Introduction:​

​
In A Different History, Indian poet Sujata Bhatt explores the deep emotional and
cultural tensions caused by colonialism, particularly through the lens of language,
identity, and spirituality. The poem reflects on the reverence for books and nature
within Indian traditions, contrasting this with the violence and cultural
displacement caused by British imperialism. Bhatt uses free verse and powerful
metaphors to question how colonized people come to adopt — and even love —
the language of their oppressors. Through a tone that shifts from gentle and
spiritual to questioning and sorrowful, the poet expresses a conflicted
post-colonial identity, capturing both cultural pride and historical trauma.
Ultimately, the poem forces readers to reflect on the hidden consequences of
colonial rule, especially how it shapes memory, inheritance, and language.​
​
“A Different History” Summary​
​
Sujata Bhatt’s A Different History is a thought-provoking poem that explores the
complex relationship between culture, language, and colonialism, particularly
in the context of post-colonial India. The poem begins by describing India as a
place where gods like Pan still exist, symbolising a culture that deeply respects
nature, spirituality, and knowledge. Bhatt paints a picture of Indian society as
one where trees are sacred, books are treated with great care, and disrespecting
a book — even physically — is seen as a moral and spiritual offence. These
images highlight the traditional Indian worldview, where learning, literature, and
nature are deeply revered and connected to the divine (such as Sarasvati, the
Hindu goddess of knowledge).

However, the tone of the poem shifts in the second half, becoming more intense
and questioning. Bhatt confronts the painful legacy of colonialism, asking
rhetorical questions about the oppressive nature of language. She challenges
readers to consider how languages — especially those imposed by colonisers —
have been used to control and erase cultures. Using disturbing imagery, such as
a soul being “cropped with a long scythe,” she captures the violence of cultural
domination and the loss of identity that comes with it. Despite this, the poem
ends on a tragic irony: the descendants of the colonised — the “unborn
grandchildren” — grow to love and embrace the language of their
oppressors.

The poem’s core message is that language is not neutral; it carries power,
history, and trauma. Bhatt reflects on her own conflicted feelings as an Indian
poet writing in English, acknowledging both the violence of its origins and the
beauty it can still express. A Different History is ultimately a meditation on
cultural survival, the irony of inheritance, and the ways colonised peoples
must navigate identity in a world shaped by conquest.

​
​
“A Different History” Themes​
​
1. Colonialism and Cultural Erasure​
​
In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt powerfully explores the theme of colonialism
and cultural erasure, portraying it as a violent, long-lasting force that disrupts
not only language and traditions but also identity and heritage. Through her use
of rhetorical questions, violent metaphor, symbolism, and tone shifts, Bhatt
reveals the deep psychological and spiritual scars left by colonisation, particularly
the British colonisation of India. She examines how a foreign power’s domination
goes beyond physical conquest — it seeps into language, thought, and future
generations.

Bhatt begins the poem by establishing a world that is deeply spiritual and
culturally rooted. She writes, “Here, the gods roam freely, / disguised as snakes
or monkeys; / every tree is sacred / and it is a sin / to be rude to a book.” This
reverent tone paints a picture of pre-colonial India, where traditions are
respected, nature is worshipped, and knowledge is sacred. The use of
cultural symbols like “Sarasvati” — the Hindu goddess of learning — and the
emphasis on treating books gently, without even letting a foot touch them, reflect
a native system of value and meaning that is profoundly spiritual. This
establishes a cultural identity that is rich, whole, and grounded in deep-rooted
reverence.
However, this spiritual calm is violently interrupted in the second half of the
poem, as Bhatt introduces the impact of colonialism. She shifts tone from
reverence to accusation and bewilderment through a series of rhetorical
questions:

“Which language / has not been the oppressor’s tongue? / Which

language / truly meant to murder someone?”​
These questions reflect the speaker’s internal conflict and pain
about the English language — a language that is now used to write
this very poem, yet was once the tool of the colonisers. The
repetition of “Which language” creates a feeling of inquiry and
accusation, suggesting that no language is innocent when used to
suppress others. Bhatt implies that language can be weaponised,
becoming a symbol of colonial control and cultural annihilation.

This idea is driven deeper by Bhatt’s chilling use of violent agricultural

metaphor:

“after the soul has been cropped / with a long scythe swooping out / of
the conqueror’s face.”​
The “soul” here represents culture, identity, and individuality, and
the “scythe” — typically a harvesting tool — becomes a symbol of
brutal cultural mutilation. The phrase “swooping out of the
conqueror’s face” adds a deliberate and personal dimension to the
violence; this is not an accident of history, but a deliberate act of
erasure. The word “cropped” suggests forced uniformity — as if the
colonised are being trimmed down to fit the coloniser’s image. Bhatt
makes it clear: colonialism isn’t just physical conquest — it is a
soul-deep violation.

Perhaps the most tragic expression of cultural erasure comes in the final lines:

“the unborn grandchildren / grow to love that strange language.”​

This haunting image highlights the irony and tragedy of colonial
legacy. Even after the conquerors are gone, their language — and by
extension, their values and dominance — lives on in the minds of
the next generation. The phrase “unborn grandchildren” implies a
permanent, generational shift, and “that strange language” conveys
a sense of alienation, even as the speaker acknowledges a reluctant
 acceptance or affection for it. Bhatt thus presents a powerful
contradiction: the language once used to erase identity becomes the
very medium through which identity is now expressed. This is the
linguistic trauma of post-colonial societies — to speak in the voice
of your historical oppressor because your native voice was taken from
you.

Bhatt’s structure also reflects the fragmentation of colonised identity. The

poem is written in free verse, with no consistent rhyme or regular metre, and the
lines are broken irregularly across the page. This fragmented layout mimics the
disruption of cultural continuity and reflects the mental and emotional
dislocation experienced by those living in a post-colonial world. The lack of
stanza breaks forces the reader to confront the uninterrupted nature of
colonisation’s effects — there is no clean division between past and present,
sacred and scarred. It all bleeds into one another, much like the lived reality of
post-colonial identity.

In conclusion, Sujata Bhatt uses A Different History to expose the violent and
lingering consequences of colonialism, particularly the loss of language,
culture, and spiritual rootedness. Through a combination of powerful
imagery, rhetorical questioning, and structural fragmentation, she portrays
colonialism not just as a historical event but as an ongoing psychological and
cultural struggle. Bhatt’s poem mourns what has been lost — but it also urges
readers to reflect on what it means to reclaim one’s voice in a world still shaped
by the past.​
​
2.Language as Power and Oppression​
​
In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt explores how language can act not just as a
tool of communication but as a mechanism of control, dominance, and even
violence. Through rhetorical questioning, violent metaphor, historical reflection,
and tone, Bhatt shows how language — particularly English — became a
weapon of colonisation, used to suppress native cultures and identities. Yet,
paradoxically, the poem also acknowledges how colonised people end up
internalising and even loving the very language that oppressed them, highlighting
the conflicted nature of post-colonial identity.
Bhatt’s central concern with language as a system of oppression is most directly
addressed in the second half of the poem, where she uses a series of stark
rhetorical questions to confront the reader:

“Which language / has not been the oppressor’s tongue? / Which

language / truly meant to murder someone?”​
These lines expose the dark historical reality that language has
often been tied to domination and violence. The phrase “oppressor’s
tongue” is powerful and ironic — a tongue, normally associated with
speech, nourishment, or culture, is here reimagined as a symbol of
colonial brutality. The suggestion that a language can be “meant to
murder someone” is deliberately shocking. Bhatt isn’t referring to
physical death, but to cultural and psychological annihilation — the
kind that happens when one’s native language, stories, and traditions
are forcibly replaced by a foreign tongue.

The metaphor becomes even more violent and symbolic with the image:

“after the soul has been cropped / with a long scythe swooping out / of
the conqueror’s face”​
Here, Bhatt equates linguistic colonisation with spiritual mutilation.
The “scythe” — a tool for cutting down — represents the way
colonisers severed indigenous people from their language, identity,
and history. The fact that it “swoops out of the conqueror’s face”
makes this violence both personal and intentional — the colonisers
weren’t just bringing their language, they were enforcing it
aggressively, often through education systems, laws, and
censorship. The word “soul” is key — this isn’t just about
communication, it’s about cultural identity, the deepest parts of the
self.

Bhatt’s poem is also deeply personal and conflicted, especially in the final lines:

“the unborn grandchildren / grow to love that strange language.”​

This is one of the most tragic and ironic moments in the poem. It
speaks to the internalised effects of colonisation — how even
generations after the conquest, the coloniser’s language becomes
embedded in the psyche of the colonised. English, once forced upon
Indian students and scholars through punishment and exclusion, is
 now embraced and even loved by their descendants. The oxymoronic
phrase “love that strange language” captures this contradiction:
affection for a language that is not truly theirs, a language that was
used to overwrite their own.

The fact that Bhatt is writing this poem in English is itself a self-referential
paradox. She is critiquing the oppressive legacy of the English language,
while using it to express that very critique. This tension reflects the reality for
many post-colonial writers and thinkers: English has become the only tool
available to express their loss, yet it is also the tool of that very loss. The
poem, therefore, becomes a living demonstration of how language retains
power long after the physical colonisers have left.

In contrast, the first half of the poem presents a world where language and
communication are sacred and respectful. The reverence shown to books,
symbolised in the lines:

“it is a sin / to shove a book aside / with your foot,”​

suggests a culture that values knowledge, words, and language as
holy. The mention of Sarasvati, the Hindu goddess of learning,
reinforces the idea that in Indian tradition, language was never about
domination but about connection to the divine. This contrast between
the native reverence for language and the coloniser’s violent
misuse of it deepens the poem’s commentary: colonisers turned
something sacred into something oppressive.

Structurally, the fragmented form of the poem — with its free verse, irregular
spacing, and lack of punctuation — mirrors the fragmentation of cultural and
linguistic identity under colonisation. It forces the reader to pause and consider
each phrase carefully, mirroring the speaker’s hesitant and pained reflection
on her relationship with language.

In conclusion, Bhatt uses A Different History to explore how language, far from
being neutral, can be weaponised as a tool of oppression and control. Through
violent metaphors, rhetorical questions, and sharp tonal contrasts, she exposes
the linguistic trauma of colonisation, while also confronting the tragic reality
that colonised people often grow to love the language that once silenced
them. The poem is both an act of mourning and of confrontation — a powerful
reminder that words carry the weight of history, power, and identity.
3. Identity and Post-Colonial Confusion​
​
In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt explores the fragmented, conflicted sense
of identity experienced by individuals in post-colonial societies. The poem
exposes how colonial rule — particularly British colonisation of India — distorted
cultural and linguistic identity, leading to a deep confusion about belonging,
heritage, and self-expression. Through sacred cultural references, violent
imagery, and rhetorical questions, Bhatt portrays how colonisation disrupted
India's spiritual and linguistic continuity, forcing people to navigate a fractured
identity torn between reverence for the past and adaptation to the coloniser’s
language and systems.

The poem opens with a seemingly confident affirmation of India’s cultural

resilience:

“Great Pan is not dead; / he simply emigrated / to India.”​

Here, Bhatt fuses Greek and Indian mythologies by suggesting that
Pan — a symbol of nature and wildness in Greek tradition — has
found a new home in India, where “the gods roam freely.” This fusion
hints at cultural hybridity, where identities are layered and syncretic.
However, the phrase “emigrated” also subtly suggests displacement
— even the divine has been uprooted. The fact that an alien god is
used to describe Indian spiritual life hints at the loss of a pure
cultural core, foreshadowing the identity conflict that follows.

Bhatt then presents a world where Indian traditions still hold weight:

“Every tree is sacred / and it is a sin / to be rude to a book.”​

These lines reflect a spiritual and cultural reverence rooted in
pre-colonial Indian values. Language and learning, here symbolised by
books and the goddess Sarasvati, are treated as sacred. But this
cultural stability is soon disrupted in the second half of the poem,
where Bhatt shifts the tone to question the psychological aftermath
of colonisation.

Through the rhetorical questions —

 “Which language / has not been the oppressor’s tongue?” —​
Bhatt brings the reader face-to-face with the trauma of linguistic
colonisation. Language, once a medium for cultural connection, is
now a reminder of violence and alienation. These lines suggest that
the speaker — and by extension, post-colonial Indians — are unsure
of how to identify themselves in a world where the dominant
language (English) is both foreign and familiar, oppressive and
beloved. This duality lies at the heart of post-colonial confusion: How
can one truly belong when the very tools of self-expression were once
used to suppress the self?

This identity crisis is vividly illustrated in the haunting metaphor:

“after the soul has been cropped / with a long scythe swooping out / of
the conqueror’s face”​
Here, Bhatt presents colonisation not just as a political act but as a
spiritual violation. The soul — symbolic of culture, language, and
identity — is violently “cropped,” as if trimmed to fit the coloniser’s
image. The “conqueror’s face” becomes a symbol of dominance — the
foreign presence that has permanently altered the way people see
themselves. The native identity has been edited, rewritten, made
incomplete.

Bhatt captures the most painful irony of this fractured identity in the final lines:

“the unborn grandchildren / grow to love that strange language.”​

Here, she refers to English — the coloniser’s tongue — as both
“loved” and “strange.” This oxymoron encapsulates the essence of
post-colonial identity: a mix of attachment and alienation. Future
generations are born into a language that was never theirs, but is now
a part of their reality. They speak, dream, and write in a tongue that
once erased their ancestors’ stories. This results in a disconnected
sense of self, where neither full return to native roots nor complete
assimilation is possible. It’s an identity caught in limbo.

Even the form of the poem reflects this confusion. Bhatt uses free verse,
irregular line breaks, and shifting perspectives, suggesting a lack of structural
stability — as if the speaker is unsure where her cultural and linguistic loyalties
lie. The voice is both reverent and angry, proud and wounded. This tonal
ambiguity mirrors the post-colonial individual's psychological dissonance —
torn between inherited reverence for culture and inherited trauma from
colonisation.

Additionally, Bhatt’s own decision to write the poem in English is part of this
confusion. She is using the coloniser’s language to critique colonialism, making
the poem itself a meta-commentary on post-colonial identity. Her voice is Indian,
but her tool is English. This complexity is exactly what the poem wants us to see:
in the aftermath of colonisation, identity is no longer simple — it is hybrid,
layered, often conflicted.

In conclusion, A Different History is a poignant exploration of post-colonial

identity and the deep confusion it brings. Sujata Bhatt reveals how
colonisation didn’t just redraw borders — it rewired minds, languages, and
spiritual relationships. Through powerful imagery, rhetorical questions, and tonal
shifts, she captures the inner turmoil of a people struggling to reconcile their
past with their present, navigating a world where their identity has been
reshaped by a language and culture that was once imposed upon them. The
poem is not just a lament — it’s a confrontation with a fractured selfhood, and a
call to understand the enduring effects of linguistic and cultural imperialism.

