A Dalit Iconography of an Expressionist Imagination

This essay presents a personal portrait of the

work of an artist friend. While issues of affect

are important here, I nonetheless sacrifice any

claims to ready intimacy. Instead, I attempt to

pursue an ethnographic exploration of art and

a historical anthropology of a radical artistic

imagination. It is in this way that the acute

sensuousness and dense contradictions of

social worlds and their artistic expressions find

particular configurations in the essay.

MEETINGS

I first met Savindra (Savi) Sawarkar in the late

autumn of 1999. It was an entirely unexpected

encounter, at a party celebrating deepawali (the

Hindu festival of lights) held in the bright

premises of the Indian Embassy in Mexico City.

As well-dressed women and smartly spruced

up men came and went in an open arena and

in enclosed rooms, speaking of friends and

family, a dark man in casual clothes walked

up—a little uncertain, a trifle diffident—to

the quiet corner where I was fleeing from

the fiesta. He introduced himself as Savi, an

artist, who had recently arrived with three

other sculptors and painters from India, on

an exchange programme between the Mexican

and Indian governments. During their first

few months in Mexico, the four artists were

learning Spanish in the colonial town of Taxco,

and later they were to attend La Esmeralda,

a well-known school of art in Mexico City,

as a means of interaction with other artists,

scholars, and students.

As Savi and I talked, our mutual interests

in cultural politics and political cultures of

CHAPTER 11

A Dalit Iconography of an Expressionist Imagination

SAURABH DUBE

266 Dalit Art and Visual Imagery

caste and untouchability became palpable. In

what seemed as little more than moments,

the traces of Savi’s diffidence disappeared,

and I no longer wanted to run away from the

party. Indeed, he soon reached into his satchel,

never far from hand, and produced a striking

catalogue of a recent exhibition of his work.

Even a casual glance through the catalogue

was enough to establish that Savi himself was

a Dalit, and that his work embodied a profound

challenge to established procedures of art—in

India and beyond. Not surprisingly, our first

meeting led to several, subsequent encounters.

Blending the personal and professional, these

trysts have resulted in an abiding acquaintance

that has grown over time.

The aesthetics and the politics of his art

make Savi an important and a challenging

artist. For these very reasons, he is also an

intriguing and a defiant artist. Precisely in

order to appreciate the aura of his art, the

sources and the strengths of Savi’s works make

specific demands upon the task of understand-

ing. They suggest the salience of tracking the

interplay between meaning and power within

regimes of caste and cultures of untouchability,

while simultaneously registering the place in

Savi’s representations of distinctive artistic

influences, including (more recently) figures

and forms from Mexico. Indeed, it seems to

me that critical apprehensions of Savi’s work

cannot shy away from the contexts it evokes,

pointing rather toward an ethnography of a

distinct art and an anthropology of a Dalit

imagination. As an ethnographic historian

curious about art, this also explains my own

ongoing interest in Savi’s work and life.

CONFLUENCES

Savi was born in 1961 into a family of the

Mahar caste in Nagpur, Maharashtra. As is

generally known, the Mahars constitute a

numerically large caste in central and western

India, ranking at the bottom of the caste order.

As part of B.R. Ambedkar’s wider movement

challenging the hierarchies of caste from

the 1920s onwards, in 1956, Savi’s family

converted to Buddhism along with hundreds of

thousands of other Mahars. Savi’s art confronts

the disabilities and discrimination faced by the

Dalit community, and draws upon the critical

heritage of Buddhism.

Savi first studied art at the University of

Nagpur, receiving a Bachelor of Fine Arts. Here

the constraining premises of an institution that

continued to cherish the ideals of Victorian

art and colonial aesthetics meant that Savi

honed his own artistic abilities by ceaselessly

sketching people and places, subjects and

objects, especially spending long hours at the

Nagpur railway station. Next, he attended the

prestigious art department at the M.S. Univer-

sity, Baroda in western India, where he took a

Master of Fine Arts, specializing in graphics.

Subsequently, Savi has held shorter apprentice-

ships at art institutions in Santiniketan, New

York, London, and Taxco.

