Post-field Positionings - Wiki - National Folklore Support Centre

5In all their range, then, the processes of post-fieldpositioning to which these essays attest are clearly asdialogically engaged as the richest periods of ourfieldwork. And they are ongoing. For not only doesexperience tend to exceed anything we might make of it,it also resists containment in pre-selected beginnings,middles and ends.If indeed our interactions in the field were as intimateand interactive as we now realize they must be for anyreal transformations of knowledge-through-experience tooccur, and again if these transformations continue to bethe ground to which we return again and again inmemory and meditation to fashion the magical stuff ofour best works, then the field extends into the lives wecontinue to live as scholars post-field. Indeed, as theseessays make clear, post-field relations and practices area critical aspect of the full story of cross-cultural encounterand exchange. May this issue then serve to encouragefurther scholarly discussion, and ever more criticalexploration and valuation of the post-field period of ourcross-cultural relations.ReferencesBrettell, Caroline B., ed. 1993. When They Read What WeWrite: The Politics of Ethnography. London: Berginand Garvey.Golde, Peggy, ed. 1970. Women in the Field. Berkeley:University of California Press.Kulick, Don & Margaret Wilson, eds. 1995. Taboo: Sex,Identity and Erotic Subjectivity in AnthropologicalFieldwork. New York: Routledge.Lewin, Ellen and William L. Leap, eds. 1996. Out in theField: Reflections of Lesbian and Gay Anthropologists.Chicago: University of Illinois Press.Gennep, Arnold Van. 1909. The rites of passage. Trans.Monika B. Vizedom and Gabrielle L. Caffee.London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.Endnotes1“Fieldwork” here is conceived as a period of intensive,direct engagement with the people whose lives bearmeaningfully on the particular arena of social and culturallife a scholar has chosen to study. In such usage the field is ahighly malleable and conceptual entity, rather than a geologicor geographical one, created anew each time a scholardelineates its contours for the purposes of a given study.2These three stages derive from a general model for rites depassage developed by Arnold van Gennep, a Dutchethnologist, at the turn of the twentieth century (VanGennep, 1909). “Separation, liminality, reaggregation” areVan Gennep’s terms.* * * * *FORTHCOMING PUBLICATIONFolklore as DiscourseEdited by M.D. MuthukumaraswamyCONTRIBUTORS:• Peter Claus• K.M. Chandar• Jawaharlal Handoo• Arupjyoti Saikia• Sadhana Naithani• Venugopalan Nair• Chandan Kumar Sharma• Desmond Kharmawphlang• Kishore Bhattacharjee• Laltluangliana Khiangte• Pulikonda Subbachary• Lalita Handoo• Eric Miller• Guru Rao Bapat• Nirmal Selvamony• Saugata Bhaduri• Raghavan Payyanad• V. Bharathi Harishankar• S.Theodore BaskaranPaperback Rs.300 (India) US $ 15 (Other Countries)For advance booking send DD / IMO drawn in favourof National Folklore Support Centre,payable at Chennai (India)INDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

6Fieldwork and PositioningHANNE M. DE BRUINFacilitatorTamil Nadu Kattaikkuttu Kalai Valarchi MunnetraSangam and Kattaikkuttu Youth Theatre School,Kanchipuram, Tamil Nadu, India.Email: kattaiku@vsnl.comThe missing linkSusan Seizer’s stimulating write-up, in addition toher invitation over the telephone, stimulated me to(re-)think the reasons why I am still in ‘the field’long after the completion of my fieldwork. In hindsight,an important factor for staying on appears to have beenmy uneasiness with the fact that the traditional, tripartiterite de passage Seizer describes as having long guidedprofessional anthropologists lacks, in my view, animportant “fourth link”.The usual rite de passage of anthropologists embarkingon a fieldwork project was delineated into three differentphases: that of separation from the familiar; that ofimmersion in the field; and that of re-integration intoone’s own cultural and academic world. The latter phaseincludes the “write up” process and, ultimately, theanthropologist’s installation within her professionaldomain (if openings are available). Subsequently, selecteddata collected by the anthropologist in the field and theconclusions drawn from these data are presented duringacademic events or appear in publication to become partof a global, academic discourse. Such academicdiscourse aspires to objectify the fieldwork data byseparating it from the real world, analysing andformalising it, leading to conclusions that draw uponthe existing theoretical grid of the Humanities. Throughthese processes of selection, objectification andformalisation, then, academic discourse claims a“scientific” identity and purposefully distinguishes itselffrom other, “non-scientific” genres, such as literature andjournalism (Clifford1986, 5-6).Only rarely are fieldwork results made accessible to theoriginal informants upon whose opinions and lived-inworlds our research was based, or are our conclusionsoften recycled into the field. A ‘fourth link’ could provideauthority and closure to a research process within theHumanities. Among other things, this final link shouldprovide for the feed-back of research conclusions intothe field so as to test their soundness against the existingground reality and, if possible, serve the needs of theinformants. Though this may sound like a new varietyof “action research,” the fourth link does not claim tobring about social change. Rather it seeks the validationof our objectified findings and theories by testing themagainst the existing situation to see whether they stillhold. The execution of a fourth link may help to bringpractice and theory closer to each other and,subsequently, set off a different kind of theorizing aboutthe world that should be able to take into consideration,better than existing theories, the complexity (in terms ofvariables) and pragmatism of human behaviour. Lastly,the feedback of data and conclusions into the field mayprevent to some extent the alienation of material fromthose who are our primary sources of information – oftensubaltern informants for whom the world of academicsremains a closed book. Informants who have beenpivotal to our research are entitled to know what hasbeen written about them and how they have beenrepresented by us; I see this as a fundamental right toooften ignored. Rigidity of the university system and therealization that, as an individual research student withoutany policy mandate, I would not be able to bring aboutthe installation of such a fourth link contributed to mydecision to move away from institutionalized academics.Writing as the medium of representation ofacademic knowledgeThe anthropologist’s work depends to a large extent onwriting. Writing is the medium par excellence to representacademic knowledge, to participate in the academicdebate and, subsequently, to establish ourselves in ourprofessional field and acquire professional merit.Bourdieu describes the academic discourse as a“permanent game of references referring mutually to eachother” (Bourdieu as quoted by Kersenboom 1995:2). Itexcludes those who do not know the rules of the game:the dispossessed who have little or no access to thewritten word, but also literate people who are unfamiliarwith the academic jargon, customs and theories. Writingfacilitates separation of data from the real, lived-in worldbecause it does not depend, like orality, on embodiment,nor on real time; furthermore, writing restructuresconsciousness and makes abstract thinking possible (Ong1982, 78-116).Basing herself upon the work of Bourdieu and Foucault,Saskia Kersenboom argues that Western scholarship’s preoccupationwith the written text as the sign of knowledgeand as a password to symbolic power and prestige clasheswith the experiential reality and emotional power lodgedin the texts-in-performance embedded in the lives andthe real world of her informants (in her case, traditionalDevadasis in Tamil Nadu) and with the indigenousconcepts of Tamil learning and the arts. The latteremphasize praxis, or knowledge derived from ‘doing’,wherein experience and interpretation exist within theunsplit triad of performer, spectator and the artisticmedium (or tradition) that holds these together over time.Authority then derives from the display of skills andknowledge in the act of (artistic) performance itself, andthe ability to bring about the desired experience(Kersenboom 1995, 1-24; de Bruin 1998).Representing experienceWestern academia and theory offer few satisfactory meansof adequately representing and accommodating theexperiential part of our (field) work in official academicdiscourse. Even though it has become more and moreacceptable for scholarly authors to use a personal voiceINDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

7to describe “the field” and their feelings towards orrelationships with their informants (e.g. Trawick 1990;Seizer 2005), such a style of writing may still be seen bysome academics as a form of (feminine) weakness. Theuntidiness of the actual field, our presence therein, andinformants’ reactions to our presence (particularly whenfelt to be socially or academically undesirable) are oftenomitted from the published account (Clifford 1986,13-26).Our research and the way in which academic knowledgeis accumulated and represented are never innocent ofpower (Sen 2005, 142). Any fieldwork is an interventionalready by virtue of ourphysical presence inthe field: our presencei n f l u e n c e srelationships andcontexts and changesthe ways in which weexperience andinterpret them as wellas the ways in whichwe are being perceivedby others. Reportingabout experience—ourown first-handexperience and theexperiences we observeand interpret inothers—means that weare at least one stepremoved from the‘original’ thing that weclaim to represent.Western academic theories, by virtue of their goals ofuniversal validity and applicability, objectivity and adesire for exhaustiveness and their bearing on writingas the means of representation appear to lack themechanisms to cope with the processing andrepresentation of experience, in addition to honouringthe specificity of each particular situation encounteredin the real lived-in world. Instead, we shouldacknowledge our subjectivity and ask ourselves how wecould handle it best and whether the demands placedon us, as research students, by the academic frame donot cause injustice to, or alienation of, importantinformation from those very human beings essential tothe carrying out of our profession.Combining academic research and practicalworkFor the last twenty years, I have combined my academicwork with practical work in my capacity as a facilitatorof the Kattaikkuttu Sangam, a small NGO based in TamilNadu. The Sangam advocates the cultural and economicrights of professional, rural Kattaikkuttu performers. Theorganisation was the direct outcome of my fieldwork onthe Kattaikkuttu theatre tradition in the northern partsof Tamilnadu, as well as of my personal involvement inthe life of my principal informant and now husband, P.Rajagopal. Already at the beginning of my fieldwork itwas clear that the changes desired by the performerscould be brought about only through articulating theirown claim to the right to determine form, content anddirection of the development of their theatre. Pursuingsuch a claim involved the difficult task of creatingconsensus among Kattaikkuttu performers representingdifferent (sub-)styles and backgrounds so as to carve outa shared niche for this popular (‘folk’) theatre within thewider field of the Tamil performing arts. Historically,these had been dominated. by an urban-based artsestablishment. Theperformers’ efforts hadthen to reckon withprofessionalcompetition andjealousy amongstthemselves in vyingfor the favours of thesame local audiences,as well as with ani n c i p i e n t‘communalisation’ ofthe genre because oflocal caste politics.The ‘coming out’ ofKattaikkuttu and itssubaltern exponentsappears, at leastpartially in the firstinstance, to haveattracted the critiqueof the urbanintelligentsia, perhaps, because it was facilitatedby my own, i.e. a foreigner’s, interventional research(de Bruin 2000).Mayakkudirai =The Magic Horse is a children’s play in Kattaikkuttu style.The interconnectedness of academic andpractical workFor me, my academic and practical works have alwaysbeen intimately interconnected and stimulatinglyinformative of each other. Yet, the different contextswithin which both these activities take place, the differentpeople they involve, and the fact that they depend ondifferent tools to realize their different goals, have oftenresulted in the failure of important (decision-making)representatives, who inhabit both the academic worldand the ‘practical’ world (e.g. donor agencies, culturalinstitutions), to recognize the importance of the crossfertilizationthat takes place between these two domains.My own fieldwork would have been impossible withoutthe support of my husband, who as a performer himselfhas strong ideas about the future of his art form, and ofmany other performer-informants who let me into theirlives and shared with me their ideas. I derived manyinsights from my practical work as facilitator.For my ability to make possible the realization andimplementation of the activities developed by theINDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