4. Respect for Nature, Culture and Knowledge​

​
In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt intricately weaves together the theme of
respect for culture, nature, and knowledge as a central pillar of the Indian
identity — one that contrasts sharply with the disrespect and violence of colonial
intrusion. The poem explores how traditional Indian values place deep spiritual
and moral significance on books, trees, gods, and language. Through religious
references, natural imagery, and gentle yet assertive moral directives, Bhatt
celebrates a worldview that honours interconnectedness and reverence — while
warning of what is lost when such values are disregarded.

Right from the beginning, Bhatt introduces the idea of a sacred connection
between humans, gods, and the natural world:

“Great Pan is not dead; / he simply emigrated / to India.”​

Pan, a Greek god associated with the wild and untamed nature, is
relocated to India, a land Bhatt presents as still spiritually alive and
respectful of the divine. The idea that gods “roam freely” in India
 “disguised as snakes or monkeys” speaks to a uniquely Indian
reverence for all forms of life. Animals, in Hindu tradition, are often
seen as vessels of the divine — this line implies that spirituality is
embedded in the natural world, and respecting nature is tantamount
to respecting divinity.

Bhatt then draws attention to the sacredness of knowledge:

“Every tree is sacred / and it is a sin / to be rude to a book.”​

Here, trees and books — natural and intellectual entities — are placed
on a pedestal. The reverence for books is especially significant in
Indian culture, where the goddess Sarasvati, the deity of wisdom,
music, and learning, is often worshipped before any major act of
education or writing. Bhatt goes on to describe several actions —​
“to shove a book aside / with your foot,”​
“to slam books down / hard on a table,”​
“to toss one carelessly / across a room” —​
each labelled as a sin, not just impolite or careless. This strong
language elevates the book beyond a mere object; it becomes a
sacred extension of human intellect and divine blessing.

Furthermore, Bhatt directly links the process of learning to spirituality:

“You must learn how to turn the pages gently / without disturbing
Sarasvati.”​
This line symbolises the delicate, mindful approach that should be
taken toward learning and wisdom. It reminds the reader that
knowledge is not to be consumed violently or with haste, but
respected as a gift, both human and divine. The phrase “without
offending the tree / from whose wood the paper was made” connects
intellectual respect to environmental respect. Bhatt reinforces the
idea that knowledge is born from nature, and therefore both must be
treated with gratitude and care.

What’s important here is that Bhatt doesn’t present this reverence as outdated or
superstitious. Instead, she frames it as an essential and meaningful part of
cultural identity, which stands in sharp contrast to the violence and
disconnection of colonial values that come later in the poem. The contrast
between India’s gentle spiritual reverence and the harshness of colonial
scythe imagery (in the later stanzas) shows that the colonisers lacked this
respect — they came not to learn or honour, but to dominate and erase.

By emphasizing this contrast, Bhatt subtly critiques the West’s utilitarian and
often destructive view of nature and knowledge, where books can be
mass-produced, thrown, or ignored, and trees are merely resources to be
harvested. In Indian culture, as she presents it, knowledge and nature are alive,
interwoven with the soul, and deserving of respect at every stage.

Bhatt also uses form and tone to reinforce this theme. The gentle, flowing
rhythm of the first half, with its soft line breaks and spiritual imagery, mirrors the
reverent attitude she is describing. The shift in tone that comes later — into
rhetorical, angry, and accusatory lines — highlights how far removed colonial and
modern attitudes can be from this sacred worldview.

Lastly, the very act of writing this poem in English while drawing from Indian
values is a form of cultural reclamation. Bhatt, as a diasporic poet, uses the
coloniser’s language to reassert the value of Indian traditions. In doing so, she
models the respect she demands from the reader — that ancient, indigenous
knowledge systems still matter, and must not be forgotten or trivialised.

Conclusion

In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt crafts a powerful homage to Indian culture’s

deep-rooted reverence for nature, knowledge, and the divine. Through vivid
imagery, cultural symbolism, and spiritual tone, she reminds readers of the
sacredness that exists in everyday life — from the tree to the book to the gods
hidden in animal forms. In contrast to colonial disrespect and destruction, Bhatt’s
vision is one of gentle guardianship, urging us to protect and preserve the
wisdom and sanctity of both the earth and the mind. The poem becomes more
than just a critique — it’s a celebration of cultural values that refuse to be
silenced, no matter the history of violence.

5. Spirituality vs Secularism​
​
Sujata Bhatt’s A Different History is a rich exploration of how traditional Indian
spirituality clashes with secular, often Western, attitudes shaped by colonialism.
Through spiritual imagery, moral imperatives, and cultural symbolism, Bhatt
presents a vision of India where the divine is intertwined with daily life —
where nature, books, and learning are all part of a sacred order. Against this, she
sets the historical backdrop of colonialism, suggesting that secularism, when
detached from reverence, leads to erasure, disrespect, and cultural loss. The
poem becomes a subtle battle cry in defence of spiritual values in an increasingly
secular, post-colonial world.

From the opening lines, Bhatt sets the tone for a spiritually grounded
worldview:

“Great Pan is not dead; / he simply emigrated / to India.”​

By referencing the Greek god Pan, associated with nature and fertility,
Bhatt points out how Western societies — specifically
post-Enlightenment Europe — have abandoned their spiritual
connections with nature, while India continues to embrace them.
Pan’s "emigration" is not literal but symbolic — Bhatt implies that while
the West has become increasingly secular, India still sees the divine
in the natural world. The gods "roam freely" here, “disguised as
snakes or monkeys,” reinforcing the idea that India’s spirituality is
not confined to temples or rituals, but is embedded in everyday
existence.

This reverence extends to learning and knowledge, where Bhatt underscores

the sacredness of books:

“It is a sin / to be rude to a book.”​

This is not mere metaphor — in Indian culture, books are seen as
physical embodiments of Sarasvati, the goddess of wisdom. To slam,
toss, or kick a book is more than bad manners; it’s a spiritual
transgression. Bhatt repeatedly uses the word “sin”, a term typically
associated with religious or spiritual wrongdoing, to highlight how
profoundly sacred the act of reading and learning is in her cultural
context.​
“You must learn how to turn the pages gently / without disturbing
Sarasvati.”​
This reinforces the belief that the pursuit of knowledge is a spiritual
act, requiring humility, care, and reverence. It's the antithesis of
 secular approaches that treat knowledge as a commodity, a tool for
utility rather than a divine pursuit.

In contrast, Bhatt presents colonialism as a force of secular violence — cold,

rational, and disconnected from any spiritual ethos. This shift is evident in the
tone and imagery of the second stanza:

“after the torture, / after the soul has been cropped / with a long scythe
swooping out / of the conqueror’s face.”​
The imagery of the “scythe” — a cold, mechanistic, harvesting tool —
represents secular domination that reduces the soul (the spiritual
essence of a people or culture) to nothing. There's no room for gods,
reverence, or nature here — only efficiency, control, and linguistic
domination.

Furthermore, Bhatt interrogates the complex relationship between language and

spirituality. She asks:

“Which language / has not been the oppressor’s tongue?”​

This rhetorical question highlights the loss of cultural and spiritual
identity when colonised people are forced to adopt the language of
their oppressors. Language, in Bhatt’s view, is not neutral — it carries
the spirit or absence of spirit within it. The act of speaking English, a
language that once tried to erase indigenous cultures, becomes
spiritually confusing:​
“the unborn grandchildren / grow to love that strange language.”​
This image captures the inner conflict of post-colonial identity —
caught between a spiritual heritage and a secular language that
once attempted to erase it. Bhatt herself writes in English, which
makes the poem an act of reclamation — using a secular, coloniser’s
tongue to reassert a spiritual worldview.

Bhatt’s structure and diction also reflect this tension. The gentle, reverent tone
of the first stanza — full of spiritual imagery and flowing syntax — shifts into the
more disrupted, fragmented tone of the second, where the lines become
shorter, the language sharper, and the imagery darker. This stylistic contrast
mirrors the thematic clash between spirituality and secularism, between
reverence and violence, between India and the colonisers.
Finally, the poem’s title A Different History encapsulates Bhatt’s broader
argument. She is offering a counter-narrative to secular, Western accounts of
progress and civilisation. In this “different history,” gods are alive, trees are
sacred, and books are divine. The title itself challenges the assumption that
secular modernity is the only path forward — instead, Bhatt suggests that a
spiritually rooted culture may hold deeper truths and more humane values.

Conclusion

In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt explores the tension between spirituality and
secularism with nuance and conviction. By presenting Indian culture as deeply
spiritual — where even books and trees are revered — and contrasting it with the
cold, mechanistic violence of colonial secularism, Bhatt critiques the loss of
sacred meaning in modern life. She mourns what is lost when reverence is
replaced by rationalism, and when languages are stripped of soul. Ultimately, the
poem becomes a call to reclaim the spiritual roots of identity, knowledge,
and culture — even in a world forever marked by colonial scars.

Line-by-line Explanation and Analysis of “A Different

History”​
​
Lines 1-3

“Great Pan is not dead;​

he simply emigrated​
to India.”

In the first three lines of Sujata Bhatt’s poem A Different History, the poet delivers
a deceptively simple yet thematically profound statement:

“Great Pan is not dead;​

he simply emigrated​
to India.”
These three lines function not only as the introduction to the poem but as a
symbolic manifesto for the poem’s central arguments around post-colonial
identity, cultural displacement, spiritual resilience, and the reframing of
dominant narratives. Bhatt's employment of classical mythology, minimalist
structure, symbolic language, and subversive diction creates a compact yet
loaded passage that sets the tone for the poem’s exploration of colonial history
and cultural continuity. This essay will unpack these three lines with close
attention to their thematic richness, phonetic architecture, symbolic implications,
and structural innovation.

🔍 Interpretation and Thematic Significance

At the heart of these lines is the rejection of the Western narrative of cultural
death. The opening line — “Great Pan is not dead;” — alludes directly to the
widespread notion in Western literary tradition that Pan, the Greek god of the wild
and nature, died with the rise of monotheism and scientific rationalism. The death
of Pan is famously associated with the decline of paganism and the rise of
industrial, rationalist ideologies that marginalized nature and myth. Bhatt
resists this narrative by affirming that Pan has not died; instead, he has
“emigrated to India.” This relocation of the god challenges the idea of spiritual
extinction and asserts India as a surviving space of myth, reverence, and
cultural continuity.

Thematically, these lines serve as a powerful post-colonial reclamation. Rather

than framing the colonized as cultural or spiritual victims, Bhatt reframes India as
a sanctuary — a place that absorbs, protects, and sustains sacred energies that
the West has abandoned. This reversal situates India as an enduring vessel of
ancient knowledge and spiritual legitimacy, undermining colonial discourses
of superiority. The lines also touch upon cultural displacement. Pan’s
“emigration” is symbolic of the larger diaspora of cultural beliefs, spiritual
ideologies, and even people displaced by colonization — not in a mournful
sense, but in a quietly subversive and empowering one.

🔊 Phonetic Features and Sound Patterns

Though minimal in length, the first three lines display deliberate sound control
that supports their tone and message. The phrase “Great Pan” uses plosive
consonants — the /g/ in “Great” and /p/ in “Pan” — which give the line a strong,
declarative opening. The boldness of these sounds underscores the importance
of the figure being introduced. “Great Pan is not dead” ends with the stressed
word “dead,” creating a heavy finality, only to be undercut in the following line
with a softening: “he simply emigrated.” The use of the word “simply” introduces
sibilance through the /s/ sounds, and this soft tone contrasts with the weight of
the previous line. It creates a feeling of quiet defiance — as though Bhatt is
correcting a misunderstanding, gently but firmly.

The musicality of these lines mimics the rhythm of a spoken myth or a parable,
as if being passed on in an oral tradition. This sonic texture aligns with one of the
poem’s deeper critiques: that Western literary culture often underestimates
the power of oral, spiritual, and non-written knowledge systems.

🧠 Extended Interpretation and Symbolism

Each of the three elements introduced in the opening — Pan, emigration, and
India — is loaded with symbolic depth. Pan is more than just a figure from Greek
mythology; he embodies wildness, music, sexuality, and untamed nature. In
classical tradition, Pan was not just a god but a symbol of pre-Christian
spiritual disorder and freedom. By suggesting that Pan now lives in India,
Bhatt proposes that India has become the custodian of uncolonized, untamed,
spiritual knowledge.

The act of emigration itself is deeply symbolic. “He simply emigrated” implies
voluntary movement, not forced exile or death. It gives agency to Pan, and by
extension to indigenous cultures — they are not passively wiped out; they adapt,
shift, and persist elsewhere. This mirrors the diasporic reality of many
colonized people, who, though displaced, carry their beliefs and identity with
them across borders.

Finally, the placement of “to India” at the end of the stanza, heavily indented and
spatially set apart from the rest, serves as a visual and conceptual anchor.
India is not just a country here; it is a symbol of survival, resistance, and
sacred continuity. Its isolated placement mimics the process of migration —
Pan, and all he represents, is not dead but has relocated — a powerful statement
about the transmission of cultural energy across time and geography.

🧱 Structural Techniques
Bhatt’s manipulation of spatial form is one of the most striking elements of the
opening. The first line is left-aligned and straightforward: “Great Pan is not dead.”
The second line drops slightly and gently declares, “he simply emigrated.” Then,
in a bold visual move, the third line — “to India” — is deeply indented, almost
marginalized, yet placed deliberately to draw the reader’s eye. This visual shift
mirrors the journey of emigration itself, moving across space, across the page,
much like a migrant might move across cultural and political borders.

This spatial dislocation is not chaotic but intentional, mimicking both the
displacement and realignment of belief systems. The structural layout also forces
the reader to pause, reflect, and reposition their own gaze — mimicking the shift
in worldview that Bhatt wants to inspire. The third line becomes a destination,
both literally and metaphorically. It’s as if the poem is physically saying: “Look
over here — this is where the story continues.”

🧩 Conclusion
In only three short lines, Sujata Bhatt accomplishes what many poets take entire
volumes to do. She challenges dominant Western narratives about the death of
spiritualism, revives an ancient pagan god, reclaims colonized space as
spiritually alive, and introduces major themes such as displacement, cultural
survival, and postcolonial reclamation of identity. Through rich symbolism,
phonetic grace, and structural precision, Bhatt’s opening lines to A Different
History become an act of poetic decolonization — a reminder that cultural
extinction is a myth written by the victors, and that spiritual history is not erased,
but simply emigrated — and waiting to be re-found.

​
Lines 4-5​
​
“Here, the gods roam freely,​
disguised as snakes or monkeys;”

Sujata Bhatt’s poem A Different History is a powerful meditation on the

preservation of culture and spiritual continuity in the aftermath of colonial
conquest. Following the provocative claim that the Greek god Pan “emigrated to
India,” the poem shifts into a broader commentary on India’s unique relationship
with the divine. In the lines:

“Here, the gods roam freely,​

disguised as snakes or monkeys;”

Bhatt conveys the idea that in India, divinity is omnipresent, democratic, and
embedded within the natural and animal world. These two lines work in tandem
to extend the poem’s challenge to Western rationalism and secularism by
highlighting the integration of spirituality into everyday life in Indian culture.
Through mythological symbolism, sound patterning, and a subversion of
conventional religious imagery, Bhatt critiques Western detachment from the
sacred while elevating the pluralistic and pantheistic elements of Indian tradition.