Savi’s paintings, graphics, and drawings

combine a number of influences from different

varieties of Expressionist art. These range from

its early-twentieth-century developments in

Germany to its 1960s manifestations in North

America and Europe, particularly in the work

of the (New York-based) Indian artist Newton

A Dalit Iconography of an Expressionist Imagination 267

Souza. Rabindranath Tagore’s critical drawings

of the 1920s and 1930s, which constitute a

landmark in creative expression, also seem

to have made an impression on him. Finally,

there is the important ‘narrative movement’ of

the 1970s and 1980s that revisited questions of

tradition and modernism, epic and modernity,

in Indian art and the subsequent radical

reworking of these tendencies, particularly by

the ‘Kerala Group’, working out of Baroda.1 One

might even see the delicate brushwork of the

Japanese Zen masters emerging from Savi’s

opening to Buddhist aesthetics.

Yet, far from being derivative of any school

or tradition, Savi’s art sets to work the effects

and affects of these discrete imaginings in

a manner all his own. Conjoining distinct

apprehensions of the past and the present

of an unjust, murky world with a varied and

vibrant, deft and striking use of colour, Savi

conjures figures and forms of intense force

and enormous gravity. The result, as the well-

known Indian art critic Geeta Kapur put it to

me in conversation, is a veritable ‘iconography’

of a radical art and a Dalit imagination.

Central to this iconography and imagination

are very particular representations, both of

history and the here-and-now. The sources are

overlapping and distinct, poignant and varied.

They include moving recitals of Dalit pasts

by Savi’s unlettered paternal grandmother,

whom he describes as his ‘first teacher’;

liturgical lists drawn up within the political

movement led by B.R. Ambedkar concerning

the disabilities faced by Dalits, especially under

Brahman kingship in western India in the

eighteenth century; the haunting lore of Dalit

communities deriving from different regions

of India; passionate parables regarding the life

and times of Ambedkar and of other (major

and minor) Dalit protagonists; telling tales of

Buddhist reason; sensorial stories from Dalit

literature; and Savi’s own experiences as an

artist, an activist, and a Dalit in distinct locales,

from statist spaces in New Delhi to remote

places of gender and caste oppression in village

India. In each case, Savi seizes upon these

discursive and experiential resources, sieving

them through the force of an expressionist

art, to construe images, icons, and imaginings

that are contestatory yet complex, strong yet

sensitive.

DEPARTURES

Let me begin by focusing on two works by

Savi in some detail, as a means to unravel the

distinctive configurations of his art. Consider

the oil on canvas, Dalit Couple with Om and

Swastika (Figure 11.1). The background deploys

a bright yellow colour—applied with quick,

short, thick, swirling brushstrokes—as cracks

and smudges of black show through here.

Against this background, slightly off-centre,

stand two dark, squat, foreboding figures.

Their long feet support thick, log-like legs

as wide as their trunks, which imperceptibly

merge with their heads. Two dark dots for

pupils, their eyes are a screaming red, reaching

out from the painting, staring at viewers, and

drawing them into the canvas. The red colour

is also applied in little dabs to define the stub

noses and barely formed mouths, twisted with

the pain, of these androgynous forms and to

partly outline their feet, legs, and hands. Each


Fig. 11.1 Dalit Couple with Om and Swastika.


of the Dalit figures carries a clay pot, hanging

from its neck, one painted with the sacred

Hindu sign of om (Hindu sacred sign) and the

other bearing the symbol of the (caste-Hindu)

swastika (Hindu sacred sign).

The allusion here concerns how, under

the rule of Brahman kings, particularly in the

seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Dalits

were made to carry clay pots to spit into so

that their saliva did not fall on the ground

and then accidentally pollute an upper-caste

person. The figure in front also holds in

his right hand a stick with bells, which was

designed to announce the approach of Dalits

so that caste-Hindus could move away from

their impending shadows. Taken together,

in the composition the Dalit figures are at

once densely palpable and forcefully spectral,

haunting the past and the present. The heavy

clay pots bearing the Hindu sacred signs of

the om and the swastika that hang from their

necks reveal the ruthless burden of Hinduism

and history. The very silence of the Dalit couple

bursts forth into a scream, echoing with the

sound of the bells on the stick, enunciating

powerfully, ‘We were there, then. We are here,

now.’

