual who always
speaks truthfully and sincerely. When I suggested Gupta to
participate in this book of conversations with me for my series
with Oxford University Press, I knew well that he would be at
his best as a knowledgeable scholar and a brilliant mind.
Dipankar Gupta, as everybody should know, is a well-
known name in Indian sociology. He is also one of India’s most
authoritative public intellectuals. As we can see from these
conversations, Gupta’s interests vary from the problem of social
stratification and corporate ethics to that of citizenship and
xii Talking Sociology
democracy, passing through studies on caste system and ethnic

groups in India. However, Gupta is also considered as one of the
most acute and insightful theorists of modernity and analysts of
modernization in India. His extraordinary array of texts on this
subject has helped several generations of Indians to understand
the transformation of institutions in India and to perceive the
significance of a global world where often the past loses its hold
in order to leave the door open to contemporary social changes.
In part, this is what Gupta points to when he writes in his book
Learning to Forget: The Anti-memoirs of Modernity (2005):
Once we centre our understanding of modernity around the quality
of social relations, and not on technological growth, we are better
equipped to intervene in social policy such that intersubjectivity can
be taken to higher levels . The realization of intersubjectivity can be
threatened at every turn by majoritarian rule, despotism, market
fundamentalism, and selfish individualism. These are all products of
the post-feudal age.
As a social scientist, Gupta believes that modernity is a dynamic

phenomenon that creates its own special type of institutions and
world views, which are transparent in the works of Karl Marx
on the centrality of capitalism in modern times, and that of Max
Weber, when he describes modernity as the disenchantment of the
world and the end of traditional forms of authority and rationality.
As such, it would be quite right to see Gupta as a scholar who
tries to redefine and reconstruct the central concepts of past
masters of sociology and philosophy in the Indian context. One
could argue that one of the central features of modernity for him
is a leap forward to the making of modern citizens. ‘Modernity’,
affirms Gupta in Learning to Forget, ‘is not about technology and
machines, but, principally, about equality between citizens’.
Interestingly, more than ten years later, in his book entitled
Dipankar Gupta: Making Sense of India and Modernity xiii
From People to Citizen: Democracy’s Must Take Road, Dipankar

Gupta adds:
As citizenship grows and develops, so does its cohort, modernity.
The greatest damage done to the understanding of modernity is
when it is equated with all that is ‘contemporary’. Hence, if there is
the Taliban, or ISIS, out there using highly technical instruments of
warfare, then that becomes modern; if a dictator encourages science
in the direction of mass destruction, then that too is seen as modern.
When rich, spoilt people misbehave in public there is a fair amount
of tut-tut about how modernity breeds bad manners. All of these are
so untrue. If we free modernity from contemporaneity, and see it
instead in terms of social relations whose conditions are underwritten
by citizenship, then we get a completely different result.
This has all to do with the very notion of ‘iso-ontology’, which

Gupta introduces in many of his works, including the very recent
one titled Q.E.D.: India Tests Social Theory, where he not only
develops once again notions such as modernity, intersubjectivity,
and citizenship, but he also defines iso-ontology as what brings
‘an awareness of others’. For Gupta:
A modern society is characterized by intersubjectivity as an
ontological condition. This intersubjectivity is not theorized as an
intellectual disposition, but emerges from societal compulsions which
favour ontological sameness. This ontological isomorphism does not
preclude differences, but in all differences there is a presumption of
similarity of being. I would like to call this phenomenon iso-ontology
and contrast it immediately against poly-ontologies of non-modern
societies where status markers were immobile and non-negotiable.
In the former case, ontology is the singular, in the latter it is in the
plural, and that should tell the whole story.
This transformation that Gupta is referring to is unique to the

history of modernity. It is central to the distinction between
modern and premodern societies. All his effort, through
xiv Talking Sociology
his books and research, is to make the distinction between

traditional norms and modern values in India clearly visible.
This sociological methodology is quite apparent even in some
of Gupta’s works that go back to two decades. As a matter of
example, we can quote the last page of Mistaken Modernity:
To thrust ourselves out of the thralldom of tradition, we are left with
no alternative but to resolutely press on with the modernist agenda.
Is it at all possible to realistically wprogramme a return to Arcadia, or
to willfully reject the many advances of modernity? No matter how
often many of us may nostalgically want to return to our ancient and
medieval past, we have travelled too far down history and lost too
much of our naiveté to actually let that happen. Tradition is no escape
route, nor is it wise to fool ourselves into believing that what we are
going through today is yet another version of modernity.
Gupta is also very attentive to the philosophical discourse of

modernity and he makes the Kantian motto ‘dare to know’
his. In some ways, as a thinker of modernity and public
intellectual, he is committed to the watchword of the European
Enlightenment, that is, ‘the exit of human beings from their self-
incurred immaturity’. This coming out of darkness means, for
Gupta, taking responsibility for our understanding, judging, and
acting in the public space. Without going into too much detail
on this subject, it is indubitable that for Gupta democracy and
maturity are both parts of the same reality and, therefore, we
cannot have one without the other. Consequently, people who
remain in the context of traditional hierarchy and authority are
not considered by Gupta as having attained the modern level of
mature relations. As he underlines, ‘Once we enter the modern
age, these relations between people are universalized such that
rules of interaction envelop all social actors…. In a modern
society then, one will always trust institutions more than
people, for the former embodies relations on a societal scale.’
Dipankar Gupta: Making Sense of India and Modernity xv
As such, the immediate impetus for Gupta’s sociology

of modernity is the inviolable equality of status as an initial
condition for intersubjective relations in the modern society.
Furthermore, this equality of status can be granted without
prejudice to a public space only if there is emphasis on the
making of a democratic culture with the citizens as the main
sociological actors. Hence, the context of discussion is very
clear for Gupta. For him, both modernity and democracy need
to be directed by self-conscious and far-sighted animators
of ideas. ‘It is an act of leadership’, he writes, ‘of assiduous
application, done with the full knowledge that something new
is being crafted. It is dedication of this kind that has brought
a “majority”, as we know it, in all established democracies.
The direction of democracy, needless to say, should pull
us inexorably towards dissolving majority and minority
consciousness and proclaiming a simple citizenship instead.’
Gupta, therefore, reminds us repeatedly that ‘democracy is
the most demanding and unnatural of all social arrangements’.
Naturally, India, as the largest democracy in the world, is well
placed to show us that many narratives on tradition and religion
have the capacity to endanger the soul and body of democracy.
Interestingly, Gupta sees in M.K. Gandhi an integral democrat
who developed the culture of citizenship and ethics of democracy
in India. ‘Gandhi’, writes Gupta, ‘was, in the ultimate analysis,
a democrat and not just an eccentric devoted to mudpacks,
pacifism, vegetarianism and celibacy. It is the legacy of citizenship
that the Father of the Nation bequeathed to us and for which he
paid for with his life.’
Gupta is well conscious of the fact that the importance of
Gandhi and his relevance to the present moment of rising
religious fanaticism in India and the world could not be
greater. Following Gandhi’s spirit of democracy, Gupta hopes
xvi Talking Sociology
to encourage through his sociology of modernity the process

of democratization of Indian democracy, while making no
concession to illiberal prejudices and populist passions. As he
underlines: ‘When we see ourselves in India today, it is not so
much as people but as citizens. From now on, any application
of the Constitution makes sense because it addresses all of us as
“we, the citizens.”’
I
From Bihar to Delhi
A Bengali Household
RAMIN JAHANBEGLOO (RJ): In your writings you have
often emphasized the relation between tradition and modernity.
Could we start these conversations by applying this approach
to your own life? You were born in October 1949 in Patna,
Bihar. How would you describe your family background? Was
it traditional or modern?
DIPANKAR GUPTA (DG): Well my background was, I think,
a mix of both. I come from a Bengali family, and Bengalis, as
you know, are often accused of being cultural patriots. True to
type, my father was very keen that we not only speak Bengali
at home, but also read and write it. So we were brought up in
the traditions prevalent in most Bengali households at that time,
except we were rarely in Bengal. But my father’s background
was solidly in Bengal, where he was educated and he earned his
Masters degree from Calcutta University.
RJ: Were you always out of Bengal?
DG: We were exposed to places outside of Bengal much more.
Though I was born in Patna, we never really lived there. My
Talking Sociology. Dipankar Gupta and Ramin Jahanbegloo, Oxford University Press
(2019). © Dipankar Gupta and Ramin Jahanbegloo.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780199489374.003.0001
2 Talking Sociology
father worked for the Reserve Bank of India and I spent my

entire pre-adult life travelling around the country to wherever
my father was posted. We were always in big cities such as
Madras (Chennai), Bombay (Mumbai), Calcutta (Kolkata),
Delhi, Kanpur, and so forth, which probably explains why I like
metropolises and feel at home in them. So, while I was never
steeped in tradition, I was familiar with it from very early in
my life.
RJ: Did all this travelling have an impact on you?
DG: Yes, it did. I had to make a new set of school friends
every so many years. I also got to know people of different
backgrounds. At that time only regional and linguistic markers
were significant; not religion, not caste. Sometimes, I do feel
that little bit odd when I am with Bengali purists, for I see a lot
of good and bad in all cultures, including my own. Yes, there is
a lot of Bengali in me, but I am not quite strapped down by it.
RJ: Is that why you were attracted to study more profoundly the
two concepts of tradition and modernity?
DG: Well, yes, that could be one part of my answer, but there
is a more intellectually grounded awareness of the tradition–
modernity relationship, which goes well beyond my family
background. Sometime around 1967–8, when I was in my late
teens, I was drawn to Marxism, like most young people were
those days, and I am happy for that. What impressed me the most
in Marx, it may seem quite commonplace now, was his assertion
that culture is malleable and contextualized by circumstances
outside it. This just blew me away; it was as if a new world had
opened up before me. Today this view is so metabolized in our
intellectual stream that even an avowed non-Marxist advocates
this position, as a matter of course, without knowing its origins.
Someone had to make the point, and it was Marx who did it
From Bihar to Delhi 3
first. In a way, this was the beginning of sociology, like it or

not. Over time, the truth became so obvious and in persistent
use that the original proponent was forgotten. This is truly
the richest tribute one can pay a scholar. Marxian economics
may seem outdated today, primarily because of the way it was
practiced and theorized upon after the Soviet Union came into
being. Even so, Marx’s writings contain nuggets that still engage
even non-Marxists to this day.
Growing Up in an Apolitical Family

