Desacralising Indian history

The latest excisions (now withdrawn) from Karnataka school textbooks, in the name of ‘lightening the burden’ of students who are facing a Covid-truncated year, have drawn justified criticism for the topics that were proposed to be dropped. But that is hardly the most important problem with those textbooks. The distinguished committee of historians and literary scholars under whose watch the new textbooks were written in 2016 also “deleted unnecessary dates and data that are burdensome to the students” in order to give “attention to the historical understanding and the process.”

One wishes this had indeed been the case, i.e., that the books had focused on building a ‘historical temper’, on the historical method, and that the students had been asked more questions about ‘why’ than ‘what’ or ‘when’. Then the attempt of successive governments, assorted linguistic and community groups to exclude this or that figure, this or that event, in a tiresome cycle of competitive sacralisation of history, could have been made redundant.

For a long while now, the mandated textbook, whether at the state or the national level, has been the ground of bitter battles. These battles are driven by political, rather than pedagogical, concerns. Is it any longer possible to have a single, usable, teachable past, whether at the state or national level? Can we produce a textbook that reflects the heterogeneities and conflicts of our social existence?

Yes, we can, if the focus is truly on historical method. For this, emphasis on context, rather than content, is paramount. The Karnataka history textbooks made a brave attempt at introducing students to primary historical sources: the Std VIII textbook introduces students to an inscription in a Belur temple which “advocates communal harmony,” but since there is no discussion of the context, it is simply another instance of sacralisation, this time of secularism.

We are told that Basaveswara wrote his vachanas in simple Kannada that resembled the “spoken language of the people,” but not a single example of that rich 12th century heritage is included as illustration (Std IX). Nor is there a sample of Shishunala Sharif’s brilliant songs from the 19th century.

Instead of asserting that “temples were built in Hampi, Shringeri, Tirupati” in the Vijayanagara period, could we use at least one –- say, the Hazara Rama temple at Hampi –- to ask: what do temples tell us about state patronage of religion? What can they tell us about tolerance/intolerance? About the wealth of donors? And worshippers? About artistic styles and skills/virtuosity? About cultural borrowings?

The new (2019) Kerala Std X textbook does a better job of introducing students to the historical method. Literary sources have been used to show how the events discussed (such as the American and French Revolutions) retain their importance and meaning over centuries: Kumaran Asan (a late 19th- early 20th century poet) is cited on the importance of liberty and freedom. A poem by Avaiyyar (3rd century BC) and what it means for the history of Tamilakam is a subtle bow to the wider geographies and histories to which the relatively new linguistic state (Kerala) belongs. Maps are used to build skills in interpreting space through historical time.

The Kerala state –- and one might add the Ekalavya (Hoshangabad) textbooks -- succeed where the Karnataka textbooks fail, because they have emerged out of a collaboration between historians, school teachers and those who understand both ends of the spectrum: on the one hand, how historians think, and on the other, how the introduction of history in middle school aligns with the cognitive abilities of children in Classes 8-10. The emphasis is on building concepts and questions, and even skills (such as map reading) and not flinching from introducing continuities and discontinuities, conflicts and contradictions. Rather than presenting a bland, sacred, or even incorrect reading of the past, the texts produced by Ekalavya (Hoshangabad) for example, simply decentre the discussion around content.

In our information-rich age, we must be less worried about content than method. So, we must be unafraid of discussing Tipu Sultan (or even Gandhi) in order to introduce children to how historians think. The textbook is neither the space for producing retributive justice, nor unexamined pride. Rather than testing unthinking quickness and recall, in the questions, can we make students reflect on what they read? For example, following our discussion of the national movement, could we ask the question that is essential for our times: can we be Indian without being nationalist? Could the Std X student give two examples each of Tipu Sultan’s administrative successes and two failures (and explain why they think so)? Why did Tipu Sultan give his government the name ‘Khudadadi Sarkar’ or ‘God-given Government’?

This may not have a ‘right’ answer but will involve some creative thinking about how all rulers seek legitimacy. All this requires not just courage but imagination, on the part of teachers, textbook writers, and students alike.