🔍 Interpretation and Thematic Significance

The statement “Here, the gods roam freely” functions as both an observation
and a celebration. The word “Here” emphasizes spatial contrast—this is not the
West, where gods are distant, institutionalized, or dead; this is India, where
divinity roams—a word that implies freedom, movement, and accessibility. It
challenges the Western dichotomy of sacred vs. profane. In India, the spiritual is
not quarantined to temples or doctrines; it exists within life itself—fluid, animate,
and ever-present.

Bhatt’s use of "disguised as snakes or monkeys" deepens this idea. The line
refers to specific deities in Hindu tradition: snakes evoke Nag deities and even
Shiva, who wears a serpent around his neck, while monkeys immediately
suggest Hanuman, the monkey god known for strength, loyalty, and divinity.
However, Bhatt intentionally uses the word “disguised,” suggesting that the
sacred may not appear as the grand or the majestic, but rather in forms that the
colonizer might dismiss as savage or primitive.

This concept embodies one of the poem’s major themes: resistance to colonial
erasure through spiritual resilience. In cultures where even animals are
revered as gods, the colonial insistence on hierarchy, control, and secular
supremacy collapses. Bhatt shows how spirituality in India is not dependent on
textual authority or institutional religion but is instead embedded within
nature, mythology, and collective consciousness.

🧠 Symbolism and Extended Interpretation

The snake and the monkey function here as powerful dual symbols:

●​ Snakes, while feared in many Western traditions (often linked with evil,
e.g., the Biblical serpent), are revered in Hinduism. They represent cycles
of life, fertility, transformation, and cosmic energy (kundalini). Their
presence as divine beings challenges Eurocentric ideas of good vs. evil
and exposes the cultural relativism of symbolism.​

●​ Monkeys symbolize not just mischief or animal instinct, but divine heroism.
Hanuman, a monkey god, is a central figure in the Ramayana and
symbolizes unwavering devotion, courage, and purity of intent. In the
West, monkeys are often associated with mockery, evolution debates, or
lesser beings, but Bhatt flips that entirely — what is profane in one
system is sacred in another.​

Through these symbols, Bhatt calls out the colonial mindset that dismissed Hindu
mythology as chaotic or “irrational.” Instead, she asserts that Indian spirituality
accepts complex, paradoxical representations of the divine, including
animals, forests, and other natural forms, making it far richer and more inclusive.

🔊 Phonetic Features and Sound Patterns

Phonetically, Bhatt’s choice of soft, flowing consonants in “gods roam freely” uses
liquid /r/ and /l/ sounds, evoking a sense of freedom and ease—mirroring the
very idea of the gods roaming. The phrase is aurally gentle and unrestricted,
contrasting with harsher, more clipped tones often associated with formal
religious dogma. This soft soundscape creates an almost musical, meditative
quality, reinforcing the spiritual openness being described.

The word “disguised” breaks that softness with its harsher plosive /d/ and
fricative /z/, introducing a slight tension. It subtly suggests that there’s a hidden
layer, something to be noticed only by those who are culturally attuned. The line
requires the reader to read beyond appearances—a commentary, perhaps, on
how colonial powers failed to understand the cultures they attempted to
dominate.

🧱 Structural Techniques and Placement

These lines are placed right after the indented, climactic phrase “to India,”
making them feel like a continuation of the revelation. The enjambment
between “freely,” and “disguised” allows the sentence to flow uninterrupted,
mirroring the uninterrupted presence of divinity in Indian life. There's no
caesura or punctuation between the two lines, symbolizing the seamless fusion
of spiritual and natural realms.

Moreover, Bhatt uses minimal punctuation and lets the imagery do the structural
work. The line break acts as a pause of wonder, inviting the reader to
contemplate the sheer peculiarity and profundity of the idea that gods can be
both sacred and animalistic—both visible and invisible.

🧩 Conclusion
In these two lines, Bhatt weaves together myth, culture, and postcolonial
critique. She defends indigenous spirituality not with argument, but with image
— showing that the sacred survives not in monuments or books alone, but in the
natural world, the overlooked, the animal. Through the gods “roaming freely,
disguised as snakes or monkeys,” Bhatt not only affirms the resilience of Indian
belief systems but also offers a quiet yet radical critique of colonial
assumptions about what constitutes the divine. These lines serve as an
invitation to recognize sanctity in the mundane and to reclaim the sacredness
of one’s own culture, even when it has been obscured by conquest.​
​
Lines 6-8​
​
"every tree is sacred​
and it is a sin​
to be rude to a book."

Sujata Bhatt’s A Different History continues to unravel the intricate web of Indian
spiritual and cultural identity in the shadow of colonial trauma. In the lines:

“every tree is sacred​

and it is a sin​
to be rude to a book.”

Bhatt offers a profound insight into the Indian worldview—one that resists the
objectification of nature and the commodification of knowledge. These lines
intertwine environmental sanctity, intellectual reverence, and cultural ethics,
while also subtly critiquing Western utilitarianism. Through simple diction but
profound implication, Bhatt reframes the mundane—trees and books—as sacred
entities deserving of moral respect.

🌱 Interpretation and Thematic Significance

The first line, “every tree is sacred,” is not merely a poetic sentiment. It’s a
philosophical stance rooted deeply in Indian religious and cultural
traditions—especially in Hinduism, Jainism, and Buddhism, where trees are
often personified, deified, or seen as abodes of spirits and gods. The word
“every” is crucial here: it’s not just some trees or special trees—it’s all trees,
indiscriminately. This egalitarian sanctity of nature stands in sharp contrast to the
colonial attitude of resource extraction, deforestation, and profit.

By declaring that “it is a sin to be rude to a book,” Bhatt draws a direct ethical
parallel between nature and knowledge. The word “sin” evokes religious and
moral codes—implying that these are not merely social conventions but acts with
spiritual weight. In Indian culture, books (especially sacred texts and
instruments of learning) are revered. Touching them with the feet, mishandling
them, or treating them disrespectfully is considered an insult to Sarasvati, the
goddess of learning.

Thus, Bhatt is making a thematic assertion: books are made of trees, and both
are sacred. They are not to be consumed carelessly or treated as disposable. In
this way, Bhatt elevates learning and ecology as intertwined domains of
reverence, ethics, and identity.

🧠 Symbolism and Cultural Layers

Let’s unpack the two core symbols here:

●​ Trees: In Indian tradition, trees symbolize life, fertility, shelter, and the
divine. The Bodhi tree, under which the Buddha attained enlightenment,
is one powerful example. In Bhatt’s context, trees are living temples—not
raw materials to be stripped but entities to be honored. By stating “every
tree,” she democratizes sanctity, offering resistance to colonial logics of
categorization and resource exploitation.​

●​ Books: Beyond being vessels of knowledge, books are also symbolic of

cultural memory. In the context of colonialism, language and literature
were used as tools of domination—but Bhatt is reclaiming books as
sacred, provided they’re approached with respect and humility. To be
rude to a book is not just bad manners; it’s a violation of cultural reverence.​

These symbols also overlap—books are made of trees. This creates a layered
metaphor: when one disrespects a book, they’re also disrespecting the tree that
gave its material form. This interconnectedness is central to Indian philosophy
and sharply contrasts with Western compartmentalization.

🎧 Phonetic and Sound Features

Bhatt’s soundscape in these lines is quiet, almost reverent. The soft consonants
and open vowels in “every tree is sacred” slow the line down, making the reader
pause and absorb the solemnity. The repetition of ‘s’ sounds (“sacred,” “sin”)
provides a hissing, whisper-like quality that evokes spiritual hush or temple
silence.

“Rude to a book” uses harder plosives—‘d’ and ‘b’—disrupting that silence. It

sounds slightly jarring, as if mimicking the very disrespect it warns against. This
contrast between sound softness and sound harshness mirrors the moral
contrast between reverence and rudeness.

📐 Structural Techniques and Emphasis

Bhatt’s choice to place each idea on a separate line increases its weight and
emphasis. These are not flowing enjambments but deliberate, declarative
statements. It mimics the format of sacred texts or commandments, almost
like a mantra or moral code. The lack of punctuation also creates a ritualistic,
uninterrupted rhythm, forcing the reader to move slowly and reverently through
the ideas.

Visually, the poem mimics temple steps—each line a step toward enlightenment,
deeper meaning, or ethical clarity.

🧩 Conclusion
These three lines in A Different History are a microcosm of the poem’s central
argument: that Indian spiritual and ethical traditions resist colonial
devaluation of the natural world and knowledge. Bhatt links the ecological
(trees) and the intellectual (books) through a shared lens of sacredness. In
doing so, she not only critiques the colonial mindset of objectification but also
reclaims Indigenous values that honor connection, humility, and respect.
The poem becomes a manifesto of cultural memory and moral resistance,
using poetry to remind us that to harm knowledge or nature is not merely
careless—it is a spiritual violation.​
​
Lines 9-10​
​
“It is a sin to shove a book aside​
with your foot,”​
​
Interpretation and Thematic Significance

Sujata Bhatt’s use of language in these two lines is deceptively plain, but under
the surface, it operates with potent cultural and moral weight. These lines fuse
personal reverence, postcolonial reflection, and a linguistic layering of
emotion, creating a moment that transcends the literal and confronts the reader
with a quiet yet forceful ethical stance.

Thematically, these lines anchor the tension between sacredness and

sacrilege, especially regarding knowledge and cultural identity. In Indian
tradition—particularly within Hindu philosophy—books are not inert objects but
manifestations of divine knowledge, linked to Sarasvati, the goddess of
learning. Bhatt captures this sentiment by calling the act of mistreating a book a
“sin.” This single word carries profound religious, moral, and cultural
significance. In Western secular contexts, disrespecting a book might be seen
as bad manners. But Bhatt’s diction elevates it to the level of a spiritual
violation, tying it directly to the ethical framework of Indian cosmology.

This use of loaded language is deliberate. The term “sin” has heavy
Judeo-Christian connotations, yet Bhatt uses it to describe a distinctly
non-Western worldview. This cross-cultural borrowing may seem ironic at first,
but it's strategic—it bridges the gap between East and West, allowing Western
readers to grasp the moral seriousness of the offense in terms they instinctively
recognize, while still remaining rooted in Eastern philosophy. It shows how
language becomes a tool for cultural translation—not just in conveying ideas,
but in conveying values.

The verb “shove” is also semantically rich. It’s not neutral like “move” or “slide.”
“Shove” implies force, aggression, and disrespect. It introduces an element of
violence—a jarring physicality. The speaker isn’t merely talking about a careless
act; she’s pointing to an act that enacts dominance and rejection, mirroring
colonial attitudes toward native traditions. In that sense, “shove” functions as a
symbol of postcolonial contempt, reflecting how colonized peoples may now
unconsciously enact the same dismissiveness once imposed on them.
The phrase “aside with your foot” rounds out the image. The foot in Indian
culture is the lowest, least pure part of the body, and touching sacred objects
with it is taboo. Bhatt’s choice to place this phrase on its own line emphasizes its
symbolic isolation—the literal and figurative pushing away of sacred tradition.
Moreover, this spatial separation visually mirrors the emotional and cultural
dislocation caused by the colonization of minds and practices. Language, again,
does more than describe—it performs meaning.

Syntactically, Bhatt’s sentence structure mirrors the tone of moral

instruction—“It is a sin…”—as if extracted from a sacred text or religious
commandment. This syntactic mimicry turns the line into a kind of modern
scripture, invoking an ancestral voice that warns the reader of spiritual decay.
This is where language becomes thematic: Bhatt uses structure, diction, and
tone to remind us that in a world where colonization has desacralized culture,
language must reclaim reverence.

In these two lines, Bhatt subtly critiques the way colonized societies have
absorbed the instrumental, utilitarian view of language and books—as tools,
objects, commodities—rather than treating them as sacred links to memory and
identity. Her poetic language seeks to undo this damage, restoring a sense of
awe and moral responsibility.

Phonetic Features and Sound Patterns

Bhatt’s sound choices in this line mirror the emotional tone she aims to evoke.
The phrase begins softly with “It is a sin,” where the use of sibilance (the
repeated “s” sounds) creates a hissing, almost whisper-like tone. This quietness
mimics reverence, but also introduces an undercurrent of guilt and shame.

The word “shove” disrupts this softness. It is abrupt and aggressive, with the
hard “sh” and voiced “v” producing a harsh break in the rhythm. The phonetics
here match the violence of the action being described. Unlike gentler alternatives
like “push” or “nudge,” “shove” connotes force, disrespect, and
indifference—qualities antithetical to the sacredness previously established.

Finally, the phrase “with your foot” returns to softer consonants, but the
semantic weight lingers. The foot, symbolically and phonetically, grounds the
phrase in the profane, contrasting sharply with the spiritual tone earlier in the
poem. This phonetic interplay between soft reverence and harsh violation
reinforces the theme of spiritual desecration through careless materialism.

Extended Interpretation and Symbolism

This brief passage is saturated with symbolic depth:

●​ The Book: Represents knowledge, tradition, heritage, and even divinity

in Bhatt’s poem. In Indian culture, stepping on a book is akin to
disrespecting Sarasvati herself. Therefore, the book functions as a symbol
of cultural continuity, a carrier of not only facts but spiritual wisdom. The
careless act of “shoving” it aside symbolizes the rejection or erasure of
this heritage.​

●​ The Foot: Universally, the foot is associated with impurity, lowliness, or the
profane. In many cultures, especially in South Asia, the foot is never used
to point, touch, or engage with sacred things. Thus, to move a book “with
your foot” is to debase the sacred. Symbolically, the foot in this line stands
in for the violence of cultural domination, the physical and ideological
trampling of traditions by colonizers and, later, by those who adopt their
values.​

●​ Shoving: The verb “shove” implies a lack of care or violence, further

deepening the metaphor. It’s not just about the act, but about the attitude
behind it—disregard, impatience, even contempt. This connects with the
Western colonial dismissal of Eastern thought as “primitive” or
“superstitious,” as well as with the growing modern impulse to value speed
and utility over reverence and mindfulness.​

Together, these symbols form a tapestry of postcolonial angst. Bhatt is not just
commenting on Indian tradition—she is warning against the cultural amnesia
that occurs when people forget why those traditions mattered in the first place.
Structural Techniques and Visual Layout

One of the most striking elements of these lines is their visual structure on the
page. The phrase “with your foot” is pushed far to the right margin, isolated
from the rest of the sentence. This spatial arrangement is not accidental. It
visually enacts the very act of shoving—as if the words themselves have
been “pushed aside.”

This clever use of typographic displacement serves several purposes:

1.​ Mimetic Structure: The physical layout mimics the semantic content. The
poem itself becomes performative, enacting the violation it describes.​

2.​ Isolation and Shame: The line’s distance from the rest of the sentence
mirrors the moral and cultural distance between reverence and casual
disrespect. It feels exiled—mirroring how spiritual values have been exiled
in modern secular education.​

3.​ Emphasis through Fragmentation: The breaking of the line

mid-sentence forces the reader to pause before landing on “with your foot,”
adding suspense and emphasis. The emotional blow of the final phrase
lands harder because it comes after a momentary hesitation.​

This spatial manipulation ties in with Bhatt’s broader poetic method—using free
verse and unconventional alignment to disrupt the reader’s expectations,
prompting a more conscious, reflective reading experience.