RJ: We shall get to that but let us go back for a minute to your
life in Patna.
DG: I did not spend much time in Bihar, I was born there because
that is where my mother’s family lived. You know how it is
when a woman is expecting—she goes to her parents’ home.
I think within a few months after I was born, my father set out
to Chennai in what was his first posting for the Reserve Bank of
India. From there we went to Mumbai, Delhi, and Kanpur. But
we would go to Patna for vacations because my mother’s parents
and brothers lived there and their household was a very lively
one. My father had no siblings; in fact, he was a posthumous
child and then there was the Partition, which meant that his
relations were scattered everywhere. So our family home, if
one can call it that, was in Patna.
RJ: You were born in post-Independent India. Were your
parents active in any way in the Independence movement?
DG: No, no, no such involvement. In fact, my parents were
very apolitical. My father began his career in a family bank
that wound up soon after Partition, which is when he began
looking for a regular job and that is how his engagement with
the Reserve Bank began. He came from a landed background in
4 Talking Sociology
East Bengal, today’s Bangladesh, but all that meant little after
the Partition in 1947. Fortunately, unlike many other such
families of his kind in those days, my father had a regular degree
in economics and banking, so we survived and kept our heads
above water. At any rate, before Partition the bank I mentioned
sent him to Patna to open its first branch outside Bengal. He was
chosen probably because he was near at hand and had the right
kind of qualifications for the job. Soon after he came to Patna
he got married and within a year or so my older brother was
born. To return to your question, no there was no real political
engagement in my family, which is just as well.
RJ: Do you find that strange?
DG: Not that strange really. I realize, from my own biography,
that most people do not reason out political issues the way
members of the active intelligentsia do. Hence, when comments
are made along lines of ‘how and what people think’ about
politics, or on larger social issues, I am always a bit suspicious.
In my view, most people do not have sustained views, or, at
least, properly reasoned out one’s on these matters. If I had
come from a politically active background, I might have not
been as sensitive to the general ideological apathy that exists
everywhere. There are mood swings, even periodic flare-ups
of passion. Even those views that are of fairly long-standing
nature are rarely ever put to critical scrutiny or examined in
terms of simple logic. My father’s side of the family leaned
heavily towards the judicial service and from my mother’s side
they were mostly in the police. So you might say that was quite
a mix—judiciary and the arm of the law. So, if anything, my
background was more bureaucratic and administrative than
anything else; pretty conventional, I should think. My father’s
pre-Partition life was neither recalled actively, nor did I see any
traces of it while growing up.
RJ: But did they ever talk about Gandhi and Nehru or politics
at home?
DG: Very little, very little discussion on politics. In fact, politics
was probably first discussed in my family when I was around 19
at the time of Naxalbari and the counterculture movement in
Europe. That too would not have happened had I not introduced
these topics at home. The Vietnam War, of course, made all of
this more immediate. I think that generation suddenly came into
politics, even world politics, and mine was not an atypical case.
But till that stage, till my undergraduate years, I would listen
to political discussions with a certain disdain and particularly
resented the raised voices in which they were conducted. I
found that both abhorrent and mindless. Little did I know then
that very soon I too would be behaving in a similar fashion.
Fortunately, I worked my way out of that mode of political
participation, but some of that still lingers.
Nehruvian Times and the Partition Effect

RJ: Given that you are a son of the Nehruvian times, how did this
factor reflect in your school years or education? Were Gandhi
and Nehru your national heroes?
DG: When I was a teenager my parents used to talk about
Nehru in fairly laudatory terms. The horrors of the Partition
notwithstanding, I did not detect any animosity in my family
against the political establishment of the day. Fortunately,
no Partition fixation; that can be irritating and repetitive.
While Nehru was a hero, no doubt, there were ambiguities
and contradictions in the way my parents looked at him and
I became conscious of those much later. On occasions, in
spite of the adulation that Nehru and Gandhi received in my
home, my parents also saw them as usurpers of sorts. Deep
6 Talking Sociology
down they felt that Subhas Chandra Bose deserved to be the

leader of the Congress. Then there would be occasional, very
occasional, ruminations of what Subhas would have done had
he been given the chance. There was no mention of Bose
mingling with fascists in Germany and Japan. So, the memory
was very selective—good ones, yes, uncomfortable ones, out;
very little was based on history, but more on nostalgia and
wishful thinking.
RJ: Where did Nehru stand in your childhood days?
DG: Nehru was admired for his education, his presence, his
vision, and, most of all, because he had a well worked-out plan to
take India forward. My parents felt that there would be a future
for us white-collared class for Nehru would rapidly change India
into a land of doctors and engineers. Nehru’s autobiography,
Towards Freedom, was something my father admired a lot,
especially its literary style. I also learnt a few difficult English
words, such as ‘valetudinarian’, from that book.
RJ: As a family which suffered during the Partition, were there
any effects of that violence in your home?
DG: Discussions on Hindu-Muslim relations did not figure
very much in my home. Partition had happened, but now it
is over. Perhaps because my grandparents, both maternal and
paternal, were quite successful in their respective professions,
and hence not that unsettled by the Partition, that political
discussions were quite rare in my family. Nor did the Muslims
we knew, and there were several, seen as very different from
the rest in the social circle. In my grandparents’ home in Patna, I
remember the admiration with which my maternal family held a
very senior Muslim police officer. Their ways, their tastes, their
looks were often discussed in a near-envious fashion. At that
time, none of this seemed unusual or self consciously secular.
It is not as if we were more enlightened then but perhaps

because Nehru’s Congress had the most workable dream and
agenda for the future that the Partition did not matter that
much. For a family that saw its future as officers in the Indian
Administrative Services (IAS) or the police, or as doctors and
engineers, Nehru’s appeal was compelling and it is this promise
that spoke directly to our ambitions.
RJ: Did it stay that way for long?
DG: My own sense is that around the time I was about 19
or 20 years old we could tell that this dream was not quite
happening. Which is probably why, during the late 1960s,
Maoism gripped a number of young people from professional
and bureaucratic backgrounds. Nehru’s charisma was by then
on the wane and this was directly on account of the way he
conducted the India–China war. After all these years of being
held up in the highest esteem to be remembered by the China
fiasco, in the declining years of one’s life, was quite tragic.
Those who had not known Nehru earlier but had met him for
the first time post the China war were not impressed by him.
He was not the attractive, charismatic man they had imagined
him to be. But, even so, we still believed that it was Nehru’s
India that governed us and only a few made out the difference
between him and his daughter, Indira. Now all this is very
clear, but not so then.
RJ: Were your parents religious?
DG: They were religious, in a manner of speaking. My
father used to chant a few slokas to Shiva every morning,
and my mother and grandmother had a puja room in the
house where every Tuesday and Thursday they spent about
half an hour praying with incense burning and freshly made
sweet prasad—offerings to the Gods. It was this prasad
8 Talking Sociology
that attracted us the most and we all got generous helpings

of it—including our friends and our dog—who probably
demanded and received the most. After my father retired,
this puja room disappeared in his new home, and so did the
prasad. Temple visits were rare other than when on a sight-
seeing tour and I never quite enjoyed this part for reasons I
cannot explain. In my view, my family was culturally Hindu,
but not very ritualistic. Durga Puja, however, was a major
event, from buying new clothes to going to the marquee
where Durga was worshipped, to the food that was served,
and the theatre and entertainment that followed. It was a lot
of fun. I do not think that the attraction of Durga Puja can
be understood in pure religious terms—these other cultural
factors must be worked in as well.
An Agnostic Indian
RJ: Did you have any contact with religions of India as a child?
DG: Not really. As I said, our religious observances were not
of the temple-visiting variety. They were limited principally to
Durga Puja or Kali Puja. Of the two, Durga Puja generated the
most enthusiasm. The main reason for this was that it lasted
for ten fun-filled days where we could all preen ourselves in
our brand new outfits and in our new shoes that still pinched.
Once, when I was probably eight years old, or about that age,
my parents took us to Mathura and Vrindavan. All I recall is a
feeling of discomfort as I could not relate to those places, as one
should, or was expected to.
RJ: Do you consider yourself an atheist?
DG: I do not think I am an atheist.
RJ: How about being an agnostic?
DG: I am more of an agnostic. I think an atheist would have to

be kind of blind and dogmatic. Who can ever be certain about
the beginning of the beginning or of the end of the end?
RJ: Later, you came back to religion, not in a spiritual way, but
let us say, from a sociological point of view.
DG: Yes, I did but that was because of Marxism and also on
account Emile Durkheim, who, incidentally, was no Marxist
at all. It is their sociology that attracted me and while people
saw differences between the two, which were real, I was drawn
by the similarities between them. In both cases, religion was
not examined in theological terms but within the framework
of society and of forces that moulded it, even made it. For
Durkheim, religion captures a euphoria that emerges from
participating as a member of a collective and hence had very
mundane reasons for its origins. It was in this sense that I found
a similarity between Durkheim and Marx. Marx’s famous line
which said ‘religion is the opium of the people’ is quite similar
to Durkheim’s view in that religion keeps our spirits up because
the coming together as a collective makes us feel larger than
what our puny selves are in everyday life. The reason why we
tend to see Durkheim in anti-Marxian terms is because the
phrase ‘religion is the opium of the people’ is read divorced
from the sentence of which it is a fragment. That same sentence
says that religion is also the ‘sigh of the oppressed people’ and
‘soul of a soulless condition’. It is ‘opium’ only in so much as
it helps to take the pain away from our insecurities. It’s not an
‘opium’ as if it puts us to sleep and, perhaps, to dream.
RJ: How else did the views of Marx and Durkheim on religion
impact you?
DG: Once I was convinced that religion was not a free-floating
phenomenon that had an independent existence in our mental
10 Talking Sociology
space, I was keen to expose the hollowness of the view that

Indians were innately religious and driven primarily by the
grammar of Hinduism. I found many sociological texts that kept
suggesting that we Indians are determinedly ‘other-worldly’
and ‘hierarchical’ and ‘fatalistic’, often at the same time. I
believe this point of view to be plain ridiculous. Marxism
showed me a way out of this, which when coupled with the
anti-establishmentarianism spirit of the 1960s and 1970s was
hard to beat. In addition, there was also the ugliness of poverty
the moment you stepped outdoors. Marxism was also a reaction
to this ugliness. In this context, I need also add, that it was the
ugliness of communism in practice that drove many people to
anti-Marxism in East Europe and the Union of Soviet Socialist
Republics (USSR). In other words, context is of the essence.
The Art of Being a Bengali

RJ: Back to your family life: how important was the cultivation
of ‘culture’ in your home?
DG: As you can imagine in a Bengali household there was a
self-conscious assertion of Rabindranath Tagore at practically
every step. There was always something out of Tagore that
explained, or gave meaning to, almost every event that
happened around us. It is somewhat like the way a British
person might quote Shakespeare or the Bible. The quote from
Tagore that I like best is: ‘Satan enters your home only when
there is a flaw within it.’ Bankim Chandra was not quite at the
same level as Tagore, though I was introduced to his Krishna
Kanta’s Will in my early teens by my father. Yes, we grew
up with sayings of Tagore and Vivekananda. This often led
to some disagreements between my mother and I because I
kept telling her that both her heroes were very experimental
with God and, indeed, with the idea of Hinduism itself. But
that happened after I joined college, not before that. Till I was
about 16 or so, I was innocent about these issues. Doubtless,
you know many people who were much more intellectually
alert than I was at that age.
RJ: How deeply immersed are you in Bengali tradition? Were
there other influences?
DG: My Bengaliness is neither fully rounded nor profound,
as I mentioned earlier. It was largely family influence, though
a very powerful one. A close friend of mine once said that I
‘feel’ like a Bengali but think like a non-Bengali. I am not sure
what that means, but I can sense there is some truth lurking in
that observation. As we entered our teens, western pop took
over our aesthetic sense of music and my father, in particular,
despaired at that. Not that he stopped us from listening to Bill
Haley, Elvis Presley, or The Beatles, but often enquired, with
true puzzlement, as to how we could take all that noise to be
music? Even so, Tagore songs and poems did the rounds in our
home, and even now I can recite a few lines, hum a few songs
by the great poet, and pass off as a reasonably cultivated Bengali.
When I put on that garb, I think I try to be like my father, but
of course, my appreciation of this aspect of culture is quite
shallow, though not completely untutored. I can spot a Bengali
charlatan when I see one.
RJ: The atmosphere in your home was very Bengali, even though
you lived mostly out of Bengal.
DG: Yes, you could say that. I do not know how people from
other regions who live outside their original home state cope
with their cultural baggage, but I grew up in a fairly Bengali
atmosphere. A lot of Tagore was always swirling around us and
we almost worshipped him. There was just nothing lacking in
that man, and that is indeed how most Bengalis viewed him; he
was a ‘nikhut’ (blemish-free) individual. There was also a fair

amount of adoration for Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, but here
there was also something that was somewhat instrumental. The
message between the lines was that if Vidyasagar could rise to
such eminence in spite of being so poor, we should not fiddle
with the advantages we were born with. This was meant to
exhort us to be more diligent with our studies and not slag off,
as we tended to do from time to time. I am sure this is the way
it was in most Bengali families, so obsessed were we with school
results and rank.
RJ: Were there any other figures from Bengal who figured
prominently in your childhood? What about religious leaders
like Vivekananda?
DG: Vivekananda was also a fairly constant reminder of our
Bengaliness. Even though he was much larger than just Bengal,
Bengalis appropriated him as their own. Almost every Bengali,
me included, know several passages from his 1893 speech to
the Parliament of World Religions in Chicago. On the political
plane, as I mentioned, there was the romance of Subhas Bose,
though he was way behind in importance after Tagore and
Vivekananda. My grandmother was deep into Radha–Krishna
stories, and I wonder if she got them from Chandidas. Her
recalling of tales of Ram, Sita, and the rest of the cast were
pretty standard. Did she read all that in Krittibasi Ramayan, as
most did in Bengal or not, I do not really know. At that point
in my life I had no idea about these things or the fact that every
myth had so many renditions.
RJ: But isn’t there a very strong religious element in Vivekananda?
DG: Yes, yes, his Hinduism was very pronounced, but there was
a modern side to him too. For example, I remember my mother
telling me very often that Vivekananda questioned Ramakrishna
very closely, and for long, before he finally accepted Goddess