Diversely depicted figures of Dalits, Buddhist

bhikkhus (ascetics or monks), and lower-caste

devadasis (women given into ritual prostitution

by being symbolically married off to a Hindu

god), of Brahmans as religious chauvinists and

political zealots combined, and of the insignia

of domination and subordination of religious

and secular hierarchies, constitute focal forms

in Savi’s pictorial narratives. Along with the

pots bearing om and swastika of Hinduism

and the stick with bells, other iconic forms here

are the black crow, the black sun, the Hindu

flag, the Muslim crescent, and the Christian

cross. These forms all come together in Savi’s

remarkable canvas, Two Untouchables under the

Black Sun (Figure 11.2).

On a background painted in gold, the

two Dalit figures are rendered as spectral

silhouettes, defined by strong lines and deft

shadows in unremitting black colour. One

Dalit stands, a clay pot painted with a swastika

hanging from his neck in front of him, holding

a stick with bells in his right hand. The other

sits on the ground, a clay pot painted with om

around his neck, which is slung behind him.

On his head he bears three signs, the Hindu

flag, the Muslim crescent, and the Christian

cross. The two Dalits glance sideways to the

right, peering over their shoulders. Their gaze

seeks an unknown horizon. Between these

figures, occupying most of the upper-centre of

the canvas, a large sun hangs heavy, outlined

in thick, blunt, scraggly black, its inside a

mish-mash of black on gold. Above and below

the sun, stylized crows, scavenging birds, signs

of untouchability, almost snake-like, seem to

speak to the two Dalits.

All told, the allusion here is to the upper-

caste sanctioned practice of the Dalit caste of

Mangs going out to beg in villages and towns

during a suryagrahan (solar eclipse). Yet, the

force and the implications of the representa-

tion extend much, much further. Here are

salient spectres of untouchability, from

crows that bear witness and extend solidarity,

to the distinct insignia of the lowest ritual

status within the caste order, to the immense


undecidability of what constitutes the Dalits’

religion with Hindu, Muslim, and Christian

faiths all making claims on their souls. These

very spectres are forms of immense tangibility,

located on the cusp of the past and the present.

Together they proclaim that the sun is not black

during an eclipse alone; rather, the sun is ever

eclipsed, forever black, thereby giving the lie to

the phantasms of progress that haunt modern

regimes of culture, identity, and difference, of

state and nation—not only in India, but also

far beyond.

CONJUNCTIONS

It should be clear that the reach of Savi’s work

far exceeds a simple documentation of the

past and the present, extending beyond mere

images of social oppression. Rather, in tune

with Walter Benjamin’s advocacy that to ‘articu-

late the past [and the present] … is to seize hold

of a memory as it flashes up at a moment of

danger’,2 Savi conjoins the experiential realism

of subterranean imaginings with the revealing

terms of a forceful expressionism. Thereby, his-

tory and the here-and-now become the means

for and the expression of a Dalit imaginary, a

critical mode of artistic production.

The ‘inaugural dimension’ of this imagina-

tion rests upon and powerfully articulates

critical conjunctions.3 Here are critical con-

junctions between caste and gender, institu-

tionalized power and its subaltern subversions,

the lie of progress and the ethic of hope,

religious/statist authority and its gendered/

popular transgressions.

Fig. 11.2 Two Dalits under the Black Sun.


Consider together four works: the canvas

and the etching that depict a Dalit carrying the

carcass of a dead cow and holding a lantern,

Dalit with Dead Cow I (Figure 11.3) and Dalit

with Dead Cow II (Figure 11.4), the powerful

representation of a Dalit bearing a bright

lantern, Dalit with the Lantern (Figure 11.5),

and the picture that frames a naked man on

the left, a lantern in hand, and an androgynous

form on the right who touches the former

on his throat, Dalit Woman with Brahman

(Plate 14).

In the first two works—Dalit with Dead

Cow, I and II, the Dalit carrying the dead cow

slung on his shoulders reveals the enormous

weight of institutionalized Hinduism. For it

is the precise association of Dalits with the

carcasses of dead cattle, particularly the death

pollution transmitted by the holy cow, which

is said to define their lowly status in the caste

order. Yet, the very Dalit figure that bears the

burden of the past and caste, of Hinduism

and history embodied by the dead animal also

carries a lantern, a sign of illumination and

hope. Indeed, rather than collapse under this

burden, the Dalit walks on, his strong legs

merging with his sturdy torso, his path strewn

with the light of the lantern.