8FIFTH ISSUEISSN 0972-6462ArticlesNFSC’S RECENT PUBLICATIONIndian Folklore ResearchJournal (IFRJ)Volume 2, Issue 5, December 2005----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Rivalries inside out: Personal historyand Possession Ritualism in CoastalAndhra — DAVID M. KNIPEThe indigenous tradition of SyrianChristians of Kerala a perspective basedon their folk songs: marriage, customsand history — MATHEW VARGHESEYoung Kattaikkuttu Students and theirDevelopment — ESMEE MEERTENSShakespeare and the Natyasastra— JOHN RUSSELL BROWNDo the virtuous cheat? An ethicalproblem in the Mahabharata— HEDA JASONSubscriptionIndia: Rs.150 for singleissue (Rs.750 for 5 issues)Other Countries: US $ 10($ 50 for 5 issues)Send DD / IMO drawn in favour ofNational Folklore Support Centre payableat Chennai (India)Sangam—most recently the establishment of theKattaikkuttu Gurukulam and the construction of a ruralCentre for Performing Arts—has profited enormouslyfrom my academic training and thinking. Artistsbelonging to a low status theatre such as Kattaikkuttu,who have little formal education, are not often able to‘define’ and ‘place’ their art successfully within the widerfield of the performing arts. They are not used to talkingabout the theatre and certainly do not talk about it interms familiar and/or acceptable to the culturalestablishment. By virtue of their lack of access to thewider cultural field, they are not able to provide urbanaudiences and patrons with ‘added value’, e.g. aboutthe ‘authenticity’ or ‘legitimacy’ of a form and/or itsexponents and the intimate reasons for interpreting orproducing a play in a particular way, that nowadays havebecome necessary to publicize and legitimize the formoutside its immediate local environment (Gopalakrishna2005, 21-24).Simultaneously, the cultural establishment continues tostick to a patronizing and, at times, demeaning attitudewhen it comes to ‘preserving’ and ‘promoting’ the ‘folkarts’ and the ‘folk’. In my case, it was my owninvolvement in the actual practice of the theatre and ofthe running of an organisation that opened my eyes tosuch issues, I grew to understand a little more of theircomplex, hidden causes often through a process ofpersonally experiencing the different powers at workwithin the local field of the performing arts. Trying toget practical work done, in particular where it concernsoperations at the bottom of the social hierarchy, opensup the nooks and crannies of the performative field byrevealing some of its most interesting, stimulating andgratifying sides. These include the realization that realcollaboration with the people whom the project concernsis possible, and the fact that innovations and new ideasdo have their impact even in rural areas. But such anattempt also lays bare ugly aspects of inequality,discrimination, rigid prejudice, class/caste consciousnessand lack of access of the disadvantaged to basicinformation and basic rights.The feeling of impotence when one begins to understandhow difficult it is to bring about small changes in thesituation of informants-turned-friends, which in my caseboth they and I experienced as totally unjustified anddegrading, is surely something with which every fieldworker must reckon. Examples of difficult situations Ihave had to confront include the selling out of thevirginity of a rural actress’ pre-teenage daughter by herown close relatives (and with the consent of the motherwho was one of my informants), and the removal of aboy from the Gurukulam (an environment we tended toperceive as safe and stimulating) by his mother whenhe was successfully studying in standard 8 and about totake his 8 th standard Government exam (he had a historyof child labour and neglect by his parents) because hisparents felt he was old enough to work and contributeto the family income. Such cases raise questions ofwhether writing about these no-way-out situationssuffices as social action (see also Brown 2005).INDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

9A second rite de passageStaying on in the field to carry out practical work—adecision I took some years ago—confronts one with asecond rite de passage that involves the separation fromthe known world of culture, academics, friends, familyand home, giving up relative economic security, followedby an uneasy period where the shift of one’s temporarypresence as a fieldworker into a permanent guest issubjected to the critical evaluation of the immediate andwider environment in which one would like to operate,followed by a settling down and integration into one’simmediate and wider social environments. Fighting fora place of my own—and a real acceptance of my presenceand my own ideas and the ability to work—have radicallychanged my own perspectives on Indian society. I guessThe green roomthat it must have changed the ways I am viewed byothers—scholarly elite, arts establishment and non-elite—too.My involvement in the Kattaikkuttu Gurukulam, whichprovides elementary education and professionalKattaikkuttu training to young, underprivileged ruralchildren (5 to 15 years), including for the first time alsogirls, has opened up innumerable new areas with whichI most probably would never have come into contact asan anthropological/Indological researcher: the nature ofelementary education (an instrument of emancipation,or of suppression of the disadvantaged?) and the inabilityof school children to assess their own work and to thinkcritically, as compared to the motivating power oftraditional training in an oral theatre form such asKattaikkuttu; the role of affection and the complexity offamily relationships within a rural Tamil family; therights of children, and girls in particular, to a career inthe arts, and the chances that they will be able to exertthese rights. The insights derived from these new vistas,and the new questions they bring with them, haveaffected my own writing. Being outside the academic(institutional) frame, I feel that I now have greater freedomto write as I like. My writing is driven by the need toexplore issues I encounter in my practical work ratherthen by the prescriptive straightjacket of academicdiscourse and the goals of a specific research programmethat does not necessarily link up to the demands of alocal ‘field’.However, my greatest satisfaction lies in directinvolvement in practical work, which I have come tosee as a kind of applied research, and my own,personalized form of a ‘fourth link’ which comes in theform of direct feed-back on many of the things I do orhelp to initiate. This direct feed-back — be it from theyoung performers of the School in their first all-night,locally paid for performance of Disrobing of Draupadi (thepièce de résistance of Kattaikkuttu) or in the form of aninvitation to perform, for the first time in the history ofthis theatre, on the mainstream stage of Kalakshetra,showing that some part of our struggle with the urbanarts establishment finally appears to have turned intocollaboration—gives me the sense that collaboration,belonging and concrete impact do help to fine-tune whathave become collective strategies and goals. It is my mostimportant impetus for remaining firmly based in thefield.ReferencesDe Bruin, Hanne M. 1998. “Studying performance inSouth India: Theories and practice.” South AsiaResearch (New Delhi) 18, 1 (Spring 1998): pp.12-38.Special Issue on the Performing Arts of South Asia.ed. Stuart Blackburn.____. 2000. “Naming a theatre in Tamil Nadu.” AsianTheatre Journal 17, 1 (Spring 2000): pp.98-122.Brown, Louise. 2005. De dansmeisjes van Lahore: Een levenals courisane. (The Dancing Girls of Lahore.) translatedinto Dutch by Bert Meelker. Amsterdam: Pimento.Clifford, James. 1986. “Introduction: Partial Truths”. InClifford, James and George E. Marcus. WritingCulture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography. 1986.Berkeley: University of California Press, pp. 1-26.Gopalakrishna, Maitri. 2005. “Speaking the RightLanguage”. In Indian Folklife 20 (July 2005) Teachingand Transmission of Indian Performing Arts. Chennai:National Folklore Support Centre, pp.21-24.Kersenboom, Saskia. 1995. Word, Sound, Image: The Life ofthe Tamil Text. Oxford and Washington D.C.: BergPublishers.Ong, Water J. [1982] 1985. Orality and Literacy: TheTechnologizing of the Word. London and New York:Methuen.Seizer, Susan. 2005. Stigmas of the Tamil Stage: Ethnographyof Special Drama Artists in South India. Durham andLondon: Duke University Press.Sen, Amartya. 2005. The Argumentative Indian: Writings onIndian History, Culture and Identity. London: Penguin/Allan Lane.Trawick, Margaret. 1990. Notes on Love in a Tamil Family.Berkeley: University of California Press.* * * * *INDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