Kali. I suspect that this story did more to still the budding
atheistic sentiments in me, rather than encourage radical thinking.
I suppose her logic was that I should not question these issues
because all of that had already been done for us by Vivekananda
and religion had passed the test. This is where faith steps in and
reasoning takes the back seat. There are parts of Vivekananda that
I find very religious, in a worshipful kind of way, and that didn’t
move me. He is probably one of the first men who said Hinduism
was intrinsically tolerant which is now a very commonly used
phrase in all kinds of popular and intellectual discourses. At the
same time, he believed that Vedanta needed Islam for its practical
demonstration. He prized the principle of equality in Islam a
great deal. He found much to be admired in Christianity too, but
I remember he was rather harsh on missionaries who believed
that the only true God was the Christian one. Nor can I deny the
impact he made on me when he denounced the caste system in a
language that would make any modern iconoclast proud.
RJ: Do you see Tagore in a similar way?
DG: Tagore is another matter. His sophistication is at a different
level, on a very elevated plane. He is dear to most Bengalis, and
I too am a great admirer of his works, particularly his views on
humanism, aesthetics, religion, and politics; though much of this
is not equally known to many of his Bengali followers. I became
aware of them later in my twenties and was tremendously
overwhelmed by the perspicacity and insight with which he
propounded these issues. For example, Tagore’s Ghare-Baire (The
Home and the World) can be read as a work in which an ambitious
wife, bored by a very regular life and husband, seeks out a new
diversion with a wandering politician. But it could be read in
terms of a great debate between nationalism and humanism.
Charulata, a film made by Satyajit Ray based on Tagore’s novel
Nastanirh (broken nest) too brings to the fore the issue of marital
fidelity and exposes the pretensions of our everyday lives. At
a time when nationalism circled in swift currents in India,
for someone like Tagore to oppose nationalism, four square,
was an intellectual tour de force. This is a lesson that should
resonate with us even today. This is because nationalism can be
a destructive force too. Likewise, in Gora Tagore encourages
us to ask whether or not our epistemological understanding of
the ‘self’ and the world is pure intellect, or culture at work, or
governed by circumstances and context. If we opt for the latter
then we would quickly realize how our religious, or cultural
identity is not hallowed by tradition but hollowed by time, and
only the here and the now of the context breathes fire into it.
Tagore, for me, is very relevant in contemporary India and I do
not say this as a Bengali but as someone who is persuaded by the
sociological imagination.
An Unhappy School Boy

RJ: Let’s go back to your schooling, which you were saying was
partly in Chennai and partly in Mumbai.
DG: Chennai, Delhi, Mumbai, and Kanpur. In the first 16 years
of my life, I spent a considerable number of years in all these
places. All the schools I went to were run by one Christian
denomination or the other. We never paid any attention to
that for my father was only interested in the school’s academic
reputation when he sought admissions for us. Yet, in those
schools, we were never herded into Christianity–never went to
Mass, never went to Church–as part of the school curriculum.
No doubt, our school teachers wanted to make us gentlemen,
not ‘chokra boys’, but were quite content to leave us as Hindus.
I later learnt from my Christian friends that there was much
greater pressure on them to conform by the school authorities,
but I cannot testify to this for I did not see any of that happening,
and if it did, it took place outside my range of vision.
RJ: How was life for you in school?
DG: I was never a happy school boy, especially before the age of
ten. I felt I was bullied by my teachers and by class mates, and my
older brother would often come to my rescue. My discomfort in
school was quite in contrast to the way I felt at home where there
was a lot of tenderness and love, my mother demonstrably, like
most mothers, my father less so, like most fathers. My brother
too was always on my side. All of this made the contrast with
the school atmosphere scary for me. After I entered my teens
that nervousness left me and I became much bolder, but I always
had rather strained relations with all the schools I attended,
barring one. My favourite school years were in Mumbai, in
Cathedral and John Connon School. Sadly, I did not spend
too much time there because my father was soon transferred
from Mumbai to Kanpur. My first brush with Kanpur was as
if I had entered another world. I had to face the horror, pure
horror, of interacting with people who spoke Hindi perfectly
and showed no hesitation in picking faults with my command
of that language. When I read later of how strongly Tamil Nadu
opposed the imposition of Hindi, I could sympathize with that
sentiment. Over time, things began to improve and I gradually
became more confident in my surroundings and more adept in
my social relations with kids of my age.
RJ: What about your post-school years in college and university?
DG: Post school, my undergraduate years were both bitter
and sweet, some memories cling nicely, some I wish would
go away. My student days became exciting only after I joined
the Department of Sociology at the Delhi School of Economics
(DSE). I was 19 years old then and the magic of that place was so
captivating. I wish I could have gone on forever being a student

there. We had great professors and a fantastic coffee house.
RJ: Were you a shy boy?
DG: Yes, I was, though some might say today that I could never
have been one. I think everybody goes through a shy, awkward,
and uncertain period in one’s life. These traits diminish over
time, but never quite leave you. People hide it or dress it up in
different ways, but it is always there. At least, that is how I look
at it.
RJ: Were there tough disciplinarians in your school? Did you
ever get slapped by teachers?
DG: No, I don’t think I ever faced a clear case of being slapped,
but caned, yes, ruler-scale on my palms too. But in Cathedral
School in Mumbai, there was none of that, which is another reason
I liked it so much. I think those years in Cathedral were the best
years of my school boy life. There was no corporal punishment,
no bullying, and what is more, there were specialist teachers from
the junior classes upwards. This was heaven after Delhi.
A Mumbai Man
RJ: Does that mean you are a Mumbai person now?
DG: Because I had such a good time in Mumbai in those days,
it is a place that always calls out to me. I have spent almost
my entire life in Delhi, but I think I know Mumbai better. My
friends tell me that there is a lot of romanticizing in my feelings
about Mumbai, and they are probably right. After all, I have
not lived there for a long time now, and going somewhere as a
tourist and traveller is not the same things as earning a living,
going to work, finding an apartment, and facing the rains—the
‘real’ Mumbai demands all that.
RJ: So when you go back to Mumbai, do you feel happy?

DG: Indeed, I do and in spite of the caveats I just mentioned,
I am impressed by its cosmopolitan character, which is clearly
visible even today. But it is not just this, there is so much more
and I just cannot explain my partiality towards Mumbai in a
reasonably rational way. I’ve spent most of my life in Delhi, and
that amounts to many years, but those happy days in Mumbai as
a school boy, and later as a teenager, certainly made for good
memories. Even now, when I think back, south Mumbai, in
the early 1970s, was one of the best places to be in. Backbay
Reclamation, Cuffe Parade, Colaba Causeway, the Strand,
stand out limpidly in my memory. Those were really happening
places, but most of all, there was so much freedom there and so
little fear.
RJ: Let us talk about the Mumbai of those days. How do you
differentiate it from Delhi?
DG: First of all, when I look back, the school I was in, as I
told you, was very different. Teachers were subject specialists
and not as in most schools then when a junior class instructor
taught a number of courses and was a specialist in none of
them. Our French teacher in Cathedral was an Englishman,
but with perfect French, and I wish I had paid more attention
to him. Our geography teacher was a Peruvian who loved the
subject and the mountains too, where he came from. He was
a trekker and an adventurer of sorts, or so I imagined him
to be. Our boxing coaches were skilled in their craft and I
learnt to appreciate that sport only because we were taught to
look out for the intricacies that it involved. Also, when I look
back I am quite impressed by the fact that some of the richest
kids in India were in my school and I had no idea that they
were any different from the rest of us. Even when I went to
their homes, there was no ostentatious display of grandeur, in
fact, I remember the graciousness with which their very busy

and successful parents would greet us kids, friends of their
children.
RJ: Why should that impress you so much?
DG: It did not then, but it did later, and I will tell you why.
What I am talking about is probably a Mumbai state of mind.
In 1975, when I was offered a position in the Tata Institute of
Social Sciences (TISS) in Mumbai I went across to meet the then
director of the institution, Professor M.S. Gore. I wanted to
seek his advice before taking a final decision about accepting
the job offer. Professor Gore was a highly respected intellectual
and also a dignified and recognized figure in Mumbai society.
What took me aback when I entered his office was his courtesy.
He got up from his chair, came round the table to greet me,
and then made it a point to step out again to see me off. I had
never encountered graciousness of this kind in Delhi, especially
from superiors, and in those years I only had superiors. I have
seen good manners of this kind in Mumbai on other occasions
too—from parents of my school friends and later in life in my
rare interactions with Mumbai people of eminence. This starkly
contrasts with the way people behave in Delhi.
RJ: I don’t understand. What do you mean?
DG: At the Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU), for example,
where most faculty, including deans and vice-chancellors, are
supposed to be intellectually egalitarian, rarely does one find
a senior professor treat a newcomer with the kind of courtesy
with which Professor Gore met me. I also found many vice-
chancellors of JNU behave with a kind of superciliousness that
is hardly edifying. Very often, they refused to recognize your
presence in their office even after you had sought and received
an official appointment. I have no idea where they picked up
this mannerism from, but I have known at least three vice-

chancellors who would not raise their eyes to meet yours, or
even say a word of welcome, but would keep signing papers
for a good five minutes or so before deigning to recognize
your presence.
RJ: That was certainly very rude. Did you ever protest when
you met with such behaviour?
DG: On one occasion it was so revolting that I excused myself and
left the room because the Vice-Chancellor took so much time over
his papers and did not even ask me to sit down. When I contrast this
kind of haughty rudeness with the decency of Mumbai notables,
one cannot but be repulsed by the ‘burra-sahib’ (important person)
mentality in Delhi. Somebody who knew Indira Gandhi well said
that this was exactly how she greeted subordinates. I suppose the
Delhi big bosses may have picked this trait up from her. Really, I
have no idea where this has originated from. Mumbai nurtures a
different state of mind—this is probably true for the entire region
south of the Vindhyas.
Entering Academics and the Delhi School