Lines 11-12​
​
“a sin to slam books down​
hard on a table,”​
​
In Sujata Bhatt’s poem A Different History, the poet constructs a complex
interplay between reverence and desecration, sacredness and profanation,
culture and erasure. One of the most charged lines in the poem, “a sin to slam
books down / hard on a table,” exemplifies this interplay through its multifaceted
symbolism, phonetic design, structural placement, and cultural allusion. This line,
while deceptively simple on the surface, encapsulates a critical moment of
thematic and emotional gravity within the poem. It foregrounds the themes of
reverence for knowledge, postcolonial loss, cultural conditioning, and spiritual
dissonance.

Interpretation and Thematic Significance

At the heart of this line lies a deep cultural reverence for books. In Indian
traditions, books are often treated with the utmost respect, sometimes even
worshipped as symbols of Sarasvati, the goddess of knowledge. To place a book
on the ground, step on it, or handle it violently is seen not merely as disrespectful
but as spiritually defiling. The use of the word “sin” carries heavy moral and
religious connotations, elevating the act from a social impropriety to an ethical
and even metaphysical violation. In this sense, Bhatt is not only highlighting the
importance of cultural values around learning but also using the line as a critique
of how modern, Westernised practices have led to a desacralisation of what was
once deeply venerated.

This line also continues the poem’s exploration of colonial and postcolonial
identity. The action of slamming a book can be read metaphorically as a
reflection of colonial violence against indigenous knowledge systems. Books,
which in the past were handwritten and passed down across generations as
sacred texts, have been commodified, mass-produced, and often associated with
colonial languages and pedagogies. The aggressive gesture of “slamming”
becomes a symbol of both literal and figurative domination: the coloniser
imposing their will onto native traditions and the postcolonial subject unwittingly
internalising that aggression.

Phonetic Features and Sound Patterns

Phonetically, the line is composed of sharp, monosyllabic words that create a

jarring rhythm: “slam,” “books,” “down,” “hard,” “table.” The repeated use of
plosive consonants (/b/, /d/, /t/) mimics the percussive impact of the slamming
gesture itself. This is a brilliant example of onomatopoeic resonance, where
sound and sense align to reinforce meaning. The sonic harshness mirrors the
violence of the act, creating an auditory discomfort in the reader that mirrors the
spiritual and cultural discomfort being described.
The stress pattern further emphasises the force of the gesture. The word “slam”
naturally takes a strong stress, as does “hard,” creating a kind of aural blow to
the ear. The heaviness of the consonants combined with the abrupt rhythm
induces a visceral reaction, as though the reader themselves were subjected to
or complicit in the act of desecration.

Extended Symbolism and Cultural Resonance

Books in this poem are symbolic of far more than their textual content; they
represent accumulated wisdom, cultural continuity, spiritual inheritance, and
identity. Slamming a book down is not just disrespectful to the object itself but to
what it embodies: centuries of tradition, divinity, and collective memory. By
showing the book as a victim of such casual violence, Bhatt implicitly critiques
how colonial and postcolonial societies have devalued indigenous systems of
knowledge in favour of Eurocentric paradigms.

Moreover, the table—a common object of modern domesticity or institutional

education—stands in stark contrast to the organic, natural symbols earlier in the
poem (trees, snakes, monkeys). Placing the book “hard on a table” moves it out
of the sacred realm into a profane, material one. The table may also symbolise
the Western classroom, the site where colonial education took place, often in
English, thereby displacing native languages and epistemologies. In this reading,
the book is not just mishandled physically but also recontextualised ideologically:
stripped of its sacred aura and made a tool of intellectual colonisation.

Structural Techniques and Visual Layout

Structurally, the line is visually broken into two parts. The enjambment between
“slam books down” and “hard on a table” mirrors the literal motion of slamming,
with the force of the action spilling over the line break. This layout reflects the
impact and finality of the act, lending a kinetic force to the textual form. It also
introduces a pause between the action and its consequence, creating a dramatic
tension that compels the reader to anticipate the effect.

Additionally, the indentation of “hard on a table” (as seen in the poem's original
formatting) creates a visual drop. This visual technique mimics the falling motion
of the book and lends weight to the line, both literally and metaphorically. It
isolates the act of impact, making it visually jarring, much like the action it
describes. The indented line also separates the consequence from the initial sin,
which mirrors how cultural violations often appear casual or unintentional, yet
their effects are deeply disruptive and isolating.

Diction, Syntax, and Tone

The diction is deliberately plain and unadorned, making the message stark and
immediate. The verb “slam” is active and violent, connoting force without thought.
The phrase “hard on a table” is clinical in its description, further emphasising the
disconnection between action and reverence. This contrasts sharply with the
gentle, sacred tone used elsewhere in the poem (e.g., “learn how to turn the
pages gently”), thereby heightening the sense of violation.

The syntax is abrupt, comprising mostly monosyllables, which speeds up the

reading and delivers the idea with an unrelenting punch. This syntactical
briskness mirrors the suddenness of the action being described, reinforcing its
violence. The tone is implicitly critical, laced with lamentation for a lost sensibility
that once revered knowledge as divine.

Conclusion

In this potent line, Sujata Bhatt uses minimal language to evoke maximal
significance. Through her poetic mastery, she turns an everyday gesture into a
loaded symbol of postcolonial desecration, spiritual loss, and cultural alienation.
The act of slamming a book becomes a metaphor for the internalised violence of
colonised minds, the reduction of sacred texts into mundane objects, and the
erasure of traditional reverence under the weight of modernity. Phonetic force,
structural ingenuity, cultural resonance, and symbolic density combine to make
this line one of the poem’s most striking encapsulations of its central themes.
Ultimately, Bhatt invites the reader not just to reconsider how they treat books,
but to reflect on how they treat the cultures, values, and identities those books
represent.

​
​
Lines 13-14​
​
“a sin to toss one carelessly​
across a room.”​
​
In Sujata Bhatt’s provocative postcolonial poem A Different History, the poet
explores the tension between inherited cultural reverence and modern, often
Westernised, indifference. One of the most visually and thematically potent
moments of the poem emerges in the lines:

“a sin to toss one carelessly / across a room.”

Though deceptively simple, this couplet functions as a microcosm of Bhatt’s

broader concerns: the loss of sacredness, the erosion of indigenous values, and
the spiritual consequences of cultural negligence. Through her strategic use of
diction, spatial arrangement, sound, and symbolism, Bhatt dramatizes the act of
throwing a book as a metaphor for the violent rupture between tradition and
modernity.

Interpretation and Thematic Significance

These lines are the culmination of a series of assertions wherein the poet insists
on the sanctity of books and, by extension, knowledge, tradition, and identity. In
the Indian context, influenced by Hinduism and centuries of spiritual philosophy,
books are not just utilitarian objects—they are vessels of divine knowledge. They
are, as earlier lines make clear, associated with Sarasvati, the Hindu goddess of
wisdom. Thus, the act of tossing a book is not merely impolite—it becomes a
“sin”, a moral and spiritual transgression.

The term “sin” carries a loaded significance here. It is a word that evokes
religious consequence, guilt, and cosmic imbalance. By declaring the act of
tossing a book a sin, Bhatt immediately elevates the cultural violation into the
realm of ethical crisis. She is not merely discussing etiquette but questioning
how far we have drifted from values that once treated knowledge as sacred.

The choice of “carelessly” is especially damning. It implies not active malice,

but indifference—arguably worse in Bhatt’s poetic worldview. Carelessness
suggests a learned apathy, the gradual numbing of reverence brought about by
colonial displacement and cultural amnesia. There is no rage, no conscious
rejection—just an internalised erosion of value. In this way, Bhatt critiques the
legacy of colonial education systems, which trained the colonised to adopt
Western attitudes toward literature, history, and religion, often at the expense of
their own.

This symbolic tossing of a book becomes a postcolonial metaphor: the

careless discarding of one’s language, culture, and ancestral wisdom under
the invisible hand of colonisation, even long after formal independence. It
captures what Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o refers to as the “colonial alienation of the
mind”—the tragic ease with which the colonised begin to see their own heritage
as disposable.

Phonetic Features and Sound Patterns

Bhatt’s minimalist style belies the depth of her sonic control. The line “a sin to
toss one carelessly” is rich with soft fricative consonants—particularly the
repetition of the “s” sound in “sin,” “toss,” and “carelessly.” This creates a
hissing, wind-like quality, subtly echoing the act of a book slicing through air.
It’s almost onomatopoeic: the sound feels careless, loose, and airborne.

Furthermore, the consonance in “toss” and “across” contributes to a rhythmic

symmetry. These words are physically and phonetically linked, just as the action
and its consequence are inseparable. The open vowel sounds in “carelessly”
and “across” also evoke a sense of breathiness and loss—appropriate for the
theme of cultural dissipation. This is sound work not for euphony but for
embodied metaphor: the form literally enacts the theme.

Structural Techniques and Visual Arrangement

Bhatt’s use of free verse allows for tremendous expressive freedom, which she
employs with architectural precision. The indentation of the second line
(“across a room”) is visually symbolic. The phrase is physically tossed across
the page, mimicking the very motion it describes. This is a rare instance of form
enacting content, a hallmark of sophisticated poetry. The words are literally
thrown forward—displaced on the page just as knowledge has been displaced in
the cultural imagination.
Moreover, enjambment plays a crucial role in shaping the emotional impact of
the stanza. The break after “carelessly” forces a pause, a moment of discomfort.
The reader is held in suspense, dwelling on the casual cruelty of the action
before learning its full scope. This mimics the rhythm of realisation—we first feel
the tone, then grasp the damage.

Notably, Bhatt refrains from using punctuation. This creates a continuous, flowing
rhythm that suggests an unstoppable, unconscious chain of actions. There is
no full stop, no self-awareness, no interruption—just the smooth, effortless
dismissal of something once held sacred.

Extended Interpretation and Symbolism

In symbolic terms, the book stands not only for learning but for collective
memory, identity, and cultural legacy. To “toss” it suggests the rejection—or
worse, the neglect—of these elements. The action occurs “across a room,” a
mundane setting that sharpens the metaphor. The room here may symbolise the
home, the nation, or the self—a place where values are meant to be
internalised, respected, and protected. Yet even in this most intimate of spaces,
sacred knowledge is mistreated. This drives home the poet’s central concern: the
loss is not external anymore; it is internalised.

The implied actor is anonymous. Who tosses the book? The vagueness of
agency invites the reader to reflect inward. It is not the coloniser who now
discards the sacred—it is the colonised, conditioned by years of cultural
domination and epistemic violence, who performs the act. This is the final
victory of colonialism: when the oppressed begin to self-police their own
erasure.

Conclusion

In these two lines, Bhatt achieves an extraordinary layering of meaning. Through

deceptively simple language, precise form, and powerful symbolism, she draws
attention to the spiritual cost of postcolonial detachment. The act of carelessly
tossing a book becomes a metonym for a much larger crime: the abandonment
of culture, the desecration of knowledge, and the quiet internalisation of
inferiority. What appears to be a casual, even forgettable moment in a poem is in
fact a devastating indictment of our times. Bhatt’s poetry, in its restraint and
clarity, reminds us that some of the greatest losses occur not through
violence—but through indifference.

Lines 15-16​
​
“You must learn how to turn the pages gently​
without disturbing Sarasvati,”​
​
Interpretation and Thematic Significance

At first glance, the imperative “You must learn how to turn the pages gently” may
appear to be a simple lesson in manners or care. However, within the broader
context of the poem, this statement operates as a cultural injunction, a
restoration of reverence for books not merely as tools for literacy but as sacred
embodiments of knowledge.

The speaker’s voice adopts a didactic tone—“You must learn”—which is both

personal and collective. It addresses an audience that has perhaps forgotten or
been disconnected from indigenous practices of reverence due to colonial
education and Western secularism. This is a direct attempt to rebuild lost
cultural consciousness. The verb “learn” implies that this isn’t instinctual
anymore; the respect once embedded in culture must now be re-acquired
deliberately, possibly by generations raised in a post-colonial, Westernized
framework.

Turning the pages “gently” is a metaphor for a more profound philosophy of

interaction with knowledge—one that emphasizes humility, patience, and
gratitude, rather than dominance or efficiency. The line contrasts with the earlier
references in the poem to the “sins” of slamming books or tossing them,
highlighting how colonial influence introduced a utilitarian and even violent
relationship with learning.

The second half, “without disturbing Sarasvati,” expands the line’s scope from
mere etiquette to spiritual transgression. Sarasvati is not a casual reference;
she is the Hindu goddess of wisdom, music, speech, and learning. By invoking
her directly, Bhatt elevates the act of reading or studying into a sacred ritual.
Here, the page is not just a material object but a spiritual portal, and careless
interaction with it becomes not just irreverent, but profane.

Thus, these lines illuminate the deep interconnection between knowledge,

spirituality, and culture in Indian tradition—an interconnection that colonial
systems attempted to sever by framing education as purely secular, mechanical,
and language-based.

Language and Diction

Bhatt’s choice of words in this couplet is precise and intentional. “Gently” is a key
adverb here—not just describing motion, but tone and attitude. It evokes
softness, awareness, and care, implying an emotional as well as physical
dimension to the act. The contrast to earlier phrases like “slam” or “toss” creates
a tension between violence and grace, force and delicacy—mirroring the
tension between colonial and indigenous ways of engaging with books and
knowledge.

The phrase “without disturbing” is loaded with reverent restraint. It implies that
Sarasvati is present—not in myth, but in the room, in the book, in the act of
reading. Bhatt subtly asserts an animistic or pantheistic worldview, where the
divine resides in the ordinary, and spiritual presence permeates material reality.
This outlook is diametrically opposed to colonial epistemologies that
demythologized and desacralized the world.

Sarasvati’s name is left untranslated, unglossed. Bhatt does not offer a footnote,
nor does she apologize for invoking a non-Western deity. This choice is
powerfully decolonial: the expectation is on the reader—particularly the
Anglophone, Western reader—to bridge the knowledge gap. This reversal of the
colonial gaze positions Indian culture not as the exotic Other but as the norm,
the source, the sacred.