10The Thinning and Thickeningof Places, Relations and IdeasVIJAYA NAGARAJANAssociate ProfessorDepartment of Theology and Religious StudiesProgram in Environmental StudiesUniversity of San Francisco, CA.Email: nagarajan@usfca.eduPoetics of the Bifocal “Fields”The place or field, for me, is a sea of glowing parrotgreenseedlings of rice––planted, transplanted,harvested, threshed, scattering into the air, rays oflight and rice-dust, bouncing lightly on the ground beforebeing swept into jute bags, loaded up on oxen carts,ready for the market––in Tamil, the word which overlapsthis semantic space of “field” is vayal (paddy field) 1 . Thereis a different sense of the post-field for someone like me,as these rice fields reside in my memory, long before Ihave arrived back there, a returned child from the capitalcity, and long after I have left them, back to thecosmopolitan. These rice fields were fed by the Kaveryriver spreading over a massive delta-wide watershed, allthe way to the sea, the Bay of Bengal, on the southeasternedge of the Indian sub-continent, and, in turn, fed myimagination, long before I became interested in thesubject of my research–dry and wet ground rice flourthreshold drawings–the kolam, a Tamil women’s ritualtradition.The kolam—meaning form, beauty, ornament—is madeevery day by Hindu women to honor the goddessLakshmi, a feminine, wide-hipped, nurturing andmother-like figure draped with layers of golden jewelry,who stands on a large open lotus flower, with a soft,sweet, mysterious, empathic and beneficent smile.The kolam is a visual call to goddess Lakshmi everymorning —“Come gaze at me, O Goddess Lakshmi”—announcing the continued healthy functioning of thehousehold. She is the carrier of good luck and wealth;alertness and quickness, shine and radiate out of her;she is someone by whose gaze and grace you want to betouched.The “field”, in the sense in which anthropologiststraditionally use the term, is one with which I havealways felt uncomfortable, as it necessitates a distance ofwhich I am incapable. I am not alone. I join many withinanthropology and religious studies who have offeredhighly nuanced and compelling understandings of theirreflexive positionings, and I feel deep kinship with thosewho speak of “crossing over”, and of “halfies”. 2 The“field” of India was a return to my first home, the countrymy parents chose to leave when I was eleven, at whichtime I became a permanent alien resident in the UnitedStates. At that moment, America was the “field” in whichI saw exotic, strange customs wherever I looked. But asI grew into a teenager I became more and morecomfortable with my adopted home and its customs,reducing the perception of distance embedded in theword, “field”.Whenever I returned to India, I fell into my Tamil“mother” tongue quite easily, as it had been lodgedintimately in my everyday life in my diasporic home inWashington D.C. My memory flooded in and sometimeseven took over my present experience, especially whenmy mouth formed a Tamil word. It was this simultaneousbi-focal vision, an integral part of my upbringing, whichcame to the fore when I returned to the field of India, theproportions between short and long view shifting, hereIndia becoming the larger view, and America the shorterone in a faded background.“Fieldwork” or, “ethnographic research”, for me, then,was about going home, having the chance to become theperson I would have been had we never immigrated.And, yet, as time moves forward for everyone back homeor away, “home” was always changing its directionality,like a changing root; each time I came to India, I tried tocatch up with who and what India had become.Whenever I returned once again to my California “home”once imagined more as a “transit” zone, the horizon ofthe “field” oriented itself in quite a different direction,the proportionality shifting with the horizon, thisAmerican cultural frame, and increasingly filled withmany different cultural orientations, and yet imbued forme always with the Indian inside myself.Yet, it is important to add that when I was doing researchin India, and when I “hung out” with my fellowAmerican anthropologists, retaining this bifocality gaveme a deep sense of unease. I was with my Americanfriends, I joined in the comraderie of being a fellowanthropologist studying India, though I was alwaysdeeply divided within myself, as to who I was at theparticular moment. I became impatient and horrified atoversimplified stereotypes which would be bandiedaround in informal settings and I found myself trying toset them right. Some were happier that I did than otherfriends. When I was with my Indian friends, I inhabitedmore in the Indian English dialect, spoke vernacularTamil, and felt that I was not seen as a fieldworker, or ananthropologist, but more as a young scholar and writer.This bi-focalness remains within me as I continue toteach and write about India in America.January 2004, Fremont, CAIn the middle of January 2004, five years after the end ofmy formally funded research on the kolam (1987-1999 3 ), Idecided to do some follow-up ethnography with thekolam. I attended a kolam competition in the diaspora inFremont, CA, a city with a high population of Indian-Americans. The context was a Pongal Rice Festivalcelebration hosted by the Tamil Manram. I had attendedsimilar Pongal celebrations nearly every year betweenINDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

111987 and 1994 in India, as these festivals were the heydayof kolam-making yet this was the first time I had attendedone in this home of mine, northern California. I hadnever tried though to do “fieldwork” in the diasporabefore, let alone with children, husband, and parents intow.I took with me my mother and father, visiting from theirhome in suburban Maryland; my Norwegian-SwedishdescendedAmerican husband; and our then three-anda-half-year-oldtwin girls, Uma and Jaya. We entered thelarge auditorium of the junior high school, filled withnoisy pools of commotion, and the organizers tried tosteer us to different competitions, among them the kolamcompetition, in which I was most interested. I noticedright away many unusual aspects of this kolamcompetition. The drawings were done on paper withcolored pencils and pens in people’s homes, brought tothe site and taped on the walls; they were not done onactual marked floor areas as they are usually done inkolam competitions in Tamil Nadu. I wondered if thathas to do with some of the legal rules of not marking upspaces with colored powders in a rented middle schoolauditorium, and how hard it would be to wipe away onthe finished flooring space in a junior high school afterthe event.I watched other people’s children and my own as theybecame slowly entranced by the kolam. They were drawnsomehow to these designs on the wall, made by theirolder sisters and mothers and aunts and grandmothers,and people who looked like them. My children clamberedonto my body demandingly, insisting, “Teach me thekolam,”; “When are you going to teach us the kolam?”They looked excited, even at three and-a-halves, byeveryone else’s love of the kolam.I watched my mother’s eyes light up, as she came toeach kolam design and analyzed it. That lotus flower is abit loose, she would say, see that is imbalanced in theright corner; now this one is really beautiful, see howthe lines are balanced cleanly, pointing to the linedfigures. She would laugh if she found a funny one. Therewere teenagers, mothers, and grandmothers, allcompeting to make the best kolam. It was sheer fun, Icould see, flowing over in women’s faces as they laughed,pointed and commented on their community of womendrawing different designs, and competing with eachother for the best one. And there were not a set of invitedjudges as usual at an Indian competition; the audiencethemselves were to be the judges, and each member ofthe audience was encouraged to do a written evaluationof each kolam entry, to be tabulated by the TamilAssociation, until the first, second, and third winnerswere announced.I looked into the faces of the Tamil women there; I begantalking to them; they had emigrated from Madurai,Tirunelveli, Thanjavur, Chennai, Coimbatore and allKolamother places in Tamil Nadu I had lived in and sometimesvisited, for my kolam research. I looked at these womenand realized how close the immigrant remains to hernative place. The women had experienced kolams in theirhome country in these particular bodies, and wereliterally carriers of the tradition, as was my mother. Atthat moment, I became much more interested in thetransmission of the kolam: how was it going to survivein this land which is so different from its native place?And yet, the buzz around the kolam in this middle schoolin Fremont, CA was surprisingly encouraging: there wasstill a deep, engaged interest in the kolam. I realized, allof a sudden, that we were all body carriers of memoriesof place, of habits of mind, of drawing designs, of kolams,of beauties which travel. I looked at the grandmothers’faces; they resembled those I had been with all over TamilNadu. I felt almost at home again, as if I were back inIndia, though I was still in Fremont, California.Like Stepping on a Thousand Good Lucks!In the middle of July 2005, in a small town in the SanFrancisco Bay Area where I have lived for nearly twentyfiveyears, my mother took an entire morning to draw ahuge kolam in a side patio of our home, and our girlsJaya and Uma watched rapturously, squatting, aged fourand-a-halfthen, not moving, still as a leaf not stirringon a windless day. I have almost never seen them soquiet, but as they watched this grand, room-size kolamcome into being, layer after layer of wet rice flour flowingevenly out of my mother’s hands, they sat, awed by theprocess itself, and by the hours and hours of quiet,steady, almost meditation-like movement that it took formy mother to practise this ritual. “There is a lotus flower,a lamp, a mango leaf, a step, a banana-laden stem” theywould whisper to each other, having heard my mothertell what it is the first time she drew it. They talkedabout this gigantic kolam over the next year, as it fadedfrom view through the next rain-laden northernCalifornia winter. After going to India for the first timein the winter of 2005-2006, and seeing kolams there allover India, Jaya remarked, with a big grin, “Amma, it isINDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