of Economics
RJ: What interested you the most when you were a teenager?
Was it reading books, playing cricket, or…?
DG: All of the above, most of all sports—cricket and running
middle distance, in particular. I don’t think I was a bookworm,
though I fared well in school. For me homework and exams were a
routine that had to be performed so that one could play outdoors.
Knowledge did not drive me; I was not a nerd, not anywhere
near that. In my teens I discovered I liked novels and became a
member of both the American Centre and the British Council in
Delhi. During those years, I read some of the best classics in the
English language, and a few European works in translation.
RJ: Did reading literature leave an impact on you?
DG: Most of all it stoked my imagination and I would try and
picture what I had read and that was really engrossing, more
like daydreaming. Sometimes a book or a poem left such a
strong impression on me that I would fancy myself growing up
to be a novelist, or even a lyricist. My closest friend in those
days had a houseful of quirky relatives and they were often the
subject of my short stories, none of which ever got published.
What pleases me, however, is that my friend, after all these
years, still remembers my many attempts to immortalize his
family. It is often remarked, in a light-hearted, though not
entirely unwarranted, way that every Bengali boy must, at
some stage, write poetry or short stories. I guess I fell into
that category rather neatly. Quite independent of me, my son
Dipayan is an avid reader and this pleases me no end. I must,
however, confess that his aesthetic sensitivities are far more
developed than mine.
RJ: What about reading political or philosophical books?
DG: As I said earlier, I was not an intellectual type from the
start, nor did I have any ambitions towards that end. Till I came
to the DSE any thought of reading books, unless part of the
course requirement, was an imposition. Good, classic novels
and plays were the exception. After university, what I really
wanted to be was a police officer. After all, my mother’s side
of the family, my uncles and my grandfather, were policemen
and I admired them. Till then, education was a ticket to a job
and not a life-long quest that it later became. I often feel that
some of my colleagues in academia had a head-start over me
as they had intellectual heroes and prized an intellectual life
when they were in their early undergraduate years, if not when

in school. Only after I joined the DSE, and that too when I
was in the second semester and came face-to-face with brilliant
professors, the glamour quotient of intellectual life took a huge
leap for me. From then on I wanted to be an academic—out of
the window went my earlier ambitions to be a policeman. May
be for that reason I find those intellectuals amongst us who take
themselves very seriously, a bit comical.
RJ: What were your days like at the DSE?
DG: I suppose it began in 1969 when I joined the Department
of Sociology at the DSE for my MA degree. In sociology, the
academic preference at the time, with notable exceptions,
was to analyse social action through the cultural perspective
and not emphasize, in the same way, material and political
considerations. Orthopraxy and orthodoxy framed most
discussions such as those related to caste, family, and village.
For example, that jajman–kamin relations (or patron–client
economic exchanges in kind) have been seriously eroded in
the countryside was never fully insisted upon. Marx, on the
other hand, was a master context-seeker. Nothing remained
in its pure form in his hands, even the most hallowed cultural
precept could not stand alone and remain outside the welter of
human interests and conflict. Consequently, so many questions
rose in my mind and I felt as if Marx, Weber, and Durkheim
were carrying on a lively debate between themselves in my
head—a long distance conference call, as it were.
RJ: What about the atmosphere at the DSE?
DG: The atmosphere at the DSE obviously contributed towards
this engagement and how could a young man have asked for
anything more? Anyhow, given my intellectual bent at that time,
I felt I had to demonstrate how culture and tradition always
adjust to serve political and economic drives and are never really
expressed in their pure form. For this purpose, I thought it best
to study a popular movement for that would sharply bring out
how tradition is a malleable phenomenon amenable to specific
worldly interests. That is how I came to do my PhD on the Shiv
Sena.
RJ: Would you call that a turning point?
DG: This was an important turning point for me. From then on
I began to see the tie between traditional and cultural relations
in a more academic and disciplined fashion. I had to modify,
en route, some of my ideas about Marx too. I don’t think my
upbringing itself played too big a role but I must also say it did
not inhibit me in any way in my approach towards tradition and
modernity. The truth is I was not grounded in any one culture
and yet at the same time not quite deracinated either. At least
that is how I saw myself. I never felt that I was an outsider and
indeed believe, even today, regardless of one’s upbringing, my
India is as good as anybody else’s. Nobody has a monopoly on
this matter. My India is as good as that of any other, sometimes
better, simply because I have studied it. It all began at the DSE.
RJ: On a number of occasions you mentioned that you were
swayed towards academics because of the brilliance of the
professors at the DSE. Who were they?
DG: Everybody who was anybody in the intellectual firmament
was there.
RJ: Big names?
DG: Yes, of course. In sociology we had M.N. Srinivas, who
you might say invented modern sociology in India. Then
there was the star of them all—Professor Andre Beteille.
His presence was uplifting for he brought western and Indian
sociology together and showed us the relevance of universal

theories. Without Professor Beteille’s dedicated scholarship
and his refined academic temper, I do not think Indian
sociology would have progressed very far. As somebody once
said, Professor Beteille was the Vivekananda to Professor
Srinivas, the Ramakrishna. Beteille’s grasp of theory and his
knowledge of the history of thought are exemplary. In my
view, Beteille brought Max Weber to India. Then there was
the charismatic J.P.S. Uberoi. He was my tutor for three
terms out of four and though I squirmed in his presence during
those years, I am happy I went through that grind. When he
was my tutor, in the years 1969–71, I thought he had taken
an instant dislike to me.
RJ: Have those early impressions stayed on?
DG: Not really. When I returned to the DSE twenty years later
as a professor, Professor Uberoi became one of my buddies. He
is such a mixture of mischief and intellect and this combination
can, and does, produces startling results. I have often wondered
whether Professor Uberoi was aware of the brilliance of the many
statements he casually tossed out. The biggest gift I received
when I came back as faculty to the DSE was to get to know
Professor Beteille. Earlier, when I was a student we did not
really meet, but now we were drinking tea and chatting several
times a day and I always came away from these interactions
full of admiration for him. I have no hesitation in saying that
Professor Beteille was, and is, one of the strongest intellectual
figures I have encountered. In the Economics Department there
was, of course, Amartya Sen, Jagdish Bhagwati, Mrinal Dutta
Chaudhury, and many others. We did not interact with them
on a regular basis, but did periodically, especially at seminars.
Together, their presence made that institution quite unbeatable
by any standard.
Appreciating Philosophy
RJ: But were you acquainted with Indian philosophy?
DG: I came to appreciate Indian philosophy much later when I
was in my early thirties. My interest in epistemology, causation,
inference, and on the various theories of ‘Being’ was certainly
initiated by European thinkers. Later, when I read Mimamsa
and Nyaya, I found so many parallels, not similarities, let us
be clear, with Western thought that it left me puzzled. Why
is it that Hume, Kant, right down to thinkers like Heidegger
left such an impact on science but not our philosophers who
were also circling over roughly the same intellectual territory?
Is it because all of this happened in India way back in the first
millennium AD, perhaps even before that, and we were,
consequently, victims of the early starter disadvantage? Perhaps
the world and society of the times were just not ready for these
ideas and, therefore, they sank into variants of theology, which
they were not meant to be.
RJ: Have you found a satisfactory answer for yourself to this
riddle?
DG: This is a question to which I have not yet found a
reasonable answer. I wonder if this is why later generations
of Indian thinkers were not able to make that breakthrough
into the secular world of science. Is this why they eventually
rested their oars, instead, by leaving matters to Brahma? Is this
how ‘routinization’ of philosophy takes place? There could be
something in this line of reasoning, for in the Mimamsa too, a
text which is all about performing ritual correctly, there is no
God. Nor is there the necessity of God in almost every branch
of Indian philosophy, inclusive of Vaisheshika and Sankhya.
Patanjali’s texts too can be read in their entirety without the
insertion of Brahma. Why then did God enter the picture in
such a big way when such a presence was not really called
for at the start? Here I am not talking about the Vedas or the
Upanishads which are, by comparison, nowhere as profound
as the schools of Indian, note not Hindu, philosophy that I just
referred to.
RJ: Do you remember the books you read on western thought
and philosophy?
DG: Well, I’ll quickly tell you the philosophers that impressed
me apart from Marx and Hegel. I was very struck by what Fichte,
and later, by what Kant had to say. Fichte provided me with a
strong foundational conception of ontology in that the dialectic
of thesis—antithesis and synthesis proceeds irrespective of
volition, or deliberate effort; it is in the nature of our being
that this should be so. I encountered this idea, once again, but
much later when I was introduced to the notion of ‘prakrit’
in Sankhya.
RJ: Before we get into Sankhya and so on, let me ask you: why
Fichte?
DG: Good question. It is like this: both Hegel and Marx went
wrong with the dialectic because they brought the synthesis to
an end. Whereas for Fichte, the original dialectician, nothing
could stop this process not even the most advanced historical
stage. It is only after we grasp the profundity of this position
that it is possible to begin one’s studies on the subject of social
development and change and realize the unfinished character of
all so-called finished projects of modernity.
RJ: Anything else about Fichte?
DG: Fichte impressed me in yet another way, and I ran into this
point of view later in Nietzsche. Fichte believed that if one was
truly convinced about a point of view, deep from the inside, and
not because it was au courant, or the rage of the day, or an easy

option, then that position has to be an essentially correct one.
Modifications may be needed to make it stand tall, but stand it will.
RJ: And how did Kant come in?
DG: Incidentally, the late P.C. Joshi, the first General
Secretary of the Communist Party of India (CPI),
recommended I read Kant and not be totally besotted by
Engels’s interpretation in Anti-Dühring. I was surprised
at this for I never thought I would get such advice from a
dyed-in-the-wool Marxist as Joshi was—even in his later
years. I cannot imagine any party worker today advising a
young chap not to be overly impressed by Engels’s rendition
of Kant, but to go to the original instead. I am glad for
that advice for when I read Kant, I understood Claude
Lévi-Strauss better. In addition, I had a different take on
Kant’s aesthetics from the usual, professional reading on
the subject. Besides, The Critique of Pure Reason, essential
for getting to the heart of Lévi-Strauss, I also felt inspired
by Kant’s work on aesthetics. I felt Kant was allowing for
individual freedom in the appreciation of aesthetics, of being
‘purposive without purpose’. Oddly, and idiosyncratically,
this influenced my later thinking on scientific production
and the extent to which purposeful purposelessness propels
scientists to their most sublime acts. This also stirred an early
consciousness in me that modernity’s breakthrough happened
because we now demand from knowledge producers that
they convince us of their arguments. ‘Prove it to me’ thus
became the order of epistemology and it no longer depended
on pure authority from above, which Mannheim called
‘objective epistemology’. Perhaps, the reverence given to
sabda (speech sound) in Indian philosophy is another version
of objective epistemology.
RJ: What is so startling about this?