Extended Interpretation and Symbolism

Sarasvati, as a symbol, operates on multiple levels:

 1.​ Cultural Reclamation: In colonial contexts, Western education sought to
overwrite or marginalize indigenous spiritual systems. Sarasvati’s inclusion
reclaims the sacred foundation of Indian knowledge, reminding readers
that books and learning were not introduced by the British but have long
been part of India’s intellectual and spiritual heritage.​

2.​ Resistance to Secularization: The colonial project often reframed

education in entirely secular, utilitarian terms. By embedding Sarasvati
within the act of reading, Bhatt re-sacralizes the act of learning and
rejects the Western binary of sacred vs. secular.​

3.​ Feminine Divine: Sarasvati is also a female deity, and her presence subtly
underscores the feminization of wisdom and cultural memory. This
counters not only colonial hierarchies but also patriarchal frameworks that
dominate many educational institutions.​

4.​ Embodied Knowledge: Sarasvati is not abstract; she is within the book,
potentially disturbed by a careless page-turn. This suggests that true
knowledge is not disembodied, clinical, or cold. It is sensitive, sacred, and
alive.​

Sound Patterns and Phonetic Features

Bhatt’s soundscape here is deliberate and poetic. The line is dominated by soft
consonants and long vowel sounds—/l/, /n/, /s/, and the gentle “g” in “gently.”
These phonemes slow the rhythm and mirror the carefulness being described.

There is a subtle assonance between “learn,” “turn,” and “gently,” creating a

flowing, almost meditative tone. The lack of plosive or hard sounds (in contrast to
earlier “slam” and “hard on a table”) softens the reader’s internal voice,
performing the very reverence the poem demands.

The name “Sarasvati” itself provides an internal rhythm, with its polysyllabic
structure and almost chant-like quality. Ending the line on “Sarasvati” gives the
line a sacred finality — the goddess’s name becomes the poem’s heartbeat at
this moment.
Structural Techniques

The structure of the line, split across two verses, uses enjambment to control
pacing and emphasis. The first line ends with “gently,” which visually and
rhythmically cues the reader to pause. This pause is almost reverent—a moment
of silence before naming the goddess.

The second line isolates “without disturbing Sarasvati,” structurally amplifying its
sacredness. Sarasvati’s name, positioned at the line’s end and after a line break,
receives visual and interpretive emphasis. In poetry, end-line positioning is
prime real estate — and Bhatt uses it here to elevate the goddess to her rightful
position: at the culmination of knowledge and ritual.

This spatial arrangement mirrors Hindu ritual structures, where approach to the
divine is gradual and respectful — one does not charge in, but proceeds step by
step, softly, gently, just as the page must be turned.

Conclusion

In just two lines, Bhatt encapsulates an entire post-colonial philosophy of

reverence, resistance, and re-sacralization. “You must learn how to turn the
pages gently / without disturbing Sarasvati” is not merely poetic guidance on
book-handling — it is a call to transform how we engage with knowledge
itself. The line blends physical gesture with spiritual ethics, challenges Western
secular assumptions, and reclaims the space of learning as a sacred, culturally
rooted practice. Through diction, structure, sound, and symbolism, Bhatt not
only honors the legacy of Indian thought but also offers a blueprint for cultural
renewal — where the divine lives not in temples alone, but in the quiet,
intentional act of learning.

​
Lines 17-18​
​
“without offending the tree​
from whose wood the paper was made.”​
​
Interpretation and Thematic Significance

In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt uses the lines “without offending the tree /
from whose wood the paper was made” to present a richly layered ethical
framework that fuses ecological awareness, spiritual reverence, and a critique of
colonial intellectual traditions. At first glance, the idea of “offending a tree” might
seem metaphorical or hyperbolic, but Bhatt roots this phrase in Hindu and
animist traditions that view all elements of the natural world as sacred. In such
systems of belief, the tree is not a passive object; it is a being with spiritual value,
a giver of life, and even a silent martyr in the service of human progress. The
reader is urged to approach books with a sense of humility, recognizing that the
knowledge contained within them is not detached from the physical world, but
intricately linked to a living organism that was sacrificed. Bhatt challenges the
post-industrial commodification of knowledge, where books are treated as mere
tools or objects, devoid of sacred origins. Her phrasing insists that every page
has a lineage—descended from something once alive—and that treating books
carelessly is not just an act of physical disrespect, but a moral and spiritual
transgression.

Grammatically, Bhatt’s use of the relative clause “from whose wood the paper
was made” is quietly radical. The pronoun “whose” is typically reserved for
human beings or sentient creatures, and its use here subtly personifies the tree,
granting it dignity, voice, and agency. This linguistic choice aligns with Bhatt’s
broader philosophical stance: the tree is not a neutral resource; it is a being with
history, memory, and value. The passive construction “was made” draws the
reader’s attention to the act of transformation—how the sacred becomes
commodified—and to the unseen consequences of intellectual consumption. The
word “offending” carries with it both religious and ethical implications. In most
contexts, one “offends” a god, a spirit, or a person of authority; applying this term
to a tree collapses the binary between human and nature, suggesting a world
where all entities are interconnected and morally entangled. This spiritual
ecology stands in stark contrast to the Western colonial mindset that prized
domination over nature and dismissed indigenous reverence for the environment
as superstition. Thus, the line operates as both a critique and a
reimagining—Bhatt is not merely calling for gentleness in how we treat books;
she is advocating for a new ethical relationship with knowledge itself—one based
on gratitude, reciprocity, and reverence for the living world that sustains it.
Moreover, these lines carry a strong postcolonial charge. During colonial rule,
both nature and knowledge were exploited: forests were razed, languages
suppressed, sacred traditions rewritten or erased. By insisting that even the act
of turning a page must be performed with mindfulness, Bhatt subtly rewrites the
narrative of intellectual superiority imposed by colonizers. She places indigenous
spiritual values above colonial logic, asserting that wisdom lies not in conquering
knowledge, but in respecting its origins. The reverence shown toward the tree
becomes a poetic protest against the extractive, utilitarian mindset of empire.
Bhatt's vision of "sustainable intellectualism" suggests that learning must be
reoriented—not as domination of material and mind, but as a careful, grateful
participation in a system where nothing is separate: not tree from book, not past
from present, and certainly not knowledge from the natural and spiritual forces
that make it possible.

Sound and Phonetic Features

Bhatt’s sound choices mirror her thematic concerns. The lines are composed of
soft, breathy consonants—/f/, /th/, /w/, and /s/ dominate—creating a hushed,
reverent tone. This echoes the careful handling being described. There's an
internal harmony here, mimicking the spiritual balance Bhatt seeks to restore
between reader, book, and tree.

There’s also a rhythmic slowing that happens due to the clause’s length. It
forces the reader to pause, to reflect. This mirrors the tone of mindfulness Bhatt
is advocating — a rejection of speed, haste, or mechanical interaction with the
text.

The phrase “from whose wood” uses assonance through the repetition of the
rounded “oo” sound, which aurally softens the line and gives it a mournful,
almost sacred tone—as if acknowledging the tree’s loss, and honouring it.

Extended Symbolism

🌳 1. The Tree as Ancestor

This is not just a metaphorical tree — it’s an ancestral figure. The tree has been
sacrificed so that human knowledge can live on, and Bhatt demands that we
treat that sacrifice with solemnity. The tree, then, becomes a symbol of
intergenerational exchange, echoing earlier references to “unborn
grandchildren.”

📜 2. Paper as Palimpsest
By drawing attention to the tree behind the paper, Bhatt invites us to see every
book as a palimpsest—a layered text. Behind the ink and letters lies a tree, a
language, a culture, a system of belief. To read carelessly is to erase or insult
those layers.

🔄 3. Circular Time and Karma

There’s also an underlying spiritual logic of karma at play: what you do to the
book (and the tree) affects the spiritual balance. This is a radical inversion of the
Western linear view of time and consequence. The spiritual and ecological are
one—and our intellectual actions have moral repercussions.

Structural Techniques

This line is paired with the previous: “without disturbing Sarasvati.” Both begin
with “without,” creating a rhythmic anaphora that mimics religious chanting or
scripture. These are ritual instructions, not casual suggestions.

The placement of this line at the end of a stanza gives it finality and emphasis. It
operates like a closing benediction—an ethical conclusion to the earlier list of
“sins” (slamming, tossing, shoving books). Structurally, it transforms the poem
from critique into instruction, offering a blueprint for right action.

There’s also a visual symmetry between the spiritual (“Sarasvati”) and the
ecological (“tree”). Bhatt puts goddess and tree side-by-side, equating the
sacredness of the natural with the divine. This breaks down the nature/culture
binary and reinforces a pantheistic worldview—everything is sacred.

Conclusion
The couplet “without offending the tree / from whose wood the paper was made”
may appear small, but it carries massive philosophical, cultural, and ethical
weight. Sujata Bhatt uses this line to bridge the spiritual, the ecological, and the
intellectual, asserting a worldview in which nothing—neither paper, nor goddess,
nor language—is without life or consequence. She positions the tree not as
background scenery, but as a co-creator of knowledge, whose dignity must be
respected. Through sound, syntax, and symbolism, she issues a quiet but radical
call: to read gently, to remember our roots, and to rebuild a reverent relationship
with the world that sustains us—one page at a time.

Lines 19-20​
​
“Which language​
has not been the oppressor’s tongue?”

🔊 Sound and Phonetic Features

Phonetically, this line opens with the soft “wh” in “Which” and the flowing liquid
sounds in “language,” creating a questioning, almost meditative tone. The gentle
fricatives “sh” in “which” and the soft “g” in “language” give the first part a calm,
reflective rhythm. This contrasts powerfully with the second half, where the
soundscape shifts.

The phrase “oppressor’s tongue” introduces hard, sharp consonants—the harsh

“p”, “s”, and the heavy “g” at the end of “tongue.” These consonants are not
coincidental; they sonically reinforce the weight and violence carried by the
phrase. “Oppressor” itself is multi-syllabic and stress-heavy, making the phrase
clunkier and more jarring, mirroring the historical violence it refers to. The line
ends on the monosyllabic, guttural “tongue,” which drops like a hammer—final,
abrupt, and confrontational. That final sound lodges in the mouth, uncomfortable,
unresolved—just like the question itself.

There is no alliteration or rhyme here, but the contrast between soft beginnings
and jarring ends mimics the thematic contrast between the ideal of language as
communication and its reality as a tool of domination.
🧠 Interpretation and Thematic Significance
In this crucial turning point of A Different History, Sujata Bhatt wields language
both as her subject and her medium, using the rhetorical question — “Which
language has not been the oppressor’s tongue?” — to interrogate the very tool
she relies on to construct her poem. The question is not merely thematic, but
linguistically self-reflective: it implicates every reader, writer, and speaker in
the history of linguistic violence.

🔹 Lexical Choice and Connotation

Bhatt’s choice of the word “oppressor” immediately injects political charge. It is
a term steeped in moral condemnation, evoking not just historical conquest but
active subjugation and silencing. The noun “tongue” in “oppressor’s tongue” is
deliberately ambiguous and double-edged: it functions both literally — as the
organ of speech — and metaphorically, as a synonym for “language.” This
synecdoche intensifies the physicality of language; it isn’t some abstract system,
but something bodily, visceral, and capable of violence.

The phrase “oppressor’s tongue” also sounds almost biblical — a phrase you
might find in an ancient lament — and this stylistic register gives the line a
sense of inherited sorrow and historical depth. In five words, Bhatt establishes
that language is not a neutral conduit for meaning but a loaded weapon, a
colonial residue, and a carrier of trauma.

🔹 Syntax and Sentence Construction

The interrogative structure is deceptively simple — it’s a single-line question with
a straightforward grammatical form. But beneath this simplicity lies a radical
implication: the syntax places the burden of proof on language itself. It’s not
asking “has language ever been oppressive?”, which could invite debate. It asks
which language has not been used for oppression — a structure that precludes
innocence. No language is spared. The syntax, therefore, performs linguistic
indictment: language is guilty until proven otherwise.

This construction — starting with “which” — gives the line a universal scope,
making it simultaneously accusatory and mournful. It doesn’t name specific
empires or tongues (e.g. English, French, Spanish, Arabic), which broadens the
critique beyond the British colonial context and invites the reader to reflect
globally. Any reader from any culture must now face their own history of
linguistic dominance.

🔹 Language as Self-Referential Irony

Bhatt is writing in English — the very “oppressor’s tongue” in question. This
creates a profound self-referential irony: she critiques the language she uses to
deliver that critique. In doing so, Bhatt dramatizes the postcolonial condition, in
which the colonized subject can never fully reject the language of the colonizer
— because it has become embedded in their thought, education, expression, and
memory. The poet uses English to resist English, and this paradox makes the
line linguistically unstable and emotionally loaded.

The line also performs a double-bind. On one hand, it suggests all languages
may have been oppressive; on the other, the act of writing in a former colonial
language could be interpreted as reclaiming it. Bhatt never tells the reader how to
resolve this tension — the rhetorical form leaves it open-ended. This ambiguity is
a stylistic strategy, not a flaw: it reflects the internal conflict of many
multilingual, postcolonial individuals who straddle multiple identities and linguistic
systems.

🔹 Metaphorical Collapse Between Voice and Violence

Through her phrasing, Bhatt merges the act of speaking with acts of
dominance. The metaphorical compression of “tongue” and “oppressor”
positions language itself as a weapon — something that cuts, silences, and
overwrites. In this reading, every word uttered in a colonial language (especially
by those it once oppressed) is haunted by the violence of forced assimilation
and linguistic genocide.

What’s more, the question implies that power resides in language — that
whoever controls the language controls the narrative. This is not just historical
commentary; it’s a statement about how knowledge, memory, and identity are
formed. If the oppressor’s tongue shapes the vocabulary of a culture, then even
resistance itself becomes shaped by the very forces it resists.

🔥 Extended Symbolism
The phrase “oppressor’s tongue” is symbolic on multiple levels. Firstly, it
personifies the oppressor through the metonymy of the “tongue,” emphasizing
speech as violence—not necessarily physical, but cultural and psychological.
The “tongue” becomes a weapon, one that cuts not the body but the identity, the
spirit, and the voice of the oppressed.

Secondly, this phrase evokes linguistic imperialism. In colonized nations,

indigenous languages were often banned, ridiculed, or systematically erased.
Children were punished in schools for speaking their mother tongue. Native
dialects were written out of history and replaced by colonial vernaculars. Thus,
the “oppressor’s tongue” isn’t just metaphor—it’s historical fact, symbolizing
forced assimilation and cultural erasure.

Additionally, “tongue” symbolizes inheritance and internalization. After

generations of speaking the language of the oppressor, that language becomes
embedded in the psyche of the colonized. It’s not just imposed—it’s passed
down. And that creates a devastating irony: the speaker, perhaps a descendant
of the colonized, now uses the same language to resist. This paradox lies at the
core of postcolonial identity: loving, thinking, dreaming—even resisting—in the
language that once silenced your ancestors.​
​
Lines 21-22​
​
“Which language​
truly meant to murder someone?”

🧠 Interpretation and Thematic Significance

​

Sujata Bhatt’s use of language in the line “Which language truly meant to murder
someone?” is as surgically precise as it is ideologically loaded. Every lexical
choice, down to individual words, carries semantic weight and historical
subtext, underscoring the poet’s overarching theme of language as both
cultural inheritance and colonial weapon.

Let’s start with the interrogative structure: “Which language…”. The choice of
“which” implies there is more than one potential candidate — it’s not just about
English, but about a pattern of historical domination via language. This
immediately universalizes the trauma, inviting readers to think about all imperial
languages — English, French, Spanish, Portuguese — as tools of control,
domination, and indoctrination. It challenges readers to consider the deep
complicity of language in the machinery of empire.