12like stepping on a thousand good lucks!” I began tounderstand what my parents were trying to do with theirfriends in the 1970s and 1980s for the first time. When Iwas growing up in Maryland, they were buildingcultural organizations such as associations and temples,working every weekend to hold the cultural memoriesin place for them, but as importantly, perhaps more, forus, for the generations to come. At the time, I had beena somewhat surly teenager, refusing to believe that alltheir hard-won efforts would amount to anything,thinking that they were going to fail before they evenbegan, it was impossible, I thought, begrudging themall their time away from us that went instead into the“Tamil community”. How could they bring India here?Now, I watched the thirty-year-long fruits of their actions,their desires, grateful for their and their generations’efforts for the next generations to come. This was aculture that is serious about continuation.I realized with a wry smile that I was almost “home”.Thinning and Thickening of Places, Relationships andIdeasI see post-field positionings as characterized by theunfolding of time, space and memory. Time movesforward, day after day “back home”, and the entire gestaltof fieldwork, its thinning and thickening relationshipswith people, ideas and places, recedes back into the timeand distance of my memory. And yet simultaneously,as I increasingly dwelled within the charged space ofwriting, the people I met in India through my work onthe kolam take on a new embodiment in my own life.They live within me, my own mental dwelling space,and I try actively to clear out other thoughts which mayintrude on my thinking about the people who taughtme so much. It is the gift of time that I am most struckwith now, that women, after their everyday chores, wereso willing and generous to give of their “free” time tome to discuss the kolam. And, I, in turn, am giving my“free” time to write up what I have learned. Time stolenfrom my duties of teaching, mothering, and serving thevarious communities I belong to. While you are far awayfrom the place of “fieldwork” and you are working inthe language of your field notes and you lay out the piecesof the puzzle to ponder and mull over, you literallyremember what you did and how it all made sense backin India.My sense of time in the re-imagining and rememberingof fieldwork texts and contexts in the writing processpulls together a complex weaving and reweaving of athinning and thickening of relations among the multipleselves of the ethnographer and the many communitymembers in whom she finds herself reflected, or intowhose lives she seeks to actively imagine herself. Theserelations unfold in the movement of time and thechanging, connecting links of knowledge, understandingand epiphany that occur both during fieldwork, and post-”field”.ReferencesBehar, Ruth. 1996. The vulnerable observer: anthropology thatbreaks your heart. Boston: Beacon Press.——1993. Translated woman: crossing the border withEsperanza’s story. Boston: Beacon Press.Brown, Karen McCarthy. 2001. Mama Lola: a VodouPriestess in Brooklyn. Berkeley: University ofCalifornia Press. Updated and expanded edition.Caldwell, Sarah. Oh, Terrifying Mother: New Delhi: OxfordUniversity Press.Hyde, Lewis. 1983. The Gift: Imagination and the EroticLife of Property. New York: Vintage Books.Nabokov, Isabelle. 2000. Religion against the Self:An Ethnography of Tamil Rituals. New York: OxfordUniversity Press.Narayan, Kirin. 1997. Mondays on the Dark Night on theMoon: Himalayan Foothill Tales. New York: OxfordUniversity Press.Seizer, Susan. 2005. Stigmas of the Tamil Stage: AnEthnography of Special Drama Artists in South India.Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press.Visweswaran, Kamala. 1994. Fictions of FeministEthnography. Minneapolis: University of MinnesotaPress.Endnotes1Tamil Lexicon Vol. VI. 1982. (Madras: University of Madras),p. 3496. Other words with overlapping linguistic connotationsinclude nilam, meaning ground, earth, land, sometimesadding a sense of possessiveness, as in my nilam; furthermore,bhumi, meaning earth, is another word used more inrhetorical language. According to The Oxford English ReferenceDictionary, edited by Judy Pearsall and Bill Trumble (NewYork City: Oxford University Press, 1996), p. 516-517, a fieldin English is “an area of open land, esp. one used for pastureor crops, often bounded by hedges, fences etc.,” and“fieldwork”, “the practical work of a surveyor, collector ofscientific data, a sociologist etc., conducted in the naturalenvironment rather than a laboratory, office etc.”2See Lila Abu-Lughod’s many fine ethnographies: VeiledSentiments: Honor and Poetry in a Bedouin Society. (Berkeley:University of California Press, 1986) and Writing Women’sworlds: Bedouin Stories. Berkeley: University of CaliforniaPress. 1993. See also Narayan 1997; Visweswaran 1994; Behar1996, 1993; Ghosh 1992 and Brown 2001. For more recententries within South Indian anthropology, see Nabokov 2000;Caldwell 1999; Seizer 2005, among many others.)31) month-long winters in: 1987-1988; 1988-1989; 1990-1991;1991-1992 (sponsored by The Institute for the Study of Natural& Cultural Resources via The Tides Foundation); 1998-1999(University of San Francisco Faculty Development Fund) 2) yearlong:1989-1990 on an American Institute of Indian StudiesAdvanced Language Program; Dec. 1992-Feb. 1994 on aFulbright-Hays Dissertation Research Grant.* * * * *INDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

13Toward a “life” Well Livedbetween…Phillip ZarrilliProfessor of Performance PracticeDepartment of DramaUniversity of Exeter, UK.Ihave led two closely inter-related lives since 1976when I first traveled to Kerala, India to beginethnographic field research. One of those lives is thatpart of my academic work that is focused on and inspiredby, but not limited to, my work in Kerala. Between 1976and 1993 I lived in Kerala for a total of seven years,immersing myself in kathakali dance-drama and viakathakali in the closely related martial art, kalarippayattu.While much of my focus during my seven years in Keralawas on issues of embodiment and experience inkalarippayattu and kathakali (Zarrilli 1984, 1998, 2000), Ialso spent time attempting to understand and write aboutnumerous other genres of traditional and contemporaryKerala performance—from folk dances (paricamuttumkali)to ritual performances (teyyam) to contemporary theatresuch as the work of SOPANAM (Kavalam NarayanaPanikkar, Artistic Director) and the Kerala People’s ArtsClub (KPAC, subsidized by CPI [M]), resulting in a cotranslationwith Jose George and introduction to ToopilBhaasi’s final play, Memories in Hiding..Ethnography for me is about my innate curiosity andsense of exploring relationships and assumptionswherever I am living or working. Ethnography neverstops; it is a state of mind/being/doing. Therefore, myfieldwork has not been in some “other” location whichhappens to be India; rather, it has taken place in India,as well as in the small town of New Glarus, Wisconsin,where I lived for three years and undertook research onthe role of performance in the life of this Americancommunity, and equally in the training and rehearsalstudios where I currently live the “other” part of myprofessional life.This, my second life, is lived as a professional theatredirector, actor, and teacher of actors and dancers. Thislife is lived in the global network of contemporary,cosmopolitan culture, and literally takes placethroughout the world. One major project has beenworked focusing on a psychophysical approach to theplays of Samuel Beckett. The Beckett Project was firstproduced in 1999 at the Grove Theatre, Los Angeles, andthen toured the UK in 2001 with an expanded set ofperformances at the Granary Theatre, Cork, Ireland in2004. Other recent projects have included directingcontemporary Japanese playwright/director Ota Shogo’sThe Water Station with a cast of nineteen actors (seventeenAsian actors from Japan, Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong,Macao, Singapore, India, and Philippines, with twoEuropeans) at the Esplanade Theatres on the Bay inSingapore, produced by TTRP; a semi-devised originalpiece of theatre, Speaking Stones, created withinternationally-known UK playwright Kaite O’Reilly asa commission with Theatre Asou in Graz, Austria withperformances in a massive underground quarry used bythe Nazi’s in World War II; or my collaborations on newdance-theatre work with bharatanatyam dancer/choreographer, Gitanjali Kolanad—Walking Naked basedon the ecstatic poetry of the twelfth century saint,Mahadeviakka which premiered in Chennai in 1999 andhas been on international tour since.All of this professional work — training actors/dancers,rehearsing, and directing — is directly informed by myyears of fieldwork in Kerala. There is an intimate,symbiotic relationship between them. The reason issimple—I immersed myself as a performance practitionerdirectly in what I was researching in Kerala, undertakinga kind of research that could only result from participatingcompletely in the training itself. At first, this was eighthours of intensive kathakali training daily undertaken atthe Kerala Kalamandalam in 1976-77 under the guidanceof M.P.Sankaran Namboodiri along with boys aged nineDagger Fightto eleven. Later in 1977, I began six hours of intensivedaily training in kalarippayattu under the guidance ofGurukkal Govindankutty Nayar of the CVN Kalari,Thiruvananthapuram.From my perspective as a theatre director, it was myencounter with Govindankutty Nayar’s version ofkalarippayattu that led to my total dedication in pursuingthis practice for the remainder of my life. Kalarippayattuhas “re-made” me as a person, and as a professionaltheatre practitioner. Kalarippayattu and kathakali togetherrevolutionized the way I perceived, and practice theatreas an art form—both as a theatre director, and as an actorand trainer of actors and dancers.Why? My in-depth, intensive immersion in dailypractice of these yoga-based psychophysical disciplinesshifted my awareness so radically that I experience mybody-mind and their relationship in a completely newway. All my previous assumptions about my culture,the body, emotions, and self shifted. Trying to understandhow Malayalees understood their experience of embodiedpractice, helped me to conceptualize “the body” andexperience as multiple rather than singular. It led meaway from psychology and behavior to alternative notionsINDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