DG: Among other things, I spotted a big chasm here. Not just
with the way we conduct our everyday, normal science of the
Kuhnian sort, but also with Indian philosophy. This is because
in many of its branches except, of course, the nastika (atheist)
materialist, deference to authority is quite pronounced. For
most of the other schools, from Mimamsa to Sankhya, the word of
authority, or sabda, is a guarantor of a fact. However, I continued
to find the Sankhya philosophy particularly attractive because it
believed that understanding a phenomenon must depend more
on its effects rather than on factors that caused it. It should then
be possible to begin from what we perceive, the effects, to the
deep enquiry of cause. In my view, this is what social scientists
do, though often they are not always aware of this.
RJ: Could you perhaps illustrate this?
DG: For example, we tend to search for the cause of nationalism
in some ideal expression and do not proceed from the observable
fact of what a nation state does when it becomes a nation state.
Only then can we possibly realize the many causes behind its
formation and are also dissuaded from believing there is one true
path to nation statehood. I found this position useful particularly
in my studies on ethnicity, which began with my doctoral thesis
on the Shiv Sena.
The Joshi Influence

RJ: So why didn’t you study philosophy?
DG: When it comes to philosophy proper, I am a purposeful
outsider. Like Ludwig Wittgenstein, I believe philosophy
should help us philosophize and not become exegetes and
interpreters, which is the lot of most professional philosophers.
Second, as philosophy and social science are very different

intellectual pursuits, I do not think one should use philosophy
directly because that is fraught with methodological dangers.
Philosophy, however, is a source of inspiration and can
open one’s mind to various possibilities that one may not
have earlier imagined. It is a treasure house of foundational
knowledge that needs methodological tuning before it can be
used directly in the social sciences. For instance, you cannot
argue along the lines of: ‘As Hegel or Schopenhauer or Kapila,
or Jaimini said….’
RJ: What about sociological texts that you were introduced to
in your masters’ programme?
DG: Some of the readings in the MA course left a lasting
impression on me. I am now thinking of scholars as diverse as
Claude Lévi-Strauss, Emile Durkheim, and Talcott Parsons. I
was most struck by the fact that almost everything that we think
is personal, is actually immensely sociological as well. Also,
what we have often believed to be the creation of our intellect
has humbler roots in everyday life. From then on I became
increasingly conscious of the ‘context’ within which things
occur, and as I grew older, this conviction grew. I was never
very happy with empirical studies on kinship and village life, but
I found E.E. Evans-Pritchard’s book The Nuer fascinating. This
is because of his treatment of how politics can be embedded in
society without being an institution by itself. That the ‘leopard-
skin chief’ embodied this aspect made the text quite fantastic
too. Yes, an odd bunch of texts kept me very involved and I
went on in this vein and eclectically kept Kant next to Engels as
Joshi had later advised.
RJ: Was there anything else about work and life where P.C.
Joshi may have influenced you?
DG: I must, indeed, return to P.C. Joshi once more. He also

told me that if I had to be a good radical, I must come first
in class. I don’t know if being a good radical was ever my
ambition, but I read in his advice something more general.
What I think Joshi was saying is that there is no shortcut
to excelling in one’s chosen profession and this should not
be muffed by resorting to political conviction. The tendency
to explain away one’s professional shortcomings by claiming
political commitment as a substitute was not good enough.
He also reminded me that it is not that difficult to do well
in any one field, but to be socially committed to a cause and
then be good at one’s line of work is a true sign of excellence.
I have heard it being said about him that during his days
when he led the Communist Party of India, he insisted that
all office bearers of the student front of the party be among
those who excelled in their academic performance. A subtle
re-statement of Fichte’s position, don’t you think?
RJ: How did you come in touch with P.C. Joshi? You were
never a card-carrying party worker or fellow traveller.
DG: Yes, that is what makes it interesting for me. I saw the
man from a completely different perspective than did most
others. I was, at best, a student partisan who enjoyed the
intellectual challenge that Marx had introduced rather than
being a complete devotee of Marxism. I would never have
met P.C. Joshi had he not been a part of JNU. Joshi was an
incurable collector of documents and had built an impressive
archive. JNU was interested in acquiring this archive and made
an offer to Joshi. In return for letting him house the documents
in JNU, Joshi was supported by the University for undertaking
a research project on the history of the Communist Party of
India. That is how we first ran into each other.
The JNU Years

RJ: What were your days in JNU like?
DG: JNU was liberating. Much as I enjoyed DSE, I felt constrained
by some of the faculty members there. There is no doubt that
M.N. Srinivas was a great scholar. But I was never quite attracted
to his kind of sociology for it did not seem to portray tensions in
stark terms. In many ways, that was the way I wanted to see things
in those years. We were all drawn to conflict and Marxist theories
and did not find much of that in DSE. I could sense there was a
controlled resistance to giving into the latest trends in sociology,
though undoubtedly, they were very competent in the way they
practised it. Beteille was a distant figure to me at that time because
he was a Nehru Fellow in 1969 when I joined the DSE. As for
Uberoi, though he turned out to be a good friend in the end, his
attitude towards me in the early days was far from encouraging.
He quickly sized me up and found me wanting in several respects.
Once he thought he had the measure of me, he made no attempt
to sugarcoat it and make it easy for me. Later, I remember going
to a senior professor, who shall remain unnamed, after my MA
programme was over to seek his views about doing a PhD. He
had no hesitation in voicing his views and bluntly told me that I
did not have the intellectual equipment for such an undertaking.
He warned me about the rigours of academia, over and above the
high quality of brain power required and, in his considered view,
I would be better off elsewhere. He may have been right, but by
then I was determined and wanted to do a PhD and become a
certified academic.
RJ: Did you then go to JNU on the rebound?
DG: Not really. Word had gone around about JNU and
the importance that the department of sociology there was
giving to the study of social mobilization. This area was not a
privileged one at the DSE. As I wanted to study the Shiv Sena,

I was naturally attracted to an institution that gave priority
to movement studies. Therefore, when I joined JNU, I did
not hesitate one bit and soon realized that there were wide
open spaces there where one could intellectually roam. To
a large extent, my supervisor, Professor Yogendra Singh,
epitomized this spirit. He never opposed, only advised; he
was open to different ideas and made us counter many of
his own. His wisdom and patience were quite exemplary.
My life would not have been so exciting, or so pleasant, in
JNU if I had a different supervisor. Only once he was openly
upset with me and that was when he found I was making little
progress with writing up my PhD thesis. In this he was not
alone, so was P.C. Joshi, and to tell the truth, so was I with
myself. But after being upbraided, politely though, I decided
to drop everything and get on with my thesis. At the end of
the day, my draft was ready by the time I turned 25, and my
wife, Harmala, helped me immensely in this. I also had to
learn to focus hard in order to write cogently. Even today,
I am quite proud of the fact that I had completed my thesis
when I did.
RJ: Was the JNU faculty strongly ideological?
DG: No faculty member I formally interacted with at JNU
had a defined political position. Whether you wanted to do a
Marxist study or a functionalist one, they were both equal in
their eyes. At least, in my perception of things then, JNU was
a better place to be. It turned out to be a great decision. I was
vacationing with my family in Mumbai when I decided to join
JNU. My father was rather concerned because he felt that this
was a new and untested institution and that nobody had ever
heard of. But being a resident student in JNU was, by itself, a
heady experience.
RJ: You just said that in JNU all points of view were allowed
and that the JNU professors did not have a pronounced political
position. But the general view is that JNU was very left wing
from the start?
DG: That is incorrect. It is not as if JNU was leftist through and
through. The student body certainly was and the leaders of the
left among them were extremely good speakers and debaters—
part of the reason why many found them attractive, if not their
ideology. The majority of professors were not left, but they were
not right-wing fundamentalists either. That breed was difficult
to spot, an extinct species in those days. However, there was
a pronounced bias towards the Congress and this was evident
from the fact that some of the most important decision makers
and administrators in JNU of the 1970s were Congress in their
politics and temperament. Of course, this was clothed in leftist
fabric, but in their view Mrs Indira Gandhi represented a healthy
status quo. When the Emergency came, that unsettled things
significantly, but that was later. The intellectual tenor of JNU
remained left of centre during this period, but in a somewhat
battered condition. It re-established itself soon after the
Emergency was lifted. Indira Gandhi did not repeat her mistakes
when she came back in 1980, so JNU remained peaceful, vibrant,
and non-conformist in a happy, conformist way.
RJ: But JNU was always politically active and to the left, at least
on the student front?
DG: At JNU, political discussions and heated arguments were the
order of the day. Yet, I don’t recall a single instance of physical
violence even when we were in the thick of student union
elections. What is also interesting is that election manifestos and
speeches in JNU had no time for issues like hostel conditions,
mess bills, or even unfair grading. In fact, in one exceptionally
heated, pre-student union election meeting, the Trotskyists and
members of the Student Federation of India (SFI) had a long

slinging match on whether or not the World Bank’s presence
in India was damaging to the prospects of west Uttar Pradesh
farmers. I remember Lenin’s Development of Capitalism in Russia
was quoted a number of times and, I must confess, I too read it
then, somewhat like a compulsory text in order to participate
in that discussion. Student politics in the JNU of those days
was just remarkable. People, journalists in particular, came
from around the world to soak in the atmosphere of JNU of the
1970s. It was a place like no other and I am so fortunate that
I was there during those times, and as a young man too. We all
wanted a revolution in those days and I looked up to many who
seemed to have leadership potential in them. At the same time,
I was never a dedicated activist, for I could never agree wholly
with any mass organisation, though, for a short while, I was also
the General Secretary of the students’ union, which at that time
was not that formally structured.
Politics at JNU
RJ: Were there Maoists and Congress student activists in JNU
those days?
DG: Indeed there were many Maoists students in our midst.
They were all very fiery and terribly well-read. I have kept up
with some of them and they have generally mellowed quite a bit,
like the rest of us. But they were an intellectual force to reckon
with in those years. Remember, we knew very little at that time
of the repression that Mao had let loose in China. What we
hailed about Mao was his rallying exhortation to ‘Bombard the
Headquarters’. For young blood of those days, this was like a
clarion call. Today, we might smile at this silliness, but today is
not what yesterday was. In general the faculty in JNU, barring a
few, were Centrists, but there was nobody that I knew of at that
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mistake in the formation of a diagnosis. There are, nevertheless,
some pathological conditions, such as hemorrhages in the medulla
oblongata or thrombosis and embolism of the arteries supplying the
latter with blood, which may give rise to the same or very similar
phenomena, and thus render a correct diagnosis difficult. In such
cases it must be remembered that the cause of true labio-glosso-
laryngeal paralysis, depending upon degeneration and atrophy of the
nervous nuclei along the floor of the fourth ventricle, is very gradual,
while the symptoms produced by the causes before mentioned
generally make their appearance in a more acute and sudden
manner. The latter also, if not remaining stationary for some time,
have rather a tendency to improvement, wanting, therefore, the
progressive character of the former.
Tumors at the base of the brain also, by pressing upon the roots of
the cerebral nerves or upon the medulla oblongata itself, may
produce similar symptoms, which, on account of their comparatively
slow and gradual development, may prove more difficult to
distinguish from those characterizing genuine, progressive labio-
glosso-laryngeal paralysis. Errors of diagnosis, however, may here
be avoided by taking into consideration the special symptoms which
generally accompany the presence of tumors of the brain, such as
vertigo, headache, vomiting or even hemiplegia, and local paralysis.
The sensory nerves also may become affected by the pressure of
the tumor upon them. Thus, pressure upon the trifacial nerve may
give rise to neuralgic pains, feelings of tingling and numbness, or
even anæsthesia; while pressure upon the optic nerves or their
tracts, or upon the olfactory and lingual nerves, will be followed by
derangements of vision, smell, and taste. The symptoms produced
by the pressure of a tumor at the base of the brain, moreover, are
not strictly progressive, but may for some time appear, and
disappear again before becoming permanent.
Facial diplegia, in which the expression of the face somewhat

resembles that of a patient affected with labio-glosso-laryngeal
paralysis, is distinguished from the latter disease by the paralysis
affecting both divisions of the facial nerve, while the tongue remains
free and deglutition is undisturbed.
There are still other affections of the cerebro-spinal axis, such as

paralysis of the insane, disseminated sclerosis, etc., which in their
course present some or perhaps all of the symptoms characterizing
labio-glosso-laryngeal paralysis; these may be distinguished from
the latter disease by taking their own special symptoms into
consideration.
TREATMENT.—Although almost all cases of progressive labio-glosso-