The exact form of the lantern further comes

alive in the next work under discussion, Dalit

with the Lantern. Here the brightly burning

mustard yellow flames of the lantern in the

left hand of the Dalit protagonist further

cast their acute light on his body. His torso

is transformed, thereby, into a wispy, smoky,

flaming reddish and pink, brown and ochre

silhouette, clearly marking out the well-defined

left arm holding the lantern. The head of

the figure is bent, but his piercing left eye is

far from downcast. His profile reveals dark

determination and distinct gravity, the back of

his bald pate and the front of his face resolutely

reflecting the mustard yellow of the flames of

the lamp, the light of possibility exceeding the

shadow of history.

Yet this is not all. For in addition to the

figures of the Dalit as simultaneously bearing

the burden of the past and holding hope in

the present, Savi’s work conjoins different

forms of subordination, further expressing

the dominant and the subaltern as mutually

entailed in one another. In the oil on canvas,

Dalit Woman with Brahman, upon a red

background, to the left stands an androgynous

figure that is outlined with a sharp black line,

its body presented in shades of blue, a colour

that Savi often uses within animate forms as a

signifier of Dalit status. Not only is this figure a

Dalit woman, she also embodies the attributes

of a devadasi, a woman ritually prostituted

under the terms of dominant religion in the

name of Hindu gods. Here the subordination

of gender is articulated with the discrimina-

tion of caste, a critical characteristic of Savi’s

work that variously construes interlocking

representations of the degradation of women

and the degradation of Dalits. To the right of

this Dalit/devadasi stands a naked man. This

figure is also delineated with the use of a deft

black line, but the body is painted in a different,

much lighter colour. Both the complexion of

the body and the exposed penis—the former

indicative of the hierarchies of colour, and the

latter of the sexually predatory nature of the


Fig. 11.3 Dalit with Dead Cow I.


Fig. 11.4 Dalit with Dead Cow II.


Fig. 11.5 Dalit with the Lantern.


Brahman, within the caste order—establish

that the figure is an upper-caste, a Brahman.

At the same time, in this painting the limits

and possibilities of the dark Dalit/devadasi

woman and the fair Brahman man are not

radically marked off from one another. On the

one hand, quite as the figure of the Brahman

embodies religious and sexual domination

within the intermeshed hierarchies of caste

and gender, his firmly presented, upraised left

arm holds a lantern, its flame burnt out, dark

and dead. At the same time, the caste mark on

the forehead of this Brahman figure reflects

the blue of the Dalit woman’s body. Conversely,

the right hand of the devadasi/Dalit woman

rises resolutely, an interrogating index finger

touching, probing the Brahman in the middle

of his throat—a move that challenges the

upper-caste monopoly over religious authority

and transgresses the rules of untouchability

within the caste order. Yet, this woman is not

merely a figure of accusation and inquisition:

the middle of her own body carries the dark

reflection—now illuminated—from the lamp

held by the Brahman, and the movements

of the legs and feet of the two forms work in

tandem. Taken together, in the composition

the figures of the devadasi/Dalit woman and

the Brahman man are not separated by an

incommensurable breach. Rather, through

their very enmeshments, they lead each other

to their mutual possibilities, while bringing

each other to their shared crises.

Such acute sensibility turned toward critical

contradiction—in the terrain of culture and

caste, art and religion, aesthetics and politics—

runs through Savi’s work. As a result, his art

firmly draws upon, but also far exceeds, the

techniques and terms of a radical realism and

poster-art. In the oil on canvas, Foundation of

India (Figure 11.6), the five-fold hierarchical

varna division, from the Brahman at the top

to the Shudra and Dalit at the bottom, itself

becomes a means of representing democracy,

politics, and the nation in India. The corporeal

divisions of caste now stand in for distinctions

of the body politic. Here political democracy

and the Indian nation are depicted through

four blocks, arranged one upon another, which

yet remain slightly apart, representing respec-

tively from the top down, the Brahman (the

head), the Kshatriya (the arms), the Vaishya

(the stomach), and a more ambiguous fourth

category, the Shudra (the thighs and legs), all

supported by the lowly feet, which also carry

ambiguity.