14of experience and interiority. It has helped meconceptualize an entirely alternative paradigm ofattempting to understand contemporary acting as aninter-subjective sensuality. This experience led me toreevaluate Western acting and approaches to teachingacting and to conceptualize a new paradigm forarticulating the practice of the contemporary actor (Zarrilli2002, and forthcoming).I am writing this brief reflection at my now permanenthome on the far west coast of Wales with distant viewsof the Irish Sea. The home is an old stone farm house.On the property, the old milking parlor has beenconverted into the first “traditional” earth-floor kalari(place of training for Kerala’s martial art) located outsideof Kerala—the Tyn-y-parc C.V.N. Kalari. In 1987-88Gurukkal Govindankutty Nayar gifted me the traditionalpitham (seat/stool of knowledge) representing mastery inkalarippayattu. For me, this was a momentous andunexpected occasion. I did not feel that I had reached alevel of mastery deserving receipt of the pitham, yet Iknew that receiving it was both a recognition and a(welcome) obligation to share my knowledge ofkalarippayattu. In 2004, when the CVN Kerala KalariSangam was established, the Tyn-y-parc CVN Kalari inLlanarth, Wales, was officially sanctioned, as was I asPhillip B. Zarrilli Gurukkal. I now serve as one of twointernational advisors for the CVN Kalari Sangam—animportant function given the increasing number of peoplegoing to Kerala to study kalarippayattu. During periodswhen I am able to be “home”, traditional kalarippayattutraining, massage and physical therapy treatments goon here as they do in a Kerala kalari. Kalarippayattu ispart of my daily life. Both home and kalari were “blessed”in 2000 when my dear friend, translator, and collaboratorKunju Vasudevan Namboodiripad was visiting me withtwo Kerala Sama Veda chanters in Wales as part of theCentre for Performance Research’s bi-annual GIVINGVOICE festival focused that year on “Divinity of theVoice”. Being their first time traveling outside of India,this was also the first occasion in which the Vedic chantersshared their tradition in a public forum.There has clearly been “two-way traffic” between Keralaand wherever I am living/working. One form of thistraffic is my professional theatre work. My kathakaliteacher, M.P. Sankaran Namboodiri came to the US tohelp realize three collaborations with me—a productionof Sakuntala at UCLA in 1979, and later productions ofadaptations of India folktales at the University ofWisconsin. Artistic Director of SOPANAM, KavalamNarayana Panikkar, was in residence in Madison tocollaborate with me on producing two Sanskrit dramasas part of the 1985 Festival of India in the U.S. Suchcollaborations have continued, such as my recent workwith SANGALPAM—a professional UK-basedbharatanatyam dance company on an adaptation andperformance of the seventh century Sanskrit farce(The Farce of Drunken Sport) performed at the PurcellRoom, Queen Elizabeth Hall and on national UK tourin 2003.A second form of “traffic” has been that of Westernersgoing to Kerala in increasing numbers. Because very littlehad been written about kalarippayattu prior to my researchand writing on the tradition, my publications have ledto international recognition of kalarippayattu and a massiveinflux of foreign students from around the world oftensearching for the “mother of all martial arts”. As is usual,this global, cosmopolitan flow of information and peoplehas, of course, been a doubled-edged sword in relationto the traditional practice of kalarippayattu.A third form of “traffic” has been my experience ofsharing non-Indian disciplines and practices with martialartists and theatre practitioners in India. Many of thesepractitioners are curious about unfamiliar practices.While living in Kannur in 1988-9, I shared my knowledgeof Chinese taiquiquan with kalarippayattu practitionerswith whom I was working. And on a number of occasionsI conducted workshops with actors at the Calicut Schoolof Drama, Trissur, the National School of Drama in NewDelhi, and at the first international “Asian Martial Artsand Performance Conference” sponsored by Padatik inCalcutta.As a professional actor, director, and trainer ofperformers, I am in the somewhat unusual position offocusing both my academic work and my practical workaround the shift in my own experience that resulted frommy fieldwork in Kerala. When teaching at University orprofessional actor training programmes, students aroundthe world are exposed to kalarippayattu both as a mode oftraditional Kerala embodied practice, but also as a useful,pragmatic “tool” for gaining an entirely new experienceof one’s body-mind relationship in order to potentiallybecome a better, more “aware” actor. The training“heightens” and “deepens” one’s ability to use awarenessso that—according to the Malayalam folk expression—meyyu kanakkuka, that is, “the body is (or becomes) alleyes”.In terms of the more academic side of my work, I recentlyco-authored a new theatre history textbook, TheatreHistories: An Introduction (2006) that could never have beenwritten without my extensive fieldwork in Kerala. Thisbook for the first time brings to students of world theatrehistory a truly “global” perspective on histories of theatrethat integrates the study of non-western performance—both traditional and contemporary—into the study ofwhat has too often been a dominant Euro-Americanhistory. But perhaps even more important is that myoriginal mentors in my studies of kathakali, VasudevanNamboodiripad and M.P. Sankaran Namboodiri, havejust authored their own book on kathakali, and I will beassisting them in attempting to place an eventual Englishtranslation of their own book with an English-languagepublisher.I have not conducted lengthy fieldwork in Kerala since1993. In this “post field” phase of my life, transactionsand contacts are sustained in all the usual ways withfriends, collaborators, and teachers—from email andtelephone calls to visits—and perhaps, more importantly,INDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

15the inhabitation of a “mental/personal space” thatencompasses my constant immersion in Kerala culture.One can never pretend that inequalities do not exist in afieldwork setting, but working with as much integrityand respect as possible for individuals as well astraditions can lead to interactions that are sustained fora life-time. The warp and weft of friendships, modes ofembodied knowledge, and reflections, analysis andinsight can lead to relationships that transcend the wellrehearsedand often limited means we have of“representing” what is ultimately un-representable—a lifeand world-view as they continue to be lived in relationto and between….This reflection is dedicated to the memory of GurukkalGovindankutty Nayar—March 22, 1930 – January 22, 2006.ReferencesZarrilli, Phillip forthcoming, The Psychophysical Actor atWork: A Post-Stanislavskian Approach. London:Routledge.–––––. 2006. (co-author with Bruce McConachie, GaryJay Williams and Carol Fischer-Sorgenfrei) TheatreHistories: An Introduction. London: Routledge.–––––. 2002. ed., Acting Reconsidered. London: Routledge.–––––. 2000. Kathakali Dance-Drama: Where Gods andDemons Come to Play. London: Routledge.–––––. 1998. When the Body Becomes All Eyes: Paradigmsand Practices of Power in Kalarippayattu, A South IndianMartial Art. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.–––––. 1984. The Kathakali Complex: Actor, Structure,Performance. New Delhi: Abhinav.* * * * *New NFSC PublicationIndian Folktales from MauritiusDawood Auleer and Lee HaringEighteen magical, romantic, and comic oral tales,from the island of Mauritius, in the Indian Ocean,are here translated into English for the first time.The stories were taken down literally from the lipsof storytellers in the Bhojpuri language. They arenot rewritten or redecorated; they are translatedliterally, and some are given in Bhojpuri.The ancestors of these villagers were forciblyexpatriated from India, a century and a half ago, asindentured laborers. Today, through these tales,they maintain their ancient language and culture.Comparative notes place these Mauritian tales inthe context of world folklore.Illustrations by Kalamkari C. Subramaniyam,i-x + 116 pages, Paperback Rs.200 (in India)Rs.200 in Maurtian rupees in Mauritius,US $ 10.00 in Other Countries) ISBN 81-901481-7-6The theme ofOctober 2006 issueof Indian Folklife isOn Memory:Processes andSupportsGuest Editor:Nicole RevelDirecteur de Recherche,Centre National De LaRecherche Scientifica, France.Email: revel@vjf.cnrf.frIn order to observe anddetect techniques andpractices related tomemory, we shall focus onvarious forms of interactionand interlocution as ritualsand/or narratives take place.We favor an ethnographicapproach and the use ofmiscellaneous supports: gestures and movements; rhythms and melodies;multimedia recordings audio, audio-video, CD-Rom, DVD-video, photos;objects and books; graphism on cloth, shell, wood, bamboo, lontara; facepaintings and costumes; theatres of actors, shadow plays and puppetry.During performances, these actions and multimodal experiences developand we shall try to bring to surface memorizing processes, transmissions ofknow how and the mastery of miscellaneous verbal musical, kinesic, plasticand literary expressions .As the analysis develops, we might focus on a relationship to History of therespective groups.Lists of contributors and papersNicole Revel: On Memory.Denis Matringe: The Cultural Referents of a Punjabi Lay.Laurent Maheux: The Meaningfulness of Recentering: Case Study of a TharNarrative.Catherine Servan–Schreiber: Singing Tales and Reading chapbooks: The BhojpuriTradition.Daniela Berti: The Memory of Gods: From a Secret Autobiography to a NationalisticProject.Marie Lecomte –Tilouine: Drawing a Genealogy of Genealogies: A ContextualStudy of Western Nepal’s Vamshavali.Christine Guillebaud: Variation and Interaction of visual and musical componentsin a Kerala Ritual for the Snake Deities.List of PURUSARTHA relevant issues by Marie Fourcade.INDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

16The Afterlife of FieldworkRelationsSUSAN SEIZERIndiana University,Department of Communication and CultureEmail: sseizer@indiana.eduDuring my fieldwork in Tamil Nadu in the early1990s, a relatively small Tamil family — consistingof an accomplished drama actress in her latethirties, her talented composer-musician “husband” inhis late forties, and their wonderfully articulate ten- andtwelve-year-old daughters — took me up as kin.Collectively, they have acted as my primary informantsduring the first years of fieldwork as well as throughoutthe subsequent twelve years in which I have continuedto research and write about the genre of popular Tamiltheater known as Special Drama (Special Naadakam, a.k.a.Isai Naadakam or Music Drama). Rather than any oneperson, having a family play this key anthropologicalrole for me has had great benefits during fieldwork andbeyond. Greatest perhaps of these is the way it hasallowed our relational roles to shift and grow over thisperiod of fifteen-plus years that we have now called eachother family. I have a different ongoing relationship witheach family member (to which I return shortly). Thethings I have learned in this process about myself andabout being family now intimately affect both mydomestic and my professional lives in the U. S. Indeed,recognizing the extent to which I learn from and enjoymultiple relational roles in my Tamil family has been asource of strength and pleasure as I build family at home.From the beginning of our relationship, I was interpellatedinto this Tamil family through two different kin relations,or murai. Murai is the Tamil word used to invoke notionsof how a thing ought to be organized (“Do like this,muraippadiyaka, correctly,” or, “Ithu taan murai, this isthe proper way”) as well as of how social relations actuallyare organized (“He is my uncle” is expressed in Tamilby saying “he bears the murai of uncle to me,” Avar enukkumaaman murai ventum). Regardless of this blend of theprescriptive and the descriptive that defines the termmurai, we have for years now lived two relations of muraithat are normally mutually exclusive. Were it not for ouryears of experience I would have thought such a thingimpossible! — though I now see that life is more malleablethan that. I discuss the lessons I have learned from mytwo murai with the family as the soil out of which growmy more general thoughts about my life as ananthropologist, post-field.Mapped loosely onto the two murai themselves, thelessons are: 1) Living it makes it so; and 2) Continuitycan occur through a variety of media.First muraiI met Natarajan as Jansirani’s husband. Jansi is an actresswhose long-term involvement with the field of SpecialDrama helped guide me into this rich research field inthe first place. Their two daughters, Viji and Kavitha,were aged eleven and nine when we first met (they areboth married and mothers in their own right now). Thefamily lived in a rented apartment near mine in the centerof town; I found them warm, forthright and easy to talkwith.It was after a spiritually intense visit to his natal village,involving a puja and a powerful possession in the houseof his kula deivam or family deity, that Natarajanasked me to call him Annan (“older brother”). He saidhe had understood during our visit who I was, andclarified: when just a young child, he and his baby sister– the only girl child his mother bore – came down withsmall pox. They lay for days in the throes of it, side byside on a large banana leaf; the girl-baby died, whileher elder brother survived. He now recognized me as thereincarnation of this lost baby sister: why else wouldwe move so easily together and share so much familyfeeling across two sides of the ocean? He voiced no doubtas he spoke; his voice betrayed awe, though not in anythunderous, “awestruck” sense but rather was tingedwith gratitude, like the actual rain, rather than itsannouncement.Since that day, as bidden, I call him “Annan” and I callJansi “Anni,” the corresponding appropriate kin termfor “wife of my elder brother”.The ensuing years of recognizing our relationslinguistically in this way have significantly altered myattitude towards the practice of doing so. Instead of Annanbeing a term I first used placatingly, but about which Iknew not what I really thought, this term now namesrelationships we live and have lived. One might say thatat first I humored my informants and that now I believethem, but the situation is more fairly represented bysaying that questions of belief – whether or not I believein reincarnation, for example, or more specificallywhether or not I believe that I was once a little girl whodied of small pox on a banana leaf in a village nearMadurai in Tamil Nadu, South India – have now beensuperceded. We have become family to each otherthrough mutual support. And even if aspects of ourrelationship might equally have been born of the family’sattempts to humor me, now they believe in me as I doin them.Second muraiFor a female fieldworker this first murai was ideal inpragmatic ways, providing a safe platonic relationshipwith the man of the house and a means by which mycloseness with the women in the family derived from aprimary bond between him and me. The second muraihas none of this. At a certain point Jansi declared thatshe feels I am her first-born child and eldest daughter.The scant eight chronological years that separate usclearly have no bearing here. Extended to me by her alone,this murai expresses as primary her bond with me, andshe began then to refer to me as her child, muttu pillai,though I continue to call her Anni, older brother’s wife.INDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