laryngeal paralysis terminate fatally, some cases have been reported
by several observers in which a temporary improvement in the
symptoms of the disease, or even a total cure, had been obtained by
treatment. Of course such favorable results can only be obtained in
the initial or earlier stages of the disease. Thus, Kussmaul
recommends in the initial stage, when pains in the head and neck
are present, wet cupping of the nape of the neck in strong persons,
also the use of the shower-bath, while nitrate of silver may be given
internally. The application of galvanism in an alternate direction he
also recommends—first, through the neck, and later on through the
whole spinal column—and at the same time currents in an
alternating direction from the neck and hypoglossus nerve to the
tongue. Dowse reported a case of bulbar paralysis which he cured
by the application of the constant current upon the paralyzed parts,
subcutaneous injections of atropine and strychnine, with the internal
administration of cod-liver oil, quinine, and phosphorus. He attaches
great importance to the careful feeding of the patient through a tube
passed through the nose, and to the strict application of the galvanic
current; for excessive salivation he recommends atropine. Erb
recommends to regulate the diet and the habits of life of the patient
in such a manner as to avoid every irritation of the nervous system;
furthermore, to generally stimulate the nutrition in order to produce a
tonic effect upon the nervous system. For this purpose he principally
relies upon a cautious hydropathic treatment, to be continued for a
long time and with great regularity. The greatest importance,
however, he attaches to electricity, considering the best method of
galvanism as follows: “Galvanize with stabile application transversely
through the mastoid processes and longitudinally through the skull,
the so-called galvanism of the cervical sympathetic (anode on the
nuchus, and cathode at the angle of the lower jaw), and then induce
movements of deglutition (twelve to twenty at each sitting); besides
this, apply, according to circumstances, direct galvanic or faradic
currents to the tongue, lips, and palate.” The electric treatment must
be continued for some time, with from four to seven sittings a week.
Of the medicines taken internally, Erb recommends nitrate of silver,
iodide of potassium, iodide of iron, chloride of gold and sodium,
ergotin, belladonna, and preparation of iron and quinine.
DISEASES OF THE PERIPHERAL NERVES.
BY FRANCIS T. MILES, M.D.
The nervous system of the higher animals is the apparatus by which

stimuli coming from the external world or originating in the interior of
their own bodies are perceived (its sensitive functions), or cause
muscular contraction (its motor functions), or, lastly, cause molecular
changes in tissues (its trophic functions).
Besides this power which the nervous system possesses of
receiving impressions originating outside of itself and actively
replying to them, it appears also to possess the power of originating
within itself changes the result of which are sensations, movements,
and trophic alterations. In other words, it can act automatically.
The apparatus for the performance of these various functions

consists of the end-organs, the nervous centres, and the nerves.
The end-organs are peripheral mechanisms for the reception of

impressions. The structure and mode of action of some of them, as
the eye and the ear, are pretty well understood, while others, as
those connected with the sense of touch, temperature, etc., are but
imperfectly known. It is probable that there are also peripheral
mechanisms which facilitate the delivery of the impulses coming
from the nerve-centres to the organs, tissues, muscles, glands, etc.
The nervous centres are made up of nerve-cells variously connected

with each other. They are immediately concerned in receiving
impressions conveyed to them by the nerves and transforming them
into sensations, or transmitting them to other organs, causing reflex
actions, or in originating sensations and impulses.
The nerves are organs which, connected at one extremity with the
end-organs and at the other with the nervous centres, convey
peripheral impressions to the centres, and impulses and influences
from the centres to the various organs of the body.
As it is with diseases of the peripheral nerves that we are now

concerned, let us begin by looking more closely into their structure
and functions.
The nerves appear to the naked eye as white strands of variable

size, which a close inspection shows to be made up of threads or
fibrils (best seen when the cut end of a nerve is examined) bound
together by fine connective tissue and scantily supplied with blood-
vessels. A microscopic examination shows that each of the fibrils
visible to the naked eye is made up of a great number of fibres.
These are the medullated nerve-fibres, and they extend unbroken
between the nerve-centres, with the cells of which they are
connected, to the various organs and tissues, with which they also
enter into organic union.
If we examine the structure of a medullated nerve-fibre, we find it to

consist of a central thread called the central axis or axis-cylinder, in
which close microscopic investigation shows a longitudinal striation,
indicating that it is made up of fibrillæ. Surrounding the central axis
like a sheath is the white substance of Schwann, composed of an
oleo-albuminous substance, myeline, to which the nerves owe their
white appearance. According to some observers, the white
substance of Schwann is pervaded by a meshwork of fibres.
Surrounding the white substance of Schwann is the sheath of
Schwann, a structureless membrane having at intervals upon its
inner surface nuclei, around which is a small amount of protoplasm.
At intervals along the course of the nerve-fibres are seen

constrictions which involve the sheath and white substance of
Schwann, but which do not affect the central axis, which passes
unbroken the points of constriction. These are the nodes of Ranvier.
Each space on the fibre beneath the nodes of Ranvier contains one
of the nuclei of the sheath of Schwann, and probably, together with
the white substance of Schwann, represents a cellular element.
Diseased conditions sometimes respect the limits of these cellular
elements.
The central axis is the true conducting part of the nerve-fibre, and it
is probable that each of the fibrillæ of which it is composed has a
separate peripheral termination and possesses the power of isolated
conduction. The white substance of Schwann and the sheath of
Schwann protect the central axis and seem to be connected with its
nutrition.
The fibres in a nerve are bound together by loose connective tissue,

the endoneurium, into the primitive bundles, which are again united
by the perineurium, a membrane of laminated connective tissue, into
more definite funiculi seen by the naked eye, the secondary bundles.
The secondary bundles are tied together by connective tissue, in
which are found fat-cells and in which run the fine blood-vessels
supplying the nerves. This connective tissue has been named the
epineurium, and its condensed outer layers constitute the sheath of
the nerve. It is important to observe that the connective tissue of the
nerves is permeated by lymphatics which penetrate to the nerve-
fibres, so that these are brought in contact with, and as it were,
bathed in, the lymph.
Each nerve-fibre runs an isolated course from end to end, without

anastomosing with other fibres, and near its peripheral termination it
usually divides into two or more branches.
The fibres of the peripheral nerves depend for their integrity and
nutrition upon their connection with central organs. The large
multipolar cells of the anterior horns of gray matter of the spinal cord
preside over the nutrition of the motor fibres; the ganglia on the
posterior roots of the spinal nerves over the nutrition of the sensitive
fibres.
If a nerve be severed from its connection with these centres of

nutrition, it in a short while undergoes degenerative changes which
result in complete destruction of its fibres.
The nerve-fibres when in a state of functional activity conduct

impressions along their length to the end-organs or to the nerve-
centres with which they are in connection. This property of the fibres
we call their conductivity. Each fibre conducts impressions in an
isolated manner, not communicating them to other fibres with which
it may be in contact. The rapidity of this conduction in human nerve-
fibres is estimated at 33.9 meters (about 38 yds.) per second. This
rate may be diminished by cold or by the anelectrotonic condition
which is induced in the nerve by the passage through it of an electric
current.
The nerve-fibres are irritable; that is, the application to them of

stimuli excites their functional activity, and the impression made by
the stimulus is transmitted to their extremities.1
1 The nerve-fibres in man do not appear to attain their full irritability until the fifth or
tenth month after birth (Soltman).
The natural or physiological stimuli of the nerves act upon their

extremities. Either they act through the peripheral mechanisms,
giving rise to impressions which are conducted centripetally to the
cells of the nerve-centres and there cause sensations or reflex
actions, or they act upon the nerve-centres, giving rise to impulses
which are conducted centrifugally and cause the various phenomena
of contraction of muscles, inhibition of contraction, secretion, etc.
Besides the physiological, there are other stimuli which excite the
functional activity of nerve-fibres when applied at any point along
their course.
Mechanical stimuli, blows, concussions, pressure, traction, etc.,

excite the nerves, causing sensations when applied to sensitive
nerves, or contraction of muscles when applied to motor nerves.
When mechanical stimuli are pushed farther, the irritability of the
nerves may be destroyed. The gradual application of mechanical
stimuli may destroy the irritability of nerve-fibres without any
exhibition of excitation, as in paralysis from pressure. In nerve-
stretching it is probable that many of the results depend upon the
mechanical stimulation of the nerve-fibres by the traction. With a
certain amount of force used the irritability of the nerve may be
increased; carried farther, both the irritability and the conductivity
may be diminished, and finally destroyed. As the centripetal fibres
are soonest affected in the stretching, we can see how this
proceeding is most beneficial in neuralgias, where a potent factor, if
not the cause of the disease, is an abnormal excitability of the nerve-
fibres. It is to be observed, nevertheless, that in cases of continued
pressure upon mixed nerves the motor fibres are the first to suffer
loss of their conductivity.
Sudden alterations of temperature act as stimuli to nerves. Heat

increases their irritability, but its prolonged application diminishes it.
Cold in general diminishes the nervous irritability, and may be carried
to the point of completely destroying it temporarily.2
2 But at a certain age in freezing the ulnar nerve Mitchell found its irritability notably
increased.
Many substances of widely-different chemical constitution, as acids,

alkalies, salts, alcohol, chloroform, strychnine, etc., act as stimuli
when applied directly to the nerves, apparently by causing in them
rapid molecular changes. Also may be enumerated as chemical
stimuli to the nerves substances found naturally in the body, as bile,
bile salts, urea. The rapid withdrawal of water from nerve-tissue first
increases, and then diminishes, its irritability. The imbibition of water
decreases nervous irritability.
An electric current of less duration than the 0.0015 of a second does

not stimulate the nerve-fibres. It would appear that more time is
required for the electric current to excite in nerve-tissue the state of
electrotonus which is necessary to the exhibition of its functional
activity. The electric current stimulates a nerve most powerfully at the
moments of entrance into and exit from the nerve, and the more
abruptly this takes place the greater the stimulation. Thus the weak
interrupted currents of the faradic or induced electricity owe their
powerfully stimulating effects to the abruptness of their generation
and entrance into and exit from the nerves. At the moment of the
entrance of the electric current into the nerve—that is, upon closing
the circuit—the stimulating effect is at the negative pole or cathode;
when the current is broken—i.e. leaves the nerve—the stimulating
effect is at the positive pole or anode. A current of electricity very
gradually introduced into or withdrawn from a nerve does not
stimulate it. But if while a current is passing through a nerve its
density or strength be increased or diminished with some degree of
rapidity, the nerve is stimulated, and the degree of stimulation is in
proportion to the suddenness and amount of change in the density or
strength of the current. Although with moderate currents the
stimulation of the nerve takes place only upon their entrance and
exit, or upon variations of their density, nevertheless, with a very
strong current the stimulation continues during the passage of the
current through the nerve. This is shown by the pain elicited in
sensitive nerves, and the tetanic contraction of the muscles to which
motor nerves are distributed.
An important factor in electrical stimulation is the direction of the

current through the nerve. A current passed through a nerve at right
angles with its length does not stimulate it. Currents passing through
a nerve stimulate in proportion to the obliquity of their direction, the
most stimulating being those passing along the length of the nerve.
Motor nerves are more readily stimulated by the electric current the
nearer it is applied to their central connection. Experiments on the
lower animals would seem to indicate that the motor fibres in a
nerve-trunk do not all show the same degree of irritability when
stimulated by the electric current.
The irritability of the nerve-fibres may be modified or destroyed in

various ways. Separation of nerves from their nutritive centres
causes at first an increase of their irritability, which is succeeded by a
diminution and total loss, these effects taking place more rapidly in
the portions nearer the nerve-centres. It is important to observe that
an increase of irritability preceding its diminution is generally
observed in connection with the impaired nutrition of nerves, and is
the first phase of their exhaustion.
Prolonged and excessive activity or disuse of nerves causes