The insertion of “truly” is subtle but deadly. It's a modifier that casts doubt,
demanding authenticity. It’s not asking if languages were used to hurt — it’s
asking which one intended to. It brings an ethical lens, transforming language
into a conscious agent, which is linguistically radical. Bhatt is playing with
agency and personification, suggesting that colonial language systems didn’t
just accompany violence — they were violent in their intent and structure. That
one word — truly — asks: was the violence incidental, or was it intrinsic?

Then comes the nuclear word: “murder”. Bhatt could have used harm, silence,
or even erase — softer, more metaphorical terms. But murder is premeditated. It
is the language of criminality, blood, and finality. This isn’t poetic
exaggeration. It’s a legal, moral, and existential accusation. It suggests that
language was not merely a tool, but the weapon itself, delivering fatal blows
to native cultures, philosophies, and identities.

The syntax of the line is also tight and deliberate — just eleven words, but none
wasted. Bhatt constructs it as a standalone sentence, creating an isolated
punch. There are no softening clauses, no apologies, no metaphors to
buffer the blow. It’s stark and naked — which reflects the rawness of the truth
she's asking the reader to confront.

Phonologically, the line is full of plosive and harsh consonants: truly, murder,
someone — these are not gentle sounds. The /t/, /d/, and /k/ sounds give the line
a jarring auditory impact, mimicking the harshness of colonial acts. It feels like
a linguistic slap — especially because Bhatt delivers it in English, the very
language under scrutiny. That’s poetic irony: she critiques the oppressor’s
tongue using the oppressor’s tongue, a deeply postcolonial maneuver that
reflects internal tension, inherited trauma, and subversive strength.

The line also operates on a metalinguistic level — it is language talking about

language. This self-reflexivity is powerful because it forces readers to be aware
of the medium while consuming the message. It doesn’t let you passively
absorb meaning; it makes you complicit, especially if you’re reading in English. It
interrogates not only the history of colonialism, but the continuing legacy of
speaking, thinking, and dreaming in a borrowed or imposed tongue.
Lastly, the phrase “someone” depersonalizes the victim — but not in a way that
trivializes them. Instead, it universalizes the violence. “Someone” could be an
ancestor, a culture, a god, a poet. This anonymity adds a haunting effect: the
crime was personal, but the victim is nameless — like so many cultures and
peoples buried under imperialism.

🔊 Phonetic Features and Sound Patterns

Phonetically, the line is sharp and jarring. The most emotionally charged word
— “murder” — lands hard due to its plosive consonants and dense,
monosyllabic weight. It’s a word that stops the breath. The line also has a
rhythmic collapse at the end — it starts softly with “Which language truly
meant…” and then slams into “to murder someone?” The contrast in rhythm
mirrors the shift from inquiry to accusation.

Also notable is the sibilance in “someone,” which gives the final word a
whisper-like, almost secretive tone — as if the speaker is lowering their voice
out of reverence or fear. This tonal drop reflects the moral gravity of the
question being asked. The alliteration between “meant” and “murder” also links
intent and action — Bhatt is binding thought and violence together through
sound.

🔮 Extended Symbolism and Subtext

Let’s unpack the symbol of “murder” here. Bhatt isn’t using it casually — it’s
shocking and intentional. “Murder” implies not just killing, but premeditation,
guilt, and irreversibility. She’s suggesting that the spread of colonial languages
(like English) was not an innocent byproduct of globalization or education, but an
ideological conquest — the murder of indigenous worldviews, mythologies, and
epistemologies.

There’s also a subtle critique of linguistic hegemony. When a language

dominates a culture, it doesn’t just replace words — it restructures thought.
Grammar, metaphor, idiom — all of these shape what people believe is real,
moral, or possible. Bhatt’s question implies that this process may be inherently
violent, even when cloaked in civility, reason, or progress.
🧩 Language as a Theme and Self-Referential Irony
Bhatt once again weaponizes self-referential irony — this is written in English,
the very language being put on trial. The speaker is both using and accusing
the language, creating a paradoxical tension: how do you critique something
using the very tool you're critiquing? This echoes a core theme in postcolonial
literature — the idea that colonial languages can never be truly neutral or
safe, even when used to resist. They're always tainted by history.

Moreover, by suggesting that language itself might intend harm, Bhatt is

questioning the ethical burden of inherited systems. If language is a container
of past violence, what does it mean to inherit it, teach it, speak it — and love it?

🔚 Conclusion
“Which language truly meant to murder someone?” is not a line meant to be
answered — it is a line meant to haunt. With just eight words, Sujata Bhatt
explodes the myth of linguistic innocence. Through loaded diction, symbolic
violence, self-reflexivity, and sound manipulation, she turns a poetic question
into a moral dilemma. This line forces readers to reckon with the historical
violence embedded in language, the impossibility of linguistic purity, and the
deep, unresolved trauma of postcolonial identity. In Bhatt’s world, even words
carry blood.

Line 23-24​
​
“And how does it happen​
that after the torture,”

​
Interpretation and Thematic Significance

In the line “And how does it happen / that after the torture,” Sujata Bhatt
continues her piercing interrogation of colonial trauma and cultural survival,
using deceptively simple language to pose a profound philosophical and political
question. The speaker’s tone here is one of genuine disbelief, almost childlike
in its curiosity — but beneath the innocence lies a deep moral astonishment at
the postcolonial condition: that the very languages and systems which enacted
cultural violence could eventually become embraced, even loved, by the
descendants of the oppressed.

The phrase “how does it happen” is a pivot — both structurally and

thematically — moving from accusation (“Which language truly meant to murder
someone?”) to psychological inquiry. The use of the present tense “does”
maintains immediacy, suggesting that this process — the internalization of the
oppressor’s language — is not just a historical occurrence but an ongoing,
living paradox. Bhatt doesn’t frame this as a rhetorical question; instead, she
leaves it open-ended, inviting the reader into a shared confusion, a communal
reckoning.

The word “torture” is strikingly visceral. It reasserts the violence of colonialism

not in abstract or political terms, but in terms of bodily pain, psychological
breakdown, and spiritual erosion. There’s nothing metaphorical here —
“torture” evokes physical suffering, interrogation rooms, forced assimilation, the
brutal erasure of languages and traditions. It's a deliberate shift from “murder” to
“torture” — not a quick execution, but a slow, drawn-out process of cultural
mutilation. The definite article “the” in “the torture” suggests a specific, shared
historical experience — it is not just any pain, but the pain etched into colonized
bodies and psyches.

Phonetically, the line is soft and fluid, almost hypnotic, which contrasts with the
violence of the word “torture.” The alliteration of “how” and “happen” creates a
haunting, almost elegiac rhythm. The soft consonants in “how does it happen”
mimic a sigh or whispered disbelief, making the horror of “torture” even more
jarring when it hits. It’s like a lull followed by a whip-crack. That sound pattern is
doing emotional work — easing the reader in, then breaking them open.

From a symbolic standpoint, “torture” doesn’t just signify colonial methods of

domination; it symbolizes the fragmentation of identity, the scarring of
generational memory, and the violent interruption of indigenous continuity. It
refers not just to what was done physically, but to what was done linguistically,
spiritually, psychologically. Bhatt is asking the reader: how is it that after all that
— after being severed from their gods, their languages, their customs — entire
peoples could grow to revere the very systems that broke them?

Phonetic Features and Sound Patterns

Sujata Bhatt’s line “And how does it happen / that after the torture,” is deceptively
calm in tone, but acoustically and emotionally charged. The phonetic construction
of this line enhances its thematic impact, layering confusion, disbelief, and
quiet despair into its sonic texture. The soft aspirated consonants—the
repeated /h/ in “how,” “happen”—generate a breathy, almost whispered tone,
mimicking the speaker’s sense of astonishment and suppressed grief. These
sounds are not sharp or loud; they suggest resigned questioning rather than
explosive outrage, which mirrors the subdued emotional state of the
postcolonial subject who has learned to carry suffering quietly.

The sibilance created by the subtle /s/ and /sh/ sounds in “does”, “happen”, and
“torture” further softens the auditory field, making the delivery of this emotionally
devastating question feel disturbingly gentle. This sonic softness stands in stark
contrast to the semantic weight of the word “torture”, creating a chilling
cognitive dissonance: the calmness of the soundscape clashes with the
brutality of the image. This contrast amplifies the psychological complexity of the
poem — it mirrors how oppression is often normalized, how pain is
internalized, and how the legacy of violence continues in muted, unspoken
ways.

The internal rhythm of the line is conversational, almost prose-like, lacking any
rigid metric pattern. This free-form rhythm gives the line a naturalistic flow,
which reinforces its authenticity as a genuine emotional inquiry rather than a
performative poetic line. The slight caesura created by the line break between
“happen” and “that after the torture” also introduces a moment of hesitation or
breath, as though the speaker must pause before confronting the weight of the
past. This structural hesitation deepens the sense of psychic burden—even
articulating the memory of colonial torture requires effort, reflection, and courage.

Additionally, the long vowels in “how”, “torture”, and “after” slow the reader
down, elongating the pacing and forcing the listener to linger on key emotional
beats. The word “torture” itself is heavily emphasized at the end of the line—not
just because of its position, but due to its harsh plosive /t/ and drawn-out syllabic
structure. This placement, combined with the phonetic stress, delivers a sonic
gut-punch to end the sentence, allowing the word to echo like a historical
wound.

Extended Interpretation and Symbolism

The line “And how does it happen / that after the torture,” acts as a turning point
in the poem, symbolically confronting the aftermath of colonial brutality and the
mysterious endurance of the colonizer’s language in postcolonial societies. At
face value, the line poses a simple rhetorical question—but its implications are
vast. The word “torture” functions symbolically as a compressed
representation of centuries of colonial violence—not just physical, but
cultural and linguistic. This "torture" includes the forcible imposition of a
foreign language, the erasure of indigenous spiritual systems, and the severing
of cultural memory. Bhatt’s phrasing—“how does it happen”—deliberately refuses
easy answers, gesturing toward the psychological confusion and collective
amnesia experienced by generations growing up within a hybrid linguistic
identity.

The line becomes a symbolic meditation on historical dislocation: how,

despite the pain and forced assimilation embedded in colonial history, the
colonized not only speak the oppressor’s language, but may come to love, use,
and inherit it without knowing its violent origins. The phrase “after the torture”
introduces the unsettling image of trauma that should logically result in
rejection—but doesn’t. This paradox becomes emblematic of internalized
colonialism, where the tools of oppression—language, literature, law—are
adopted and re-used by the oppressed. The question Bhatt raises is both
haunting and ironic: how can cultural trauma produce emotional attachment? In
this sense, the line subtly critiques the cultural schizophrenia of postcolonial
identity, in which individuals must navigate the emotional contradiction of
cherishing what once violated them.

Additionally, the use of the definite article “the torture” gives the suffering a
universal and mythic quality. It no longer refers to a single historical event or
period but becomes a synecdoche for all systemic colonial oppression. It
represents, in one word, the centuries-long process of domination, the flattening
of cultural identities, and the violent restructuring of memory. By placing this
dense symbol in the form of a question, Bhatt invites introspection rather than
assertion—allowing readers to sit with the discomfort of inherited languages,
inherited wounds, and the inherited silence that often surrounds them. In this
way, “the torture” becomes more than a moment of pain—it becomes the ghost
of empire, passed on in grammar and syntax, embedded in the very tools of
expression.

Structural Techniques​
​
Structurally, Bhatt’s line “And how does it happen / that after the torture,” is
designed to disrupt syntactic flow and rhythm in a way that mirrors the
ruptured psyche of the postcolonial subject. The use of enjambment
between “how does it happen” and “that after the torture” is crucial — it
creates a deliberate pause, forcing the reader to momentarily hold the
question in suspension before encountering its emotionally loaded
resolution. This pause mimics a mental hesitation, a moment of grappling,
as though the speaker herself is stunned by the paradox she is about to
describe. It reinforces the poem’s central tone of quiet bewilderment — the
impossibility of reconciling inherited trauma with the inherited tools of
expression.

Furthermore, the syntax of the line is subtly inverted. A more expected structure
might be, “How is it that after the torture…?” but Bhatt’s choice — “And how does
it happen” — adds a conversational fluidity that breaks from poetic convention.
This deviation reflects a stream-of-consciousness tone, grounding the
philosophical question in personal, almost intimate, speech. The structure invites
readers into a space of internal reflection rather than rhetorical performance,
echoing the fragmented identity of the postcolonial speaker who is thinking
through her cultural contradictions in real time.

Bhatt’s positioning of this line near the beginning of the poem’s second stanza
(which marks a thematic and tonal shift) signals a structural pivot. The first
stanza is rooted in reverence and cultural memory, celebrating Indian spiritual
values. This second stanza, by contrast, plunges into linguistic trauma and
colonial consequence. Placing this interrogative line at the stanza’s opening
gives it a framing function—it sets the agenda for the entire second half of the
poem. It also introduces a shift from declarative observations (e.g., “It is a sin to
shove a book aside”) to rhetorical questioning, which draws readers into a
more ambiguous, unresolved space — the emotional realm of inherited
contradiction and cognitive dissonance.

Lastly, the lack of a question mark at the end of the line (and in many of the
poem’s questions) is a subtle but deliberate structural choice. It suggests that this
is not a question demanding an answer but rather a lament, or even a
philosophical koan—a question meant to provoke discomfort, not closure.
Bhatt’s structure thus resists resolution, mirroring the unresolved nature of
postcolonial identity and the inescapable tension of loving a language that once
destroyed your voice.

Lines 25-27​
​
“after the soul has been cropped ​
with a long scythe swooping ​
out of the conqueror’s face”​
​
Interpretation and Thematic Significance

These three lines operate as a violent metaphor for the cultural mutilation that
accompanies colonial conquest, and Bhatt’s language choices are rich in both
visual and emotional intensity. The phrase “the soul has been cropped”
immediately suggests a loss of depth, essence, or wholeness. The verb
“cropped”, typically associated with agriculture or grooming, evokes a disturbing
image of forced trimming—something once natural and full being cut short,
stripped, or controlled. Bhatt’s choice of this verb is crucial: it is clinical and
impersonal, devoid of violence in its usual usage, which makes its placement
here jarring. The soul—symbolizing culture, identity, language, and spirit—is
reduced to a thing to be managed, pruned. This chilling understatement makes
the violence of colonialism feel even more systematic and institutional rather
than openly barbaric. It mirrors how colonialism was often masked as “civilizing,”
even as it erased spiritual and cultural roots.

The next line intensifies this with the image of “a long scythe swooping out”.
The scythe—a traditional tool of harvesting—becomes a terrifying symbol of
destruction, and its swooping motion evokes speed, precision, and
ruthlessness. The scythe’s curved blade also echoes the shape of conquest: not
a slow erosion, but a swift, decisive sweep. Bhatt’s diction here leans on
onomatopoeic resonance: “swooping” creates a rush of air, a sense of
movement, almost like a whisper of death. The placement of this verb right
before the grotesque image of the “conqueror’s face” adds to the horror: this
isn’t an invisible system doing the damage—it’s personal. The violence emerges
not from a nameless tool, but from the embodiment of power. By placing the
scythe inside the conqueror’s face, Bhatt collapses the boundary between
weapon and wielder. The colonizer’s language, authority, and presence
become the very mechanisms of erasure.