The cube containing the Brahman bears an

angry, unforgiving face staring outward from

the canvas, and several disembodied eyes lie to

its left and right. This is the face of Manu, the

ancient law-giver who is said to have instituted

the regulations of caste. The eyes surround-

ing this visage indicate the omniscient gaze

of dominant Hinduism, a conduit for the

power of the ruthless Brahman, Manu. In

the next block, even as the upturned arms of

the Kshatriya warrior extend outward to the

left and the right, a dagger representing the

martial status of the group comes to lie at the

heart of the corpus of caste and the body of

politics in contemporary India. The third cube

representing the Vaishya merchant features a

corpulent belly, the very rotundity of the form

revealing its relentless appropriation and


Fig. 11.6 Foundation of India.


consumption of social surplus. And then, the

entire composition comes alive even further

with the ambiguities and tensions surrounding

the fourth block and the flaming feet.

On the one hand, the fourth and the fifth

categories in the varna ranking—the Shudra

servants and the Antyaja menials, respec-

tively—are presented together, forming one

block, which is defined by two pre-eminent

signs of Buddhism, the stupa (Buddhist

architectural form) and the chakra (Buddhist

circular form). This points toward the pos-

sibility of political and religious solidarity

among the hierarchically divided lower castes,

challenging Hindu hegemony. On the other

hand, the feet that bear the burden of these

four blocks are those of women, indicated by

the dancing bells around the ankles. If the

face of the Brahman commands the modular

construction of politics and caste from the

top, it is the anonymous, gendered feet at the

bottom that hold up the edifice of the nation

and religion. Pushed down by all, even by

lower-caste solidarities, yet they walk on.

There is more to the picture. Besides this

modular, corporeal structure of caste and

politics in India, the canvas features a large

wagon, a cart that carries the force of Bud-

dhism. Is this wagon about to drive/pull the

entire edifice of religion and power in India in

its own direction? Or has the cart totally come

apart from the structure of caste and politics in

the subcontinent? Or is this separate, squarish

cube about to crash into the modular blocks,

bringing down the edifice of democracy, the

artifice of the nation? These are not merely rhe-

torical questions. Rather, they point toward the

critical contradiction and acute tensions posed

and unravelled by Savi’s art. Such tensions and

contradictions find distinct configurations in a

painting such as Devadasi I (Figure 11.7).

Upon a canvas painted in saffron, a colour

auspicious within Hinduism, sits a woman,

her form outlined with brown and black lines.

She is a devadasi, a figure of ritualized prostitu-

tion that is sanctioned by particular strains of

Hinduism. Her pudenda exposed, the woman

bears Hindu flags on her head, while in her

hand she holds—almost in the middle of the

canvas—the roughly depicted form of a Hindu

temple that carries an equivalent banner. The

very sympathy with which the figure of the

devadasi is realized in the painting brings into

relief her cohabitation with the hierarchies of

Hinduism and the asymmetries of gender,

which articulate one another.

OTHER BEGINNINGS

Between 1999 and 2002, Savi was on a sab-

batical from Delhi University, where he teaches

at the College of Art, Delhi. In late 2002, he

completed his second year studying painting

at the famous Academia San Carlos, the alma

mater of Diego Rivera among others, as he

studied mural techniques at other institutions

in Mexico City. His artistic production today

showcases Savi’s experience and labour in

Mexico, revealing that there are few full-stops

in the script of his art. Here the forms of pre-

Columbian expression, the force of colonial

architecture, and the figures of vernacular

Christianity in contemporary Mexico all push

each other toward novel configurations. Earlier

techniques and imaginings—expressed,


Fig. 11.7 Devadasi I.


for example, in the Portrait of a Zen Master

(Figure 11.8)—are construed anew in drawings,

graphics, and canvases, unravelling the depth

and breadth of Savi’s artistic and political

commitments. Thus, the honing of an art form

finds new meanings for the loud crow and the

silent Dalit, imbuing the inescapably bound

figures with the singular distinction of a voice

of their own. Yet facile solutions are hard to

find here. Not surprisingly, the stipulations of

introspection in a Dalit imagination serve to

reveal the moving contradictions of subaltern

identities—entangled in the past, embodying

the present, envisioning the future.

AT THE END

I hope it is clear that Savi’s art does much more

than simply interrogate formations of caste and

religion in India. Indeed, the critical import

of his work derives from its twin dispositions

toward terms of power and determinations

of difference.

To be sure, the force of this art rests on

the opposition between religious (and statist)

power and the Dalit (and gendered) subaltern.