18changes wrought on US–India communications throughinternet technology bring the two nations into each other’sconsciousness on a daily basis, via media both glamorousand mundane (which says nothing of course of the hugeswathes of our respective cultural consciousnesses thatremain uniquely Tamil and uniquely American, and isthe subject of another paper entirely!). Email is provingthe best means of maintaining and honing a practice Ionly just began in the field, that of thinking and feelingat least to some extent in Tamil ways with my tangai, inan ongoing exchange of mutually partially-intelligibleand linguistically oscillating sisterly mother tongues.My field and post-field experiences have been richer forthe fact that in the position of key informant, I have hadnot one person but a family. The value of plurality hereis perhaps comparable to the important shifts inanthropological thought over the years regarding theplurality and multivocality of culture in general:“cultures” are not static, bounded wholes but livingdynamics of particularities and contingencies. Fieldworkis not something that occurs only ‘over there’ and ‘backthen,’ separate and apart from our real lives: the fieldlives on in my own now-familiar ways, and continueswherever I live. For example, my own daily practicesare changed post-field. What and how I eat, what I feedmy family and offer my guests, what I wear and where Ishop, what I read, what I teach, and what I write: allthese now have a Tamilness to them that continues toreposition me in the world, in that ongoing ethnographicprocess I now think of as “post-field positioning.”ReferencesCasagrande, Joseph B., ed., 1960. In the Company of Man:Twenty Portraits by Anthropologists. NY: Harper &Brothers.Briggs, Jean. 1970. “Kapluna Daughter.” In Women in theField: Anthropological Experiences, ed., Peggy Golde.Berkeley: University of California Press, pp. 19-44.Clifford, James. 1990. “Notes on (Field) notes.”In Fieldnotes: The Makings of Anthropology, ed., RogerSanjek. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press,pp. 47-70.Clifford, James & George Marcus, eds., 1986. WritingCulture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography.Berkeley: University of California Press.Gupta, Akhil and James Ferguson, eds., 1997.Anthropological Locations: Boundaries and Grounds ofa Field Science. Berkeley: University of CaliforniaPress.Kulick, Don & Margaret Wilson. 1995. Taboo: Sex, Identityand Erotic Subjectivity in Anthropological Fieldwork.London: Routledge.AcknowledgementsThanks to Danny Rosenblatt for talking, and to CatherineBrennan for her fine eye and well-traveled boots.* * * * *Review ShelfStigmas of the Tamil Stageby Susan SeizerPublished byDuke University Press,U.S.A.First Edition 2005,pages xxii + 442ISBN 0-8223-3443-7RABINDRASANGEETVICHITRAby Santidev GhoshTranslated byMohit Chakrabarti,Published by ConceptPublishing Company,New Delhi.First Edition 2006,pages xiii + 321Price: Rs.600.00ISBN 81-8069-305-8MARTIAL TRADITIONSOF NORTH EAST INDIAEdited byS. Dutta, B. TripathyPublished by ConceptPublishing Company,New Delhi.First Edition 2006,pages xiii + 273Price: Rs.550.00ISBN 81-8069-335-XTraditional Healing inLadakh© Ina RösingSHAMANIC TRANCEAND AMNESIAEnglish Translation:Jane Miller,Published by ConceptPublishing Company,New Delhi.First Edition 2006,pages 327Price: Rs.900.00ISBN 81-8069-247-7INDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

19The Fields of TorontoBERNARD BATEAssistant ProfessorDepartment of AnthropologyYale University, U.S.A.Email: bernard.bate@yale.eduThe field used to stay where it was. It was discrete:a village, a town, a time period. It did not movefrom one place to another, its temporality was fixedbetween a series of dates, beginnings and endings. Itwas the place and time an anthropologist went to, tooknotes, and came home again. The field certainly did notcome back – or talk back. It did not yell at you. We weredifferent, the places were different, the cultures different.In my case the field began in southern India – TamilNadu and south Tamil Nadu at that. I worked there inthe early to mid-1990’s on sociocultural and historicalelements of oratory, specifically what we might call theDravidianist style of political oratory: avarkale, avarkale,avarkale. In further investigations into the history oforatory, the field shifted spatially about one hundredfifty miles southeast to Jaffna and temporally about onehundred fifty years. A few months ago it shifted againten thousand miles west to a May afternoon in Toronto.I want to discuss the fluidity of the field – spatially,temporally, cognitively and politically – by telling a storyabout one of the least felicitous papers I ever delivered.The venue was the Toronto Tamil Studies Conference,one of the highest profile academic conferences the Tamilcommunity in Canada had ever mounted. The conferencegathered together several dozen scholars, mostly fromNorth America, for three days of intensive discussionabout Tamil literature, history, culture and society beforea mixed audience of college students, universityprofessors, independent scholars, and members of thegeneral community. Overall it was very successful.My talk was written quite hastily, based on research Ihad done the previous year in Jaffna, specifically basedon a talk I gave in Jaffna almost exactly a year before theToronto conference. I had spent about four months inJaffna looking for archival material regarding nineteenthcentury Tamil sermons. I was particularly interested inwhat kind of social relations surrounded the delivery ofsermons around 1847, the period in which the ChampionReformer of Hinduism, Arumuga Navalar (1821-1879),first (in)famously gave a sermon (piracangam) outside ofthe Christian context.Navalar is a big deal in Jaffna, especially among the Saiviteupper classes/castes, the Vellala in particular. Every schoolchild knew him, like George Washington in the States,like Periyar E.V.Ramaswamy in Tamil Nadu. In somerespects, he was more important than that. Navalararticulated a modern view of Saivism – it might even besaid, tentatively, and disturbingly for many, who admirehim, that he not only reformed Saivism, he created it. Itis not to say that Saivism was not a vital realm of practiceand thought, that Saiva Siddhantha, for instance, didnot have a philosophical tradition that stretched backcenturies. Rather, it is to claim that Saivite philosophywas neither a mass phenomenon nor did the vast majorityof the people who worshiped Siva consider themselvesfirst and foremost Saivites – and certainly did not considerthemselves Hindus. This radical reduction of identityinto a realm of belief and practice is what these days wecall “religion.” The massively reductive phenomenologiesof self and social order that characterize such claims– I am Hindu, I am Buddhist etc. – are some of the chiefhallmarks of what we now call modernity. My interestin Navalar stemmed from my inquiry into thecommunicative and cognitive elements of hisreformation/creation of Saivism and my sense that eventsin the relatively peripheral Jaffna in the middle of thenineteenth century played a disproportionately large rolein the production of a peculiarly Tamil public sphere –and a peculiarly Tamil modernity.Navalar’s reformation of Saivism was very much likeMartin Luther’s reformation of Christianity some threehundred years earlier: both focused on language andcommunication in general. Like Luther, Navalartransformed the ways that people would come tounderstand and use texts. Sacred texts (i.e. the Bible,Kandapuranam, Thevaram etc.) would no longer berestricted to the few, but would be openly available toall; they would no longer be couched in archaic languagesthat only some could understand, but would be writtenin a style that was contemporary, clear and accessible toa far wider range of people; and the institutions necessaryto produce a population capable of textual up-take (i.e.schools and presses) would be established broadly. InNavalar scholar Darshan Ambalavanar’s terms, the textswould be universalized. And, as an intimate element ofthat universalization, he would start to do somethingquite new: he would begin to offer sermons in Saivism.Navalar encountered the sermon, like the other forms ofcommunicative action he inaugurated, in the ProtestantChristianity of the British and American missionarieswho had been engaging in just such practices sinceapproximately the second decade of the century. Navalar’sresemblance to Martin Luther is no accident: in essence,what had been a kandapurana kalachchaaram became avethaakama kalachchaaram, a culture of the vernacular Bibleeven if what they read was still the story of Skanda.Now, to suggest that The Champion Reformer ofHinduism, Arumuga Navalar, was anything other thana self-actualized genius (which, in some senses, he was),is profoundly offensive to a great many people. I hadalready encountered that sentiment in Jaffna when I firstoffered my paper in no less a venue than the ArumugaNavalar Memorial Hall in May of 2005. I thought thattalk went fairly well: the students asked good challengingquestions, a number of older intellectuals yelled at me,and a number of younger intellectuals yelled at the olderones. Good fun. And I felt rather confident in what Iwas saying, since it really couldn’t be denied when andupon what basis Navalar produced these institutions andINDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