From a thematic standpoint, this sequence symbolically illustrates how colonial

violence wasn’t just about physical domination—it was a psychic invasion, a
stripping away of selfhood and tradition. The soul being “cropped” refers not only
to personal trauma but to generational spiritual amputation, where cultural
continuity is disrupted by a foreign force. Bhatt’s language here is metaphorical
but specific, pulling from agrarian and militaristic registers to expose how
systems of control—education, religion, governance—masqueraded as
progress, while fundamentally reshaping the native soul to suit imperial aims.
The colonizer’s language is implied to be the blade, the act of cropping itself,
leaving postcolonial individuals speaking in a tongue that once sliced through
their ancestors’ spiritual landscape. This theme—that of language as both a
scar and a legacy—threads through the poem and finds its most visceral
representation in this grotesque, poetic image.

Phonetic Features and Sound Patterns​

​
Phonetically, these lines rely on harsh consonant clusters, elongated vowels,
and sibilance to generate both rhythm and mood. The first line, “after the soul
has been cropped,” ends on a plosive "p" and "d", which creates a jarring,
abrupt closure. The word “cropped” is particularly aggressive—ending with a
double consonant sound (/pt/) that mimics the snapping shut of scissors or a
blade slicing cleanly, phonetically enacting the very act of cutting. This isn’t just
a metaphor being described; the sound forces the reader’s mouth to perform the
violence.

The next line, “with a long scythe swooping out,” moves into elongated vowels
— “long,” “scythe,” “swooping” — which contrasts sharply with the clipped
aggression of the previous line. This change in tempo is crucial. The drawn-out
/ɔː/ and /uː/ sounds stretch the line, mimicking the sweeping arc of the scythe.
There’s also sibilance in “scythe swooping” — the /s/ and /ʃ/ sounds snake
across the tongue like the blade itself, giving the motion an eerie softness that’s
paradoxically threatening. It evokes a whispered threat, a quiet but inevitable
violence. The scythe doesn’t crash — it glides.

Phonetically, Bhatt is layering meaning: the transition from the abrupt

“cropped” to the sinuous “swooping” simulates the rhythm of trauma — a
quick rupture followed by a long, lingering consequence. The assonance in “long
scythe swooping” also adds a sense of poetic continuity, making the violence feel
methodical, rehearsed — as if the act of “soul-cropping” is part of a repeated
imperial ritual.

Finally, the line “of the conqueror’s face” closes the triplet with a heavy, weighted
cadence. The /k/ in “conqueror” is guttural and harsh, but what’s more
intriguing is how the phrase “the conqueror’s face” places a soft "s" sound after
a series of harsher consonants. This gives the ending a chilling quietness —
almost a smirk, a silent satisfaction. The possessive form “conqueror’s” also
creates a lingering hiss, like the echo of domination that refuses to disappear.

Taken together, the lines move from a crisp, violent punch (cropped) through
long, swooping breaths (swooping out) to a quiet, personal sting
(conqueror’s face). It’s a masterclass in sonic pacing: Bhatt manipulates the
mouth and breath of the reader to echo the emotional arc of cultural destruction
— from the moment of rupture to the oppressive legacy that follows.

Extended Interpretation and Symbolism​

​
The metaphor of the soul being “cropped” is the first major symbolic gesture.
Cropping, as an agricultural act, typically refers to the controlled, selective cutting
of something that grows naturally. Here, the soul, not the body, is what’s being
cut — symbolizing a spiritual or cultural violation, not merely physical harm.
The word “soul” is deliberately chosen: it doesn’t represent intellect or flesh
alone, but identity, heritage, language, and memory. Cropping the soul
suggests that colonization doesn’t just impose new laws or rulers — it
re-engineers the very essence of the colonized. There is a symbolic stripping
away of indigenous knowledge systems, spiritual frameworks, native
languages, and the organic growth of cultural identity.
The image of the “long scythe” carries multiple symbolic meanings.
Traditionally, the scythe is the weapon of the Grim Reaper, a harbinger of death.
In this context, the “scythe” becomes a metaphor for colonialism itself — a
sharp, impersonal tool of mass erasure. Its “swooping” motion emphasizes
efficiency and speed; this is not a slow decay but a swift, systematic
obliteration. There is also an echo here of industrial violence — the scythe as
a machine-like agent that indiscriminately harvests lives and identities. It doesn’t
distinguish between generations or individuals; it cuts down culture in one sweep.

Most disturbingly, this “scythe” emerges not from an abstract space, but “out of
the conqueror’s face.” This detail forces the reader to humanize the source of
destruction. It is not a natural disaster or distant event — the harm is intimate
and embodied. The “face” typically symbolizes expression, identity, even
empathy — but here it becomes a mask of violence, concealing or perhaps
merging with the weapon itself. The conqueror is not just using the scythe — he
is the scythe. The symbolism here becomes psychological and emotional:
language, violence, and domination are all projected through the
colonizer’s gaze, speech, and presence.

There’s also an allegorical reading. The conqueror’s “face” may also symbolize
the language of the colonizer, as it is through language that much of the
soul-cropping happens — via education, renaming, censorship, and religious
instruction. So, when Bhatt says the soul is cut with a scythe from the face of the
conqueror, she could be implying that language itself becomes the blade — a
tool of cultural reprogramming disguised as “civilization.”

Lastly, consider the cyclical symbolism. A scythe is used not only to destroy but
to harvest — and harvesting implies regrowth, but only after something has
been sacrificed. This duality invites us to question: if the soul is cropped, can it
regrow in a new form? Or is the original identity permanently lost? Bhatt doesn’t
offer easy answers — but her symbolic choices open the door to this
uncomfortable ambiguity, which lies at the heart of many postcolonial identities.

Structural Techniques

1. Lineation and Enjambment: A Gradual Descent Into Violence

The three lines use enjambment, meaning they continue into one another
without full stops. This mirrors the unstoppable flow of colonial violence — it
doesn’t pause, it doesn’t respect boundaries, and it bleeds from one generation
to the next. The soul is cropped with a long scythe swooping out — the reader is
pulled, breathlessly, into the act of violence. The enjambment here creates a
sense of inevitability: there is no escape, no room to breathe, no full stop to
interrupt the process. This structural choice traps the reader within the
experience, just as colonial subjects were trapped within systems of linguistic
and cultural domination.

This enjambment also slows the reader down. Even though the scythe’s motion
is described as "swooping" — something fast and fatal — the line-breaks
ironically elongate the moment, forcing the reader to sit with the image.
Structurally, it creates a temporal dissonance: a fast, clean motion is drawn out,
almost painfully. This contradiction mirrors the psychological effects of
colonization — quick acts with long-term consequences.

2. Progressive Narrowing of Focus

Structurally, there is a zooming-in effect across the three lines:

●​ Line 1 starts with the broad, metaphysical concept of the “soul”.​

●​ Line 2 introduces a physical weapon (the scythe) and a violent motion.​

●​ Line 3 narrows the lens all the way down to the “face” of the colonizer.​

This telescopic structure is no accident. It mirrors the way colonialism operates

— starting with grand ideals (civilization, progress) and ending in deeply
personal violations. Bhatt's structure exposes this descent into the intimate,
psychological arena: colonization is not just about territory or trade routes — it’s
about individual bodies, faces, and souls being restructured.

3. Absence of Punctuation: Moral Ambiguity and Open-Ended Violence

Notably, these lines — like most of the second stanza — lack full stops. This
creates a continuous, unfinished emotional and syntactic flow. There’s no
period, no closure, no finality. This structural openness suggests that the trauma
of colonialism has not ended — it continues through language, cultural memory,
and inherited identity. It also leaves the reader unsettled: we’re never given the
satisfaction of an emotional release or a moral resolution.
The lack of punctuation also reinforces the cyclical nature of trauma. The soul
is cropped, again and again, generation after generation, and the structural form
reflects this endless recurrence. Even as the lines describe one violent moment,
the absence of finality implies many more that remain unspoken.

4. Position Within the Poem: Structural Shift

These lines mark a pivotal moment in the poem’s overall architecture. The first
stanza is spiritual, almost meditative, while the second dives into harsh questions
about colonialism, language, and loss. This specific passage occurs after
rhetorical questions like:

“Which language​
has not been the oppressor’s tongue?”

That interrogative buildup transitions into blunt, image-driven brutality —

structurally, this is Bhatt’s climactic moment of emotional revelation. It’s not a
conclusion, but a structural crescendo — the poem swells here before tapering
into the quiet, bitter irony of the final lines.

Lines 28-29​
​
“the unborn grandchildren
grow to love that strange language.”​
​
Interpretation and Thematic Significance​
​
These closing lines of Sujata Bhatt’s A Different History are arguably the poem’s
most quietly devastating. They encapsulate the long-term psychological and
cultural consequences of colonialism. Through deceptively gentle diction and
structure, Bhatt reveals a profound contradiction: that generations born after the
violence of colonisation may not just speak the oppressor’s language—but grow
to love it. This “love” is not born from coercion, but from habituation, exposure,
and emotional association. It reflects a generational shift, from survival and
resistance to reluctant acceptance and eventual affection.

Let’s break down the language choices:

🔹 “unborn grandchildren”
The adjective “unborn” does a lot of heavy lifting. It introduces futurity, but more
importantly, distance—from the immediate trauma of colonial violence. These
are not the colonised subjects themselves, but their descendants: those who
inherit the aftermath. The term “grandchildren” further stretches the lineage,
emphasizing that colonial legacies are not short-lived—they ripple far into
future identities.

This phrase implies a loss of cultural memory. The unborn have no firsthand
knowledge of the “torture” or “soul-cropping” referenced earlier. And yet, their
identities are formed in the shadow of that trauma. They are born into a
postcolonial linguistic ecosystem already saturated with the colonizer’s tongue.
Their future affection for the language is both naturalized and tragic—they love
what once disfigured their ancestors.

🔹 “grow to love”
The phrase “grow to love” suggests gradual transformation—not a sudden
acceptance, but a slow acclimatization. “Grow” implies organic, inevitable
development, almost like language as an environmental condition one adapts
to. This verb choice is emotionally subtle but thematically loud—it reflects how
cultural assimilation happens not through imposition alone, but through
time and inheritance.

It also carries a bittersweet tone. The verb “love” usually suggests something
intimate and voluntary, but here it is entwined with the legacy of linguistic
violence. It evokes a Stockholm Syndrome-like phenomenon, where familiarity
with a language—and the world it constructs—blurs the line between coercion
and connection. The emotional shift from victimhood to admiration complicates
traditional narratives of oppression.

🔹 “that strange language”

This final phrase carries enormous weight. The determiner “that” introduces
emotional distance, suggesting a subtle “othering” even as the language
becomes central to the speaker’s life. “Strange” does not necessarily mean
foreign—it implies unfamiliar, alien, unsettling. Even though the grandchildren
come to love it, the language retains its ghostly, colonising character.
Calling it “strange” is a reminder that language, though deeply embedded in
one’s identity, can remain symbolically detached—a reminder of cultural
displacement. It’s as though the language can never truly be theirs; it will always
belong to “the conqueror’s face.” This phrase becomes a critique of how
language, even when mastered, remains a vessel of historical power.

Phonetic Features and Sound Patterns​

​
In the closing couplet of A Different History, Sujata Bhatt harnesses phonetic
delicacy and sonic nuance to underscore the quiet tragedy and emotional
tension embedded in linguistic inheritance. The lines—"the unborn grandchildren
/ grow to love that strange language"—are deceptively simple, yet they carry
immense historical, emotional, and cultural weight, all of which is reinforced and
subtly mirrored through the poem’s soundscape and rhythm.

Phonetically, Bhatt leans into soft consonants and liquid sounds to create a
tone that is more elegiac than accusatory. Words like "grow," "grandchildren,"
"love," and "language" feature liquid consonants such as /l/ and /r/, which lend
the lines a flowing, mournful quality. These sounds are inherently gentle and
resonate with a sense of emotional depth and vulnerability, as if spoken
through a sigh. The recurrence of nasal consonants (/n/, /m/) in “unborn” and
“grandchildren” slows the rhythm, encouraging a meditative reading that reflects
on generational change and the inheritance of cultural trauma. This slowing effect
forces the reader to linger on the passage of time and the weight of historical
legacy. It is not just about the children—but the unborn
grandchildren—suggesting that even those untouched by the original violence
are shaped by it through the language they grow to adopt.

The vowel sounds in this couplet also serve a key emotional function. Open
vowels such as the /o/ in “grow,” the /ʌ/ in “love,” and the /æ/ in “language” create
a soundscape that is resonant and somber, emphasizing emotional openness
and vulnerability. There is no sense of urgency or force here; instead, the sounds
feel slow, expansive, and almost reluctant, echoing the slow creep of cultural
assimilation. The phrase "grow to love" is particularly crucial—it creates a natural
caesura, allowing for a moment of pause that reflects on the tragic irony of the
situation. It is not an immediate love; it is learned, developed—perhaps
unconsciously—over generations.

Bhatt’s use of sibilance and soft fricatives, particularly in "strange" and

"language," adds another sonic layer to the interpretation. These words carry a
slight hiss, producing a hushed, almost reverent or conspiratorial tone, which
might represent the unspoken, normalized acceptance of colonial influence. This
whispered quality could also suggest shame or ambivalence—highlighting how
even reverence for this language carries traces of guilt and confusion.

Structurally and sonically, the absence of rhyme or rhythmic regularity

emphasizes disconnection. The lack of aural closure parallels the cultural
rupture that Bhatt critiques—there is no full-circle moment, no musical
resolution. The lines hang, almost unresolved, as though mourning what has
been lost, even as they acknowledge what has been inherited. The final word,
"language," lingers in the air like an aftertaste—both a gift and a ghost.

Ultimately, the phonetic and rhythmic design of these lines mirrors the poem’s
thematic core: the bittersweet aftermath of colonialism, where language
becomes both a site of oppression and affection. Bhatt’s gentle sounds do not
soften the critique; they intensify it, making the subtlety itself a form of
mourning. Through sonic grace, Bhatt shows that linguistic inheritance is not
just political—it is emotional, intergenerational, and quietly devastating.

​
Extended Interpretation and Symbolism​
​
In the closing lines of A Different History, Sujata Bhatt distills a complex matrix of
postcolonial identity, generational trauma, and linguistic paradox into two
deceptively simple lines: “the unborn grandchildren / grow to love that strange
language.” Beneath the calm diction lies a profound symbolic commentary on
cultural dislocation and the enduring legacy of colonization. The symbolism
operates on both a literal and metaphorical level, engaging with ideas of
inheritance, erasure, and internalized reverence for the tools of oppression.