At the same time, precisely this opposition

makes possible de-centred portrayals of power

and difference. For rather than occupying a

singular locus or constituting an exclusive

terrain, power appears here as decisively plural,

forged within authoritative grids—of caste

and gender, nation and state, and modernity

and history—that interlock and yet remain

out-of-joint, the one extending and exceeding

the other. This is to say that Savi’s art traces

the expressions and modalities of power as

coordinated portraits yet fractured profiles,

effects and affects bearing the burden of the

spectral subaltern and palpable difference.

It follows that these representations do not

announce the romance of resistant identities

and the seductions of the autonomous subject,

split apart from power. Rather, figures of

critical difference and subaltern community

appear here as inhabiting the interstices of

power, intimating its terms and insinuating its

limits—already inherent, always emergent—as

the spanner of discrepancy inside the work

of domination. Thus, the wider implications

that I derive from this art entail imperatives

of theory and the politics of knowledge, better

expressed as two sets of indicative questions.

On the one hand we may ask: what is at

stake in critically exploring terms of power

and dominant knowledge without turning

these into totalized terrain? Are attempts to

pluralize power—for example, the force of

caste and Hinduism, or the stipulations of

globalization and modernity—mere exercises

in empirical and conceptual refinement of

these categories? Alternatively, do they also

imply an ‘ontological turn’, not only pointing to

the problem of ‘what entities are presupposed’

by theories and worldviews, but also carefully

questioning ‘those “entities” presupposed by

our typical ways of seeing and doing in the

modern world’4—critically engaging newer

critical orthodoxies that render dominant

categories as ‘dystopic totalities’?5 What is the

place here in particular of ‘details’—a notion

of the historian Michel de Certeau, acutely

embodied in the work of Savi Sawarkar—in

unravelling the determinations of power and

difference?6


Fig. 11.8 Portrait of a Zen Master.


On the other hand, what distinctions of

meaning and power come to the fore through

the elaboration of tradition and community,

the local and the subaltern as oppositional

categories? Must such contending categories

inhabit the locus of ‘unrecuperated particu-

lars’, as a priori antidotes to authority, in the

mirrors of critical understandings?7 How are

we to articulate the dense sensuousness and

the acute mix-ups of social life? Can this be

done not only to query cut-and-dried categories

and modular schemes of ordering the world,

but also to think through axiomatic projections

of resistant difference that abound in the here-

and-now, characterizing scholarly apprehen-

sions and commonplace conceptions?8

NOTES

1. For recent, critical discussions of art in

contemporary India see, for instance, Geeta Kapur,

When was Modernism: Essays on Contemporary

Cultural Practice in India, New Delhi, 2000; and

Gulam Mohammed Sheikh (ed.), Contemporary

Art in Baroda, New Delhi, 1997.

2. Walter Benjamin, ‘Theses on the Philosophy

of History’, in Benjamin, Hannah Arendt (ed.),

Illuminations, Harry Zohn (trans), New York, 1969,

p. 253.

3. For a powerful perspective on the terms of

an inaugural dimension in literature (and art)

see Milind Wakankar, ‘The Moment of Criticism

in Nationalist Thought: Ramchandra Shukla and

the Politics of “Indian’ responsibility”,’ in Saurabh

Dube (ed.), Enduring Enchantments, a special issue

of South Atlantic Quarterly, vol. 101, no. 4, 2002.

4. Stephen K. White, Sustaining Affirmation:

The Strengths of Weak Ontology in Political Theory,

Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000, pp.

3–4. Consider, too, the move toward a ‘strategic

practice of criticism’ in David Scott, Refashioning

Futures: Criticism after Postcoloniality, Princeton,

1999, pp. 3–10, 17–18.

5. I borrow this notion from John McGowan,

Postmodernism and its Critics, Ithaca, 1991.

6. Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday

Life, Steven Rendall (trans), Berkeley, 1984, p. ix.

7. The term ‘unrecuperated particulars’ also

comes from McGowan, Postmodernism and its

Critics.

8. I elaborate issues arising from these two

sets of questions in Saurabh Dube, ‘Introduction:

Enchantments of Modernity’, in Dube (ed.),

Enduring Enchantments; and Saurabh Dube, Stitches

on Time: Colonial Textures and Postcolonial Tangles,

Durham and London, 2004.

A Dalit Iconography of an Expressionist Imagination

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