20practices. Furthermore, I had discussed at length myideas with some senior scholars that I admire very much– Christian, Saivite, and atheist – and they had offeredtheir blessings on the thesis.And so, how hard could the Toronto talk be? It was theend of a long semester, and I really didn’t have time toprepare the English version as carefully or as thoughtfullyas I would have liked. Hence the talk was full oftheoretical jargon, a kind of shorthand that might havegone over in a purely academic conference. And myexperience in Jaffna had given me courage along with agood sense of what kind of objections I might face fromthe audience; I had my answers ready.As expected, then, after my talk, one lovely older womanindignantly challenged my take on Navalar. She subtlyand (I thought) effectively mocked some of my jargonypronouncements, but mostly defended the sui generisgenius of Arumuga Navalar: ‘He brought Tamil literatureto all the people,’ she said. I reiterated the basis of mythesis and ended with my complete agreement with her:he had, indeed, brought Tamil literature to all the people.What happened next, however, I hadn’t anticipated. Why,one person asked, was I taking Navalar – and his primarytext, the Kandapuranam – as the emblem of Jaffna culture?Furthermore, how could I take Navalar as the paragon ofthe Sri Lankan Tamil? He’s a Jaffnaman – a VellalaJaffnaman at that. With whom do I ally if I make theclaim that Jaffna culture and society stand as thesynecdoche of Tamil Sri Lanka? What of Trincomalee andBatticaloa, let alone Upcountry? Furthermore, Navalarwas famously castist, a real Vellala chauvinist. By today’sstandards, he was a bigot: a brilliant bigot, but a bigotnonetheless. If he denied Dalits’ access to temples andschools, how could he be said to ‘universalize’ Tamiltexts? How could he have brought Tamil literature to ‘allthe people’ if, in his view, Dalits were not even people?Oh my. All I could do was agree, pathetically, as theyoungest members of the audience clapped in supportof that last question – an assertion and an accusationboth. A few people came up to talk to me afterwards,but I was defensive and snappish. I hasten to point outthat I spoke to those I snapped at later in the weekend,even apologized to one of my interlocutors with whom Iwas particularly upset and admitted that he had a point.Some folks, though, were not so forgiving as he. I hadfundamentally misunderstood Sri Lankan culture,society, and history. And people who would not agreeabout much else agreed on that point.At the very least, the presentation was rhetoricallyinfelicitous, i.e., I had failed to pitch my talk to myaudience, a fundamental oratorical error. At the Torontoairport heading home, I ran into Stanley Tambiah, amongthe most accomplished of senior scholars of Sri Lanka.He jocularly suggested – twice! – that I might haveanticipated these critiques. Indeed. I especially mighthave anticipated the Dalit critique. And I might, too,have anticipated the opposition of people from the Eastand Upcountry to an assertion of Jaffna hegemony. Insome places on the island calling someone a ‘jaffnaman’(yazhppaanaththaan) is equivalent to calling them a miser,a snob, a selfish bigot. And that does not even includethe political oppositions that now divide Sri LankanTamils between (at least) two different nationalist factions.In the final analysis, what snookered me was Jaffna itself– the authentic field site, as it were, the ultimate archive.I had tested my thesis out in informal conversations withscholars at the university and formally in an address.There was only one Dalit scholar in Jaffna to critiquewhat I had to say, but I never heard that critique: it seemsthat he was marginalized from the circles I was movingin (and at this point I can understand why – seniorscholars in Jaffna do not appear to be nearly as sensitiveto the Dalit critique of knowledge and history as theircounterparts in India, insofar as their counterparts inIndia are sensitive to it. The debate continues...). Theassertion of Jaffna as a kandapurana kalachchaaram, as mysenior colleagues had maintained for decades, was theassertion of upper-class Vellala culture as Jaffna cultureitself. My training in Tamil Nadu and Chicago,furthermore, had sensitized me to hegemonic claims byBrahmins, not non-Brahmins. Ironically enough, my ownDravidianist biases, cultivated in the fields of Chicago,Madurai and Chennai, had blinded me even further tothe socio-ideological flora and fauna of the fields ofToronto.The field, then, appears neither bounded nor discrete. Itcan not be contained in our fieldnotes, processed andindexed, and consulted again as the ultimate archive. Itdoes not stay where it was because it is not a fixed entityin time and place, but a construct based on ourinteractions, our training, our localities, our attachments,our tendencies to look for experts who can tell us whatthe meaning of it all might be. Our fields, then, need tobe seen as shifty, fluid, and open to negotiation by peopleten thousand miles away from the object. The seniorscholar who nodded in approval at my thesis is a memberof the field, as are the lovely older woman whochallenged my language, the youngsters who yelled atthe oldsters in Jaffna and those who yelled at me inToronto. The field gets deeper and richer the more itincludes us all, becoming a necessarily more nuancedindex of human social life.* * * * *INDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

21A Passage to Indiana:Reflections on Fieldwork in aReverse DirectionCHANDANA MATHURLecturer in AnthropologyNational University of Ireland, MaynoothChandana.Mathur@nuim.ieMy two years (1989-91) of dissertation fieldworkwere spent in Southern Indiana in a small townlocated near the flagship plant of a majormultinational corporation, the Aluminium Company ofAmerica (Alcoa). As an Indian woman anthropologistwhose work centres on mainstream American culture, Ihave become well used to the inevitable amused chuckledrawn by this disclosure. Any exploration of theintentions underlying the project, of the fieldworkexperience itself, of the particular difficulties involvedin writing about it, and (most pertinently for thiscollection) of the residues remaining, however, requiresreaching beyond the cheap paradox element of thisfieldwork encounter.When I first began to frame the project, I had beenprofoundly influenced by the perspectives ofanthropological political economy; thus, the basicpremise of my work has been that cultural processes inthe contemporary United States cannot be understoodwithout referring to the symbols, structures and practicesof present-day capitalism. Initially drawn to the projectby the paucity of studies of Western societies by ThirdWorld anthropologists, I have now come to realise thatfieldwork in the American heartland at the end of thetwentieth century has taught me unlovely and invaluabletruths – say, about class, or nationalism – that may havebeen less accessible elsewhere or at another time.My fieldwork dates back to an important moment of selfdoubtfor the discipline, to the era of the reflexive turnin anthropology. It would have been hard at the time toignore the central insight of this moment, that my datawas going to be deeply inflected by the identities of theethnographer and the subject, by who I was and whothey were. At the same time, I was uncomfortable at theprospect of casting the power differentials underlyingthis encounter as the main issue: it could easily teeterinto self-absorption, and perhaps sideline many otherquestions that seemed particularly pressing. In the end,the ethnography that has been written out of thisexperience acknowledges the issues surrounding thepower relationships underlying the encounter, butprioritises a quite different set of questions. Focusing onthe narratives provided by the people I met, it tries todocument how individual lives are shaped andsubjectivities structured at the intersection of local historywith state power and systemic transformation.For instance, my dissertation addresses a series ofquestions about the nature of work as experienced by(mainly) white male workers in traditionalmanufacturing jobs in Indiana. In what terms are workroutines described and remembered? Is this dailyexperience foregrounded in a strong sense of themselvesas workers, and by extension, as members of a workingclass? What are the political consequences of the processof identity formation evoked by workers’ narratives, andobversely, what is the relationship that obtains for theseworkers between the labour movement and the workplaceself? As globalisation and its consequences, actual andperceived, sweep through continually and unstoppablyto alter the face of everyday work, how do workplaceidentities keep pace? I have explored the meanings thatAlcoa workers have assigned to the reshaping of thelabour process in the present era of flexible accumulation,which has entailed changes in the scheduling of workshifts to meet the demands of just-in-time production,or changes in management techniques such as theintroduction of the ‘team concept’ (Mathur, 1998). Finally,my discussion of labour touches on themes that lieentangled at the junction of social memory and history,as in a chapter that traces the impact of the memory of along, bitter and ultimately unsuccessful local strike in1986 on the resistance that Alcoa workers were to offertowards later demands placed on them by the company.Would it have been a better idea to focus instead on areading of the unequal power encounter between whiteAmerican males in an affluent Midwestern town and aThird World woman? For one thing, for an aspiringmiddle-class academic researching and representing thelives of working class men, it would be disingenuous toargue that the power balance was clearly freighted againstme. Perhaps the most forceful example is provided byone of my interview tapes that has made me wincewhenever I have gone back to it. An electrician wasspeaking to me on this tape. At one point, I finish hissentence for him, and then apologise for doing so. Heresponds saying, “no, no, you said it so much betterthan I would have”. All the factors complicating theputatively reverse direction of my fieldwork are presenthere: the middle-class ethnographer’s presumption inrepresenting others’ experience, the display of classdeference from the working class ethnographicsubject etc.In an early discussion of the “relation of power involvedin the very conception of the autonomy of cultures”(Chatterjee 1999, 17), Partha Chatterjee has expressed hispessimism regarding the viability of an ‘anthropologyin reverse’. “It is not trivial to point out here”, he writes,“that in this whole debate about the possibility of crossculturalunderstanding, the scientist is always one of‘us’: he is a Western anthropologist, modern, enlightenedand self-conscious (and it does not matter what hisnationality or the colour of his skin happens to be)”(Chatterjee 1999, 17).Under these circumstances, would my ethnographicaccount of small town Indiana be much different fromone produced by a White American anthropologist? Orby a Black American anthropologist? Or an Indian-INDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