diminution of their irritability, which may go to the extent that neither
rest in the one case nor stimulation in the other can restore it. If a
galvanic current is passed through a nerve in its length, the irritability
of the fibres is increased in the region of catelectrotonus—viz. in the
part near the cathode—and diminished in the region of
anelectrotonus—viz. in the part near the anode. Certain substances,
as veratria, first increase and then destroy the irritability of the
nerves; others, as woorara, rapidly destroy it.
The fibres of the peripheral nerves are divided into two classes: first,
those which conduct impressions or stimuli to the nerve-centres, the
afferent or centripetal fibres; and, secondly, those which conduct
impulses from the centres to peripheral organs, the efferent or
centrifugal fibres. Belonging to the first class are (1) sensitive fibres,
whose stimulation sets up changes in the nerve-centres which give
rise to a sensation; (2) excito-motor fibres, whose stimulation sets up
in the nerve-centres changes by which impulses are sent along
certain of the centrifugal fibres to peripheral end-organs, causing
muscular contraction, secretion, etc. Belonging to the second class
are (1) motor fibres, through which impulses are sent from the nerve-
centres to muscles, causing their contraction; (2) secretory fibres,
through which impulses from nerve-centres stimulate glands to
secretion; (3) trophic fibres, through which are conveyed influences
from the centres, affecting the nutritive changes in the tissues; (4)
inhibitory fibres, through which central influences diminish or arrest
muscular contraction or glandular activity. No microscopic or other
examination reveals any distinction between these various fibres.
Every nerve-fibre has the power of conducting both centripetally and

centrifugally, but the organs with which they are connected at their
extremities permit the exhibition of their conductivity only in one
direction. Thus, if a nerve-fibre in connection with a muscle at one
end and a motor nerve-cell at the other be stimulated, although the
stimulus is conducted to both ends of the fibre, the effect of the
stimulus can only be exhibited at the end in connection with the
muscle, causing the muscle to contract. Or if a fibre in connection
with a peripheral organ of touch be stimulated, we can only
recognize the effects of such stimulation by changes in the nerve-
cells at its central end which give rise to a sensation.
When we consider the extensive distribution and exposed position of

the peripheral nerves, their liability to mechanical injury and to the
vicissitudes of heat and cold, we cannot but anticipate that they will
be the frequent seat of lesions and morbid disturbances. It may be
that not a few of their diseased conditions have escaped observation
from a too exclusive looking to the central nervous system as the
starting-point of morbid nervous symptoms. This occurs the more
readily as many of the symptoms of disease of the peripheral nerves,
as paralysis of muscles, anæsthesia, hyperæsthesia, etc., may
equally result from morbid conditions of the brain or spinal cord, and
not unfrequently the peripheral and central systems are conjointly
affected in a way which leaves it doubtful in which the disease began
or whether both systems were simultaneously affected.
The elucidation of such cases involves some of the most difficult

problems in diagnosis, and requires not only a thorough
acquaintance with the normal functions of the peripheral nerves, but
also the knowledge of how those functions are modified and
distorted in disease.
The symptoms arising from injuries and diseases of the peripheral

nerves are referable to a loss, exaggeration, or perversion of their
functions, and we often see several of these results combined in a
single disease or as the result of an injury.
The fibres may lose their conductivity or have it impaired, causing

feebleness or loss of motion (paralysis), or diminution or loss of
sensation (anæsthesia). Or there may be induced a condition of
over-excitability, giving rise to spasm of muscles and sensations of
pain upon the slightest excitation, not only from external agents, but
from the subtler stimulation of molecular changes within themselves
(hyperæsthesia). Or diseased conditions may induce a state of
irritation of the nerve-fibres, which shows itself in apparently
spontaneous muscular contraction or in sensations abnormal in their
character, and not corresponding to those ordinarily elicited by the
particular excitation applied, as formication or tingling from simple
contact, etc. (paræsthesiæ), or in morbid alterations of nutrition in
the tissues to which the fibres are distributed (trophic changes).
If we could recognize the causes of all these varied symptoms and

discover the histological changes invariably connected with them, it
would enable us to separate and classify the diseases of the
peripheral nerves, and give us a sound basis for accurate
observation and rational therapeutics. But, although the progress of
investigation is continually toward the discovery of an anatomical
lesion for every functional aberration, we are still so far from a
complete pathological anatomy of the peripheral nerves that of many
of their diseases we know nothing but their clinical history. We are
therefore compelled in treating of the diseases of the peripheral
nerves to hold still to their classification into anatomical and
functional, as being most useful and convenient, remembering,
however, that the two classes merge into each other, so that a rigid
line cannot be drawn between them, and that such a classification
can only be considered as provisional, and for the purpose of more
clearly presenting symptoms which we group together, not as
entities, but as pictures of diseased conditions which may thus be
more readily observed and studied.
It is well to begin the study of the diseases of the peripheral nerves

by a consideration of nerve-injuries, because in such cases we are
enabled to connect the symptoms which present themselves with
known anatomical alterations, and thus obtain important data for the
elucidation of those cases of disease in which, although their
symptomatology is similar, their pathological anatomy is imperfectly
or not at all known.
Injuries of the Peripheral Nerves.
If the continuity of the fibres of a mixed nerve be destroyed at some

point in its course by cutting, bruising, pressure, traction, the
application of cold, the invasion of neighboring disease, etc., there
will be an immediate loss of the functions dependent on the nerve in
the parts to which it is distributed. The muscles which are supplied
by its motor fibres are paralyzed; they no longer respond by
contraction to the impulse of the will. No reflex movements can be
excited in them either from the skin or the tendons. They lose their
tonicity, which they derive from the spinal cord, and are relaxed, soft,
and flabby. As the interrupted sensory fibres can no longer convey
impressions to the brain, we might naturally look for an anæsthesia,
a paralysis of sensation, in the parts to which they are distributed, as
complete as is the loss of function in the muscles. Such, however, is
not the fact. Long ago cases were observed in which, although
sensitive nerves were divided, the region of their distribution retained
more or less sensation, or seemed to recover it so quickly that an
explanation was sought in a supposed rapid reunion of the cut fibres.
Recent investigations, moreover, show that in a large number of
cases where there is complete interruption of continuity in a mixed
nerve the region to which its sensitive fibres are distributed retains,
or rapidly regains, a certain amount of sensation, and that absolute
anæsthesia is confined to a comparatively small area, while around
this area there is a zone in which the sensations of pain, touch, and
heat are retained, though in a degree far below the normal condition;
in short, that there is not an accurate correspondence between the
area of anæsthesia consequent upon cutting a sensitive nerve and
the recognized anatomical distribution of its fibres. We find the
explanation of this partly in the abnormal distribution of nerves, but
principally in the fact of the frequent anastomoses of sensitive
nerves, especially toward their peripheral distribution, thus securing
for the parts to which the cut nerve is distributed a limited supply of
sensitive fibres from neighboring nerves which have joined the trunk
below the point of section. This seems proved not only by direct
anatomical investigation, but also from the fact that the peripheral
portion of the divided nerve may be sensitive upon pressure, and
that the microscope shows normal fibres in it after a time has
elapsed sufficiently long to allow all the divided fibres to degenerate,
in accordance with the Wallerian law. Some of the sensation
apparently retained in parts the sensitive nerve of which has been
divided may be due to the excitation of the nerves in the adjacent
uninjured parts, caused by the vibration or jar propagated to them by
the mechanical means used to test sensation, as tapping, rubbing,
stroking, etc.3 It is to be observed that this retained sensation after
the division of nerves exists in different degrees in different regions
of the body; thus it is greatest in the hands, least in the face.
3 Létiévant, Traité des Sections nerveuses.
As the vaso-motor and trophic nerve-fibres run in the trunks of the

cerebro-spinal nerves, destructive lesions of these trunks cut off the
influence of the centres with which those fibres are connected, and
hence they are followed by changes in the circulation, calorification,
and nutrition of the parts to which they are distributed. Thus, the loss
of the vaso-motor influence is at first shown in the dilation of the
vessels and the unvarying warmth and4 congestion of the part.5 This
gives way in time to coldness, due to sluggish circulation and
diminished nutritive activity. Marked trophic changes occur in the
paralyzed muscles. They atrophy, their fibres becoming smaller and
losing the striations, while the interstitial areolar tissues proliferates,
and finally contracts cicatricially. The skin is sometimes affected in its
nutrition, becoming rough and scaly. Other trophic changes of the
skin resembling those produced by irritation of a nerve are very
rarely seen, and they may probably be referred to irritation of fibres
with which the part is supplied from neighboring trunks.
4 A remarkable exception is seen, however, in the effect of gradual pressure
experimentally applied to nerve-trunks until there is complete interruption of sensation
and motion, in which case the temperature invariably falls.
5 In a case of gunshot wound that came under the writer's care in 1862, the leg and
foot, which were paralyzed from lesion of the popliteal nerve, remained warm and
natural in color during repeated malarial chills, which caused coldness and pallor of
the rest of the body.
Anatomical Changes in the Divided Nerve and Muscles.—The

peripheral portion of a divided nerve separated from its nutritive
centres degenerates and loses its characteristic appearance, looking
to the naked eye like a grayish cord, and being shrunken to one-
fourth of its natural size. The changes which take place in the
degeneration of the nerve-fibres, and which proceed from the point
of lesion toward the periphery, are, first, an alteration of the white
substance of Schwann, which breaks into fragments, these melting
into drops of myeline, and finally becoming reduced to a granular
mass. The central axis at a later period likewise breaks up, and is
lost in the granular contents of the sheath of Schwann. Meanwhile,
absorption of the débris of the fibres goes on, until, finally, there
remains but the empty and collapsed sheath of Schwann with its
nuclei, the whole presenting a fibrous appearance. When this has
taken place the degenerated motor nerve-fibres can no longer be
excited, and no stimulation applied to them can cause the muscles to
contract. At the same time, the muscles atrophy and undergo
degenerative changes in their tissue. The fibres become smaller and
their transverse striæ indistinct, with the appearance of fatty
degeneration, and finally there is proliferation of the interstitial
cellular tissue. They do not, however, lose their contractility, and
upon a mechanical stimulus being applied directly to them they
contract in a degree that is even exaggerated, but with a slowness
that is abnormal. If, now, we apply the stimulus of electricity to the
muscles themselves, we encounter phenomena of the greatest
interest and importance. The application of the faradic current,
however strong, elicits no contraction; there is loss of faradic
excitability. But if the galvanic current be applied the muscles
contract, and that, too, in reply to a current too weak to excite
healthy muscles to action; there is increased galvanic excitability.
The kind of contraction thus induced is peculiar, differing from that
ordinarily seen in muscles. Instead of its being short, and
immediately followed by relaxation, as when we make or break the
galvanic current in healthy muscles, it is sluggish, long-drawn out,
and almost peristaltic in appearance. This is characteristic of
degenerated muscles, and is the degenerative reaction. But there is
also a change in the manner in which the degenerated muscles reply
to the two poles of the galvanic current. Instead of the strongest
contraction being elicited, as in the normal condition, by the
application of the negative pole to the muscle (C. C. C., cathode
closing contraction), an equally strong or stronger is obtained by the
application of the positive pole (A. C. C., anode closing contraction),
while the contraction normally caused on opening the circuit by
removal of the positive pole (A. O. C., anode opening contraction)
becomes weaker and weaker, until it is at last exceeded by the
contraction upon opening the current by the removal of the negative
pole (C. O. C., cathode opening contractions). In short, the formula
for the reply of the healthy muscles to galvanic excitation is reversed;
there is a qualitative galvanic change in the paralyzed and
degenerated muscles.
If no regeneration of the nerve takes place, the reaction of the

muscles to the galvanic current is finally lost, and they exhibit those
rigid contractions which probably result from a sclerotic condition of
the intramuscular areolar tissue.
After complete destruction of the fibres of a nerve at some point of its

course, even when a considerable length of it is involved, and after
the consequent degeneration of the peripheral portion has taken
place, we have, with lapse of time, restoration of its function,
consequent upon its regeneration and the re-establishment of its
continuity. The histological changes by which the degenerated fibres
are restored and the divided ends reunited have not been made out
with such certainty as to preclude difference of opinion as to the
details. But the process in general seems to be a proliferation of the
nuclei in the sheath of Schwann, with increase of the protoplasm
which surrounds them, filling the sheath of Schwann with the
material from which the new fibre originates. In this mass within the
sheath is formed first the central axis of the new fibre, which is later
surrounded by the white substance of Schwann. With the
regeneration of the nerve-fibres the functions of the nerve return, but
in the order of sensation first, and afterward the power of transmitting
the volitional impulse to the muscles. Even after regeneration has so
far advanced that the muscles may be made to contract by an
exercise of the will, the newly-formed fibres fail to respond to other
stimuli; thus, the faradic current applied to the nerve does not cause
the muscles to contract; the stimulation is not transmitted along the
imperfectly restored fibres.
It may be here remarked that after regeneration has restored the

functions of a divided nerve the muscles to which it is distributed
may still exhibit for a time the degenerative reaction in consequence
of unrepaired changes in themselves. In the end we may look for
complete restoration in both nerve and muscles.
The time required for the regeneration and reunion of a divided

nerve depends somewhat upon the manner in which the destruction
has been caused. Thus, a nerve which has been divided by a clean
cut, and where the cut ends remain in apposition or close proximity,
unites much more readily than one in which bruising, tearing, or
pressure has destroyed an appreciable length of its fibres or the
divided ends have been thrust apart.
In complete division of a nerve we must not look for regeneration

and restoration of its functions, even in favorable circumstances,
before the lapse of several months, although cases have been
recorded where the process has been much more rapid.
Injuries of mixed nerves, with incomplete destruction of the fibres,

give rise to many and varied symptoms, some of which are the direct
result of the injury—many others of subsequent changes of an
inflammatory character (neuritis) in the nerves or in the parts to
which they are distributed. Pain is one of the most prominent
symptoms immediately resulting from nerve-injury, although as a rule
it soon subsides. There is sometimes merely numbness or tingling,
or there may be no disturbance of sensation at the moment of injury.
Rarely is spasm of muscles an immediate effect. Generally, motion is
at first very much impaired, but if the injury is not grave enough to
cause a lasting paralysis, the muscles may rapidly regain their
activity. In observing the effects of injuries of mixed nerves one
remarkable fact strikes us: it is the very much greater liability of the
motor fibres to suffer loss or impairment of function. Thus, it is
common to see sensation but little or only transiently affected by
injuries which cause marked paralysis of muscles. So in the progress
of recovery the sensory disturbances usually disappear long before
restoration of the motor function; indeed, sensation may be entirely
restored while the muscular paralysis remains permanent. Direct
experimental lesions of the mixed nerve-trunks of animals give the
same result.6 For this immunity of the sensitive nerve-fibres no
explanation can be given other than an assumed difference in their
inherent endowments.
6 Luderitz, Zeitschrift für klin. Med., 1881.
According to the amount of damage the nerve has sustained will

there remain after the immediate effects of the injury have passed off
more or less of the symptoms already described as due to loss of
conductivity in the fibres—viz. paralysis of motion, and anæsthesia.
Sometimes the impairment of conductivity in the sensitive fibres
shows itself by an appreciable time required for the reception of
impressions transmitted through them, giving rise to the remarkable
phenomenon of delayed sensation. Degeneration of the nerve
peripherally from the point of lesion, and consequently of the
muscles, will likewise take place in a greater or less degree,
according to the amount of the injury and the subsequent morbid
changes, and give rise to the degenerative reaction which has been
already described. We will not, however, always encounter the
degenerative reaction in the typical form which presents itself after
the complete division of nerves. Many variations from it have been
observed; as, for instance, Erb's middle form of degenerative
reaction, in which the nerve does not lose the power of replying to
the faradic or galvanic current, but the muscles show both the loss of
the faradic with increased galvanic excitability, with also the
qualitative change in regard to the poles of the galvanic current.
Such irregularities may be explained by the supposition of an
unequal condition of degeneration in the nerve and the muscles. A
rare modification has been recorded which has once come under the
writer's observation, in which the muscles reply with the sluggish
contraction characteristic of the degenerative reaction to the
application of the faradic current.
A highly important class of symptoms arise later in injuries of nerves,

due not so much to a loss as to an exaggeration or perversion of
their functions: they are the result of molecular changes in the
nerves, giving rise to the condition called irritation. Irritation of motor
nerves shows itself in muscular spasm, or contractions of a tonic or
clonic character, or in tremor. If the sensitive fibres are irritated by an
injury or the subsequent changes in the nerve resulting from it, we
may have hyperæsthesia of the skin, in which, although the sense of
touch may be blunted, the common sensation is exaggerated, it may
be, to such a degree that the slightest contact with the affected part
gives rise to pain or to an indescribable sensation of uneasiness
almost emotional in its character—something of the nature of the
sensation of the teeth being on edge. There may be hyperæsthesia
of the muscles, shown by a sensitiveness upon deep pressure, in
which the skin has no part. Pain, spontaneous in its character, is a
very constant result of nerve-irritation, whether caused by gross
mechanical interference or by the subtler processes of inflammation
in the nerve-tissue. It is generally felt in the distribution of the
branches of the nerve peripheral to the point of lesion, although it is
occasionally located at the seat of the injury. Neuralgias are a
common result of the irritation of nerves from injuries.
Causalgia, a burning pain, differing from neuralgia, and sometimes

of extreme severity, is very frequent after injuries of nerves,
especially in parts where the skin has undergone certain trophic
changes (glossy skin). A number of abnormal sensations
(paræsthesiæ) result from the irritation of sensitive fibres, and are
common after nerve injuries. Among these we may mention a
sensation of heat (not the burning pain of causalgia) in the region of
the distribution of the nerve, which does not coincide with the actual
temperature of the part; it occurs not unfrequently after injury to a
nerve-trunk, and may be of value in diagnosis.
The effect of irritative lesions of mixed nerves upon nutrition is very

marked, and sometimes gives rise to grave complications and
disastrous results. Any or all of the tissues of the part to which the
injured nerve is distributed may be the seat of morbid nutritive
changes.
In the skin we may have herpetic or eczematous eruptions or

ulcerations. It may become atrophied, thin, shining, and, as it were,
stretched tightly over the parts it covers, its low nutrition showing
itself in the readiness with which it ulcerates from trifling injuries. This
condition, called glossy skin, usually appears about the hands or
feet, and is very frequently associated with causalgia. The hair may
drop off, or, as has been occasionally seen, be increased in amount
and coarsened, and the nails become thickened, crumpled, and
distorted.
The subcutaneous cellulo-adipose tissue sometimes becomes

œdematous, sometimes atrophies, and rarely has been known to
become hypertrophied. The bones and joints, finally, may, under the
influence of nerve-irritation, undergo nutritive changes, terminating in
various deformities.
With regard to the trophic changes, as well as to the pain and

paræsthesiæ resulting from nerve-injury, we must bear in mind that
they may be attributed not only to the direct irritation of trophic and
sensitive fibres in the injured nerve, but also, in part, to influences
reflected from abnormally excited nutritive centres in the spinal cord,
and to the spread of the sensitive irritation conveyed to the brain by
the injured fibres to neighboring sensitive centres, thus multiplying
and exaggerating the effect, causing, as it were, sensitive echoes
and reverberations. Indeed, the variety of the symptoms resulting
from apparently similar nerve lesions would seem to point to the
introduction of other factors in their causation than the simple injuries
of the nerve-fibres themselves.
DIAGNOSIS OF NERVE INJURIES.—Although in the great majority of

cases the circumstances attending nerve injuries render their
diagnosis a matter of little difficulty, it is yet important to keep in mind
those symptoms which distinguish them from lesions or diseases of
the brain and spinal cord, inasmuch as in cases of multiple lesion,
injuries to the spinal column, or where the history of the case is
imperfect, it may be difficult to determine to which part of the nervous
system, peripheral or central, some of the gravest resulting troubles
are due. Paralysis, spasm, anæsthesia, atrophy, etc. may be of
central or spinal as well as peripheral origin, and an intelligent
prognosis and rational treatment alike demand that we should
distinguish between them. Moreover, many diseased conditions of
the peripheral nerves of whose pathology we are ignorant, and in
which localizing symptoms—i.e. those indicating the exact point at
which the nerve is implicated—are wanting, can only be
distinguished as peripheral affections by the occurrence of
symptoms which we recognize as identical with those arising from
injuries of nerves, in which definite histological changes are known to
occur. Indeed, cases of disease of the nervous system are not
infrequent in which a careful study of their symptomatology leads to
a difference of opinion in the minds of the best observers as to

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I first met Dipankar Gupta at the Reset Dialogues on Civilization

democracy, passing through studies on caste system and ethnic

As a social scientist, Gupta believes that modernity is a dynamic

From People to Citizen: Democracy’s Must Take Road, Dipankar

This has all to do with the very notion of ‘iso-ontology’, which

This transformation that Gupta is referring to is unique to the

his books and research, is to make the distinction between

Gupta is also very attentive to the philosophical discourse of

As such, the immediate impetus for Gupta’s sociology

to encourage through his sociology of modernity the process

father worked for the Reserve Bank of India and I spent my

first. In a way, this was the beginning of sociology, like it or

Growing Up in an Apolitical Family

Nehruvian Times and the Partition Effect

down they felt that Subhas Chandra Bose deserved to be the

It is not as if we were more enlightened then but perhaps

that attracted us the most and we all got generous helpings

DG: I am more of an agnostic. I think an atheist would have to

space, I was keen to expose the hollowness of the view that

The Art of Being a Bengali

was a ‘nikhut’ (blemish-free) individual. There was also a fair

very closely, and for long, before he finally accepted Goddess

An Unhappy School Boy

captivating. I wish I could have gone on forever being a student

RJ: So when you go back to Mumbai, do you feel happy?

fact, I remember the graciousness with which their very busy

this mannerism from, but I have known at least three vice-

Entering Academics and the Delhi School

when they were in their early undergraduate years, if not when

sociology together and showed us the relevance of universal

not because it was au courant, or the rage of the day, or an easy

RJ: What is so startling about this?

The Joshi Influence

Second, as philosophy and social science are very different

DG: I must, indeed, return to P.C. Joshi once more. He also

The JNU Years

privileged one at the DSE. As I wanted to study the Shiv Sena,

members of the Student Federation of India (SFI) had a long

Facial diplegia, in which the expression of the face somewhat

There are still other affections of the cerebro-spinal axis, such as

TREATMENT.—Although almost all cases of progressive labio-glosso-

DISEASES OF THE PERIPHERAL NERVES.

BY FRANCIS T. MILES, M.D.

The nervous system of the higher animals is the apparatus by which

The apparatus for the performance of these various functions

The end-organs are peripheral mechanisms for the reception of

The nervous centres are made up of nerve-cells variously connected

As it is with diseases of the peripheral nerves that we are now

The nerves appear to the naked eye as white strands of variable

If we examine the structure of a medullated nerve-fibre, we find it to

At intervals along the course of the nerve-fibres are seen

The fibres in a nerve are bound together by loose connective tissue,

Each nerve-fibre runs an isolated course from end to end, without