22American anthropologist? I would argue that theinversion entailed in my fieldwork, such as it was,nevertheless carries certain methodological implications.For instance, my dissertation also focuses on the firstGulf War, a key moment of American nationalism, andtherefore, a particularly apposite time to look at ideasabout collective selfhood, at ‘community’ and at ‘nation’.“If you are not a Patriot, you’re a Scud”, was the antianti-warslogan of the time. My goal was toethnographically chart the processes whereby the warbecame the main field of contestation definingmembership within the community, which was itselfredefined to mean nation or national interest. Because Iwas a dissenter from the notion of community-as-nation,both by ascription (as ethnographer-outsider, foreignerand Third Worlder) and by choice (I did not conceal myassociation with the small handful of local anti-warprotestors), I was constantly being brought face to facewith competing notions of collective identity that werereluctantly being held in abeyance. The minister of aconservative Southern church, the coalminer and the highschool teacher who were reluctant to express theiropposition to the war among their peers, felt morecomfortable discussing their views with me.In terms of subject position issues, it remains unclearwhich way the power balance tilts with this fieldworkand my attempts to write of it. Obviously it is not anunequal encounter between a powerless Third Worldwoman and omnipotent white American males. Yet, aswe met in the field to make sense of one another, it wasthey who were able to confidently approach me withdominant Western categories of understanding the non-West. No matter how steeped I may be in what Chatterjeeterms “bourgeois rationalist thought”, I was not reallyin a position to counter-apply these same categoriestowards them. If it can accomplish little else, an encounterof this kind can definitely muddy the waters aroundreceived ideas about anthropological knowledgeproduction, about ethnographic authority and the powerof representation.The legacy for me of this fieldwork encounter is probablynot dissimilar from the ways in which otheranthropologists are changed by their fieldworkexperiences. One’s place in the world is problematisedby the experience, one gets the sense that one has betterunderstood some phenomena while failing to understandcertain others. The stakes involved in the failure tounderstand feel higher for me than they may for otheranthropologists, though, given that we all live in a worldwhich depends disproportionately on the votingdecisions of white working class men from the Americanheartland.Also, the failure to understand has left me with manyquestions about the practice of fieldwork. In the face ofreally uncomfortable realities, how far can anthropology’sempathetic method of data collection take us? If we donot ourselves manage to internalise viewpoints that wedeeply disagree with, and successfully understand themfrom within, can we be said to have moved much furtherbeyond a priori, pre-fieldwork understandings of thesepoints of view? Should we be content merely to chartthe global flows and local contexts within which thebaffling is embedded?ReferencesChatterjee, Partha. 1999. ‘Nationalist Thought and theColonial World: A Derivative Discourse?’ The ParthaChatterjee Omnibus. New Delhi: Oxford UniversityPress.Mathur, Chandana. 1998. “Transformation as usual?:The meanings of a changing labour processfor Indiana aluminium workers” Critique ofAnthropology Vol 18(3), pp. 263-277.* * * * *Review ShelfThe Mask and theMessageby K. Chinnappa GowdaPublished byMadipu Prakashana,Mangalagangothri,First Impression 2005,pages xx + 296Price: Rs.350.00HistoriographyA History of HistoricalWritingby Tej Ram SharmaPublished by ConceptPublishing Company,New Delhi.First Impression 2005,pages xii + 188Price: Rs.350.00ISBN 81-8069-155-1 (HB)INDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

23April 2006"#$%NFSC Public Programmesat Indian School of Folklore – Schedule508, Kaveri complex, No.96, Nungambakkam High Road, Chennai – 600 034.Phone: 28229192 / 4213 8410Email: info@indianfolklore.org, muthu@md2.vsnl.net.in www.indianfolklore.orgIssues in Arts and Humanities Today - Lecture 1, on Wednesday, April 12, 2006 (at 4.30 p.m.)Lecture by N. Muthuswamy on “Tamil Folk Theatre”.“What is freedom?” Lecture series by M.D. Muthukumaraswamy - Lecture 1, on Wednesday,April 19, 2006 (at 6.00 p.m.) - “Are We the Captives of the Narratives We Create?”.New images for the public sphere – Film Screening 1, on Friday, April 21, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.)“The Second Birth”, documentary film by Arunmozhi.NFSC collaborative research projects public presentations - Event 1on Friday, April 28, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.) Category: Folklore Genres and Performances in Rural India:Performing Prahalatha Myth – Ongoing project lecture “Prahalatha Saritiram” by Balaji Srinivasanand Gandhi, Independent researchers and NFSC collaborators, Chennai.May 2006!"#$%June 2006!"$&%Arts, Crafts and Creativity: Event - 1, from Tuesday, May 2, 2006 to Sunday, May 7, 2006(11.00 a.m.to 6.00 p.m.) – Kalamkari Paintings - Exhibition cum SaleFeatured Artist: Kalahasti Subramanyam, President of Kalasrusti, a social voluntary organization.He is Master craftsman from Andhra Pradesh. He is a National merit holder in 1974.Issues in Arts and Humanities Today - Lecture 2, on Friday, May 12, 2006 (at 6.00 p.m.)Lecture by K.A. Sachidanandam on “Life and Works of Ananda Coomarasamy”.“What is freedom?” Lecture series by M.D. Muthukumaraswamy - Lecture 2, on Wednesday,May 17, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.) – “Deconstructing Structures of Belief”.New images for the public sphere – Film Screening 2, on Friday, May 19, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.)– Bharathiyar”, documentary film by Amshan Kumar.NFSC collaborative research projects public presentations - Event 2on Friday, May 26, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.) Category: Enquiry into the “Tribal India”– Ongoing project lecture “Dangi Ramayan” by Aruna Ravikant Joshi, Former Editor,Dhol Magazine, published by Basha, Vadodara, Gujarat.Arts, Crafts and Creativity: Event - 2, from Saturday, June 3, 2006 to Friday, June 9, 2006(11.00 a.m. to 6.00 p.m.) – Kerala Mural Paintings - Exhibition cum Sale.Featured Artist: K.U. Krishnakumar, Principal, Guruvayur Institute of Mural Paintings.Issues in Arts and Humanities Today - Lecture 3, on Friday, June 16, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.)Lecture by Nirmal Selvamony on “Eco criticism”.New images for the public sphere: Film Screening 3, on Wednesday, June 21, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.)“Dikshidargal”, documentary film by Janaki Viswanathan.Special Lecture on Saturday, June 24, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.)Lecture by Jyotindra Jain, Chairman, NFSC and Dean, School of Arts and Aesthetics,Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi on “Indian Popular Culture: The Conquest of the Worldas Picture”.NFSC collaborative research projects public presentations - Event 3Category: Understanding Discrimination on Friday, June 30, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.) - Ongoing projectlecture “Jambapurana”, P. Subbachary, Head, Department of Folklore and Tribal Studies,Dravidian University, Kuppam, Andhra Pradesh.INDIAN FOLKLIFE SERIAL NO.23 AUGUST 2006

24Indian Folklife Regd. No. R.N. TNENG / 2001 / 5251ISSN 0972-6470July 2006!#$%Arts, Crafts and Creativity: Event - 3, from Saturday, July 1, 2006 to Friday, July 7, 2006(11.00 a.m.to 6.00 p.m.) Madhubani Painting – Exhibition cum Sale.Featured Artist: Shanthi Devi, Kiran Devi, Phoolmaya Devi.“What is freedom?” Lecture series by M.D. Muthukumaraswamy - Lecture 3 on Wednesday,July 19, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.) - “Self as Inter-textual Construct”.New images for the public sphere – Film Screening 4, on Friday, July 21, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.)“Pali Peedam”, documentary film by Leena Manimekalai.NFSC collaborative research projects public presentations - Event 4Category: Folklore Genres and Performance in Rural India, on Friday, July 28, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.)- Ongoing project lecture “Mailaralinga”, by M.N.Venkatesha, Professor, Department of Folkloreand Tribal Studies, Dravidian University, Kuppam, Andhra Pradesh.FORTHCOMING EVENTS(Tentative Schedule)August 2006Arts, Crafts and Creativity: Event - 4, from Tuesday, August 1, 2006 to Friday! August 4, 2006 (11 a.m. to 6.00 p.m.) – Photo Exhibition on the Making of Veena and LectureDemonstration on the Craft of Veena Making by Nataraja Achari on Wednesday, August 2, 2006 atPadmabhushan Shri Komal Kothari Endowment Lecture on “Cultural Issues in Veena Making”by Karaikudi S. Subramanian, Director Brhaddhavani, Research and Training Centre for the Musicof the World, Chennai on Friday, August 4, 2006 at 5.30 p.m.Issues in Arts and Humanities Today – Lecture 5, on Friday, August 11, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.)Lecture by Indran on “Search for Self in an Urban Jungle: Notes on Contemporary Art in Chennai”."%$NFSC collaborative research projects public presentations - Event 5Category: Understanding Discrimination on Wednesday, August 16, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.)- Epic narration and Urumu performance by Urumu Naganna, Ananthapur district, Andhra Pradesh.New Images for the Public Sphere – Film Screening 5, on Thursday, August 17, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.)– “Chappal”, documentary film by R.P. Amuthan.September 2006Arts, Crafts and Creativity: Event - 5, from Friday, September 1, 2006 to Friday, September 8, 2006! (11.00 a.m.to 6.00 p.m.) – Gond Paintings – Exhibition cum Sale.Featured Artist: Ramesh Tekam.&"#$%Special Lecture on Monday, September 11, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.)Lecture by Lee Haring, Professor Emeritus of English, Brooklyn College of the City University ofNew York on “Uncovering Stories”.Issues in Arts and Humanities Today – Lecture 6, on Thursday, September 14, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.)– Lecture by C. Ramachandran on “Social History of Tamilnadu”.“What is freedom?” Lecture series by M.D.Muthukumaraswamy – Lecture 4, on Wednesday,September 20, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.) - “Expression Vs Institution”.New images for the public sphere – Film Screening 6, on Thursday, September 21, 2006(at 5.30 p.m.) – “Naanga Adhivasinga”, documentary film by Ayyappan.NFSC collaborative research projects public presentations - Event 6Category: Enquiry into “Tribal India” on Thursday, September 28, 2006 (at 5.30 p.m.)– Ongoing project lecture “Maraigan”, Kishore Bhatacharjee, Professor and Head,Folklore Research Department, University of Gauhati, Assam.Published by M.D. Muthukumaraswamy for National Folklore Support Centre, #508, V Floor, Kaveri Complex, 96, Mahatma Gandhi Road,Nungambakkam, Chennai - 600 034 (India) Tel/fax: 28229192 / 42138410 and printed by M.S. Raju Seshadrinathan at Nagaraj and Company Pvt. Ltd.,# 4/262, Old Mahabalipuram Road, Kandanchavady, Chennai 600 096, INDIA. Ph:+91-44-24489085 Editor : M.D. Muthukumaraswamy(For free private circulation only.)