The phrase “unborn grandchildren” is not simply a reference to future

generations—it symbolically represents the continuity of cultural memory and the
long shadow of colonial influence. By choosing the unborn, Bhatt emphasizes
how colonial trauma is not merely experienced—it is passed down,
embedded in the linguistic and cultural frameworks that shape identity. The
unborn are untouched by the violence of colonization, yet they “grow to love” its
remnants. This suggests a tragic inevitability: that colonialism's greatest
success lies not in domination, but in the psychological assimilation of the
oppressed.

The phrase “grow to love” is steeped in irony. Growth implies nurture, habit,
and adaptation—not force. Yet what is being nurtured is not cultural pride or
indigenous heritage, but love for a "strange language"—a synecdoche for
colonial imposition. The word “strange” is key. It implies otherness, foreignness,
even alienation, yet the verb “love” directly contradicts this. Bhatt uses this
cognitive dissonance to highlight the deep confusion and ambivalence of
postcolonial identity: How can one love something that once symbolized
erasure? Is it truly love, or resignation disguised as affection?

Language here becomes the ultimate symbol—not just of communication, but

of power, culture, and identity. The “strange language” is English, the tongue of
the colonizer, once wielded to suppress, now embraced as native by generations
who know no alternative. It is both a bridge and a barrier—a medium for
education and global connection, but also a reminder of the original violence that
made it dominant. In this light, the act of “growing to love” the language can be
seen as a form of Stockholm syndrome at a cultural level, where affection
forms for what was once feared.

Moreover, the transformation from “torture” to “love” (as in the previous lines)
evokes a narrative arc of psychological conditioning. The colonized subject,
stripped of language, history, and spiritual frameworks, is left to reconstruct
identity using the only tools left behind: the colonizer’s language. This love, then,
is not born of familiarity alone—it is born of necessity, absence, and longing.
The “strange language” becomes both inheritance and prison.

Bhatt’s choice to end the poem with these lines is also symbolically significant. It
offers no resolution—just an observation of historical irony and cultural tragedy.
In doing so, she reframes language not just as a means of expression but as a
symbol of memory, loss, and survival. The grandchildren are unborn, but their
fate is already written—not in their genes, but in the languages they will speak.

Ultimately, Bhatt’s closing lines operate as a symbolic epitaph for cultural

purity and an indictment of how colonial power lingers in the subtlest of ways—in
the words we use to name the world. It is a poetic moment of quiet devastation,
where love and loss coexist within the same breath, and language becomes both
legacy and lament.

​
​
Structural Techniques​
​
In the final two lines of A Different History, Sujata Bhatt employs precise
structural techniques to deliver one of the poem’s most haunting ideas — the
quiet, generational absorption of colonial language. The lineation, enjambment,
contrast, and strategic placement of these lines all contribute to the poem’s
reflective, unresolved tone, and crystallize its central concern: the irreversible
impact of colonialism on identity and language.

Bhatt begins with a slow, deliberate line: “the unborn grandchildren.” The
subject is suspended in space, isolated by a line break, and left dangling before
any action or verb appears. This lineation does more than structure the verse; it
forces the reader to pause and meditate on the temporal and generational
scope of the idea. The placement of “unborn grandchildren” on its own line
conveys the inevitability of inheritance — these are individuals not yet alive, yet
their fate is already implicated in the aftermath of colonization. By structurally
delaying the verb — “grow to love” — Bhatt amplifies a sense of inevitability.
These descendants do not choose the language; they are born into it, already
entangled.

The use of enjambment between “grandchildren” and “grow to love that strange
language” serves a dual purpose. First, it mimics the unstoppable progression
of cultural assimilation — the transition is seamless, flowing across the line
break just as colonial influence flows into future generations. Second, the
enjambment acts as a subtle metaphor for dislocation. The thought spills
unnaturally across lines, reflecting how colonialism disturbs the continuity of
culture, displacing traditions while implanting foreign elements. The lack of
punctuation between the lines also reflects a lack of resistance; the
grandchildren do not reject the foreign tongue—they simply grow into it.

Bhatt also uses contrast and irony structurally. “Unborn grandchildren” suggests
innocence, newness, and distance from historical trauma. But this innocence is
structurally undercut by what follows: “grow to love that strange language.” The
tension between innocence and indoctrination is enhanced by the juxtaposition of
“love” and “strange.” The emotional warmth of “love” clashes with the alienation
embedded in “strange,” creating a structural paradox that encapsulates the
core irony of postcolonial identity: finding comfort in the tools of historical
violence.

Importantly, these are the final lines of the poem. Bhatt chooses to end not with
resistance or resolution, but with acceptance—albeit bittersweet. Structurally,
this is significant. There’s no punctuation at the end. No full stop. The sentence
— and the legacy it describes — is left open-ended, unresolved. This final
structural gesture mirrors the ongoing nature of cultural assimilation. There is
no clear conclusion to the story of colonization and language. It continues
beyond the poem, into the reader’s world, into the unborn.

By employing line breaks, enjambment, ironic juxtaposition, and a lack of

closure, Bhatt doesn’t just describe the effects of colonialism — she structurally
enacts them. The poem ends as the colonial experience often does: subtly,
quietly, and irreversibly altering what comes next.

​
​
“A Different History” Symbols​
​
1. Pan (Greek God)

Sujata Bhatt’s A Different History opens with a bold and unexpected invocation:
“Great Pan is not dead; / he simply emigrated / to India.” This symbolic use of
Pan, the ancient Greek god of nature, immediately sets the tone for a poem that
challenges Western narratives of cultural superiority and spiritual decline. By
introducing Pan as a living, migrating deity who has found sanctuary in India,
Bhatt employs this mythological figure to explore profound themes of
colonialism, cultural survival, and spiritual displacement. Pan becomes
more than a god — he becomes a symbol of continuity and resistance, of
cultural values that survive conquest not through confrontation, but through
transformation and migration.
In Western history and literature, Pan’s death was often interpreted as a sign of
the end of paganism and the rise of rationalism and Christianity. Writers and
philosophers such as Plutarch and later Renaissance thinkers framed the “death
of Pan” as a metaphor for the supposed triumph of Enlightenment ideals over
superstition. By contrast, Bhatt subverts this narrative. Rather than being
defeated, Pan is said to have simply “emigrated to India” — a line loaded with
post-colonial irony. This subtle move reclaims India as a land that remains
spiritually alive and connected to the divine in nature. Pan’s symbolic migration
asserts that while the West may have abandoned sacredness in pursuit of
modernity and empire, India has remained a place where divinity — whether
foreign or native — can still thrive.

This symbolism ties closely to Bhatt’s broader critique of colonial erasure and
cultural imposition. The very idea that Pan could seek refuge in India suggests
that colonized nations preserved spiritual depth even under imperial rule. It
reinforces the idea that the colonizer’s tools — language, education,
industrialization — may have spread far and wide, but they failed to completely
annihilate indigenous belief systems. Bhatt subtly implies that true
spirituality cannot be colonized. Pan, as a representative of a nature-based,
earthy divinity, finds a home in a country where “the gods roam freely, / disguised
as snakes or monkeys,” and where every tree and book is treated as sacred.
In this way, Bhatt not only defends India’s cultural and spiritual traditions, but also
reframes them as open, inclusive, and powerful enough to shelter even
displaced Western deities.

Furthermore, Pan’s symbolic presence foregrounds a critique of Western

secularism and materialism. In Western contexts, Pan has been relegated to
mythology, a relic of the past. In India, Bhatt suggests, the sacred continues to
breathe through ordinary things: animals, trees, books. This contrast elevates
Indian cultural values that recognize divinity in the mundane, a sharp contrast
to the sterile, book-slamming indifference of a colonizer’s worldview. Pan’s
journey, then, is not just geographical — it is ideological. He flees the cultural
death of the West and enters a space that still honors the metaphysical, the
symbolic, and the sacred.

The line also works on a deeper post-colonial psychological level. By

appropriating a Western god and integrating him into the Indian context, Bhatt
reverses the logic of colonial dominance. Just as the British Empire imposed its
gods, languages, and narratives onto its colonies, Bhatt turns that structure
inside out — now it is India that absorbs the outsider god, not as a threat but as a
welcomed guest in a pluralistic tradition. This represents a reclaiming of
cultural agency. It suggests that post-colonial identity need not be defined by
resistance alone but can be strengthened by selective assimilation and
adaptation, without sacrificing core values.

In conclusion, the use of Pan as a symbol in A Different History is a strategic and

deeply layered act of literary resistance. Bhatt’s portrayal of the Greek god not as
a fallen relic but as a spiritual migrant reflects her challenge to the colonial
narrative of cultural extinction. Pan becomes a symbol of the survival of sacred
traditions, the resilience of non-Western spirituality, and the power of
post-colonial cultures to redefine their own histories. In just a few lines,
Bhatt manages to reconfigure a myth, critique an empire, and celebrate a
spiritual worldview that continues to resist erasure.​
​
2. Trees​
​
In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt presents trees not merely as natural objects,
but as powerful cultural and spiritual symbols. Throughout the poem, trees serve
as a multifaceted emblem of India’s sacred traditions, deep-rooted
knowledge, and the fragility of cultural memory in the aftermath of
colonization. Bhatt uses the image of trees to explore how nature, spirituality, and
learning are inextricably bound together in Indian thought — and how
colonialism’s intrusion disrupted that bond.

One of the most striking lines in the poem reads:

“without offending the tree / from whose wood the paper was made.”​
Here, Bhatt weaves together the material and spiritual worlds. A
tree, which has been felled to make paper, is still to be respected —
not only for its role in producing books but because it retains a
spiritual essence. This line reflects a deeply ecological and sacred
worldview, rooted in many Eastern traditions, where trees are not
commodities but beings deserving reverence. Bhatt's poetic voice
resists the Western secular logic of utility, where a tree’s value ends
once it becomes paper. Instead, she emphasizes that even the
 transformed remains of nature carry sacred weight, and to misuse
them is a moral failure — “a sin.”

This reverence reflects the Indian philosophy of interconnectedness, where

all life — plant, animal, and human — is part of a divine cycle. Bhatt’s speaker
does not just highlight the value of trees as a source of knowledge (books), but
also positions them as spiritual vessels, aligned with deities like Sarasvati, the
goddess of wisdom. The presence of trees in the poem reinforces the idea that in
Indian culture, learning is not divorced from nature or the divine; rather, they
exist in harmony. This sharply contrasts with Western colonial ideologies that
often promoted industrial exploitation, deforestation, and the commodification of
nature for profit and empire.

Moreover, the tree symbolizes tradition and rootedness. In a post-colonial

context, Bhatt uses the image of the tree to reflect indigenous cultural heritage
that has withstood the violence of conquest. Trees are long-living organisms, and
by invoking them, Bhatt suggests that Indian culture is similarly deep-rooted,
ancient, and resilient — even when forcibly transformed. However, the fact that
the tree has been cut down to create a book also carries a subtle undercurrent of
loss and violence. Colonialism imposed new languages, new systems, and new
texts upon colonized societies, often at the cost of indigenous oral traditions
and ecological balance. The image of the tree-turned-book becomes
paradoxical — it provides knowledge, yet it is also a casualty of the very
systems it serves.

This tension is heightened by Bhatt’s repeated emphasis on how one must

“learn how to turn the pages gently.” This is not just a call for physical
gentleness — it is a metaphor for how we should approach cultural knowledge
and history with care and humility. If trees symbolize the past and the roots of a
people, then books, made from trees, are carriers of that collective memory.
Mishandling them — physically or ideologically — is presented as disrespectful
not only to knowledge but to nature and ancestry. The tree thus embodies a
profound intersection of environmental consciousness, spiritual reverence,
and post-colonial critique.

In conclusion, Sujata Bhatt uses the symbol of trees in A Different History to

evoke a wide spectrum of meanings — from sacred nature and cultural
heritage, to the complex violence of colonization and the imperative of
respect. Trees, in Bhatt’s poem, are not static background elements. They are
living symbols of knowledge, tradition, and spiritual presence, reminding the
reader that true wisdom lies not just in reading books, but in understanding and
honoring the roots from which they come — both literally and culturally. Through
this symbol, Bhatt reclaims a worldview where the sacred and the scholarly
coexist, and where nature is not something to be dominated, but deeply
respected.

3. Books​

In Sujata Bhatt’s A Different History, the symbol of books serves as a powerful

and multi-layered representation of knowledge, culture, spirituality, and
colonial oppression. Bhatt transforms books from mere vessels of information
into sacred objects, woven deeply into the moral and spiritual fabric of Indian life.
At the same time, she uses the symbol to confront the colonial legacy of
language and literature, where books also become tools of erasure and
domination. This duality makes books one of the most important and complex
symbols in the poem.

From the outset, Bhatt establishes books as sacred cultural artifacts. She
writes:

“it is a sin / to be rude to a book.”​

This line is simple, but the repetition that follows elevates its gravity:​
“a sin to shove a book aside / with your foot,​
a sin to slam books down / hard on a table,​
a sin to toss one carelessly / across a room.”

Through this repetition and litany of “sins,” Bhatt mimics the structure of a
religious commandment or ritual, reflecting the reverence with which books are
treated in Indian culture. The actions she condemns are mundane, but by
calling them “sins,” she highlights a cultural code where knowledge is not just
valued, but spiritually protected. Books, in this worldview, are not lifeless
objects; they are extensions of divine wisdom — a belief deeply rooted in Indian
traditions that honor Sarasvati, the goddess of learning.

This spiritual reverence is echoed again:

 “You must learn how to turn the pages gently​
without disturbing Sarasvati.”​
Here, Bhatt reminds the reader that to read is not just an act of
consumption but of respect and mindfulness. The idea that a
goddess can be disturbed by turning a page too harshly elevates the
physical act of reading to a sacred ritual. Books are portrayed not
only as vessels of language and stories, but also as embodiments of
the divine — they carry the spirit of the tree from which they were
made, the wisdom of generations, and the voice of a people.

However, this deeply sacred symbol of the book becomes complicated in the
second half of the poem, where Bhatt interrogates the legacy of colonialism and
linguistic domination. She asks:

“Which language​
has not been the oppressor’s tongue?”​
Here, the poem turns sharply, casting a shadow of violence and
cultural trauma over the symbol of the book. During colonization,
books became instruments of imperial control — written in foreign
tongues, promoting foreign ideologies, and systematically replacing
local knowledge systems. The very object once revered in India was
now often filled with content that served to displace and marginalize
indigenous voices.

Bhatt then explores the irony of this process:

“after the torture,​

after the soul has been cropped...​
the unborn grandchildren​
grow to love that strange language.”​
Books here become not just sacred texts, but also sites of cultural
contradiction. The language they contain is no longer neutral — it
becomes a symbol of post-colonial confusion, where the colonized
come to cherish the tools once used to dominate them. The book,
in this sense, becomes a symbol of both spiritual reverence and
historical betrayal. It is filled with knowledge, but whose knowledge?
It preserves memory, but whose memory is it preserving?
This conflict forces the reader to ask: can books still be sacred if their language is
a legacy of oppression? Bhatt doesn’t offer a clear answer, but she leans into the
complexity. The book becomes a battleground where spirituality, colonialism,
identity, and resistance all collide. In one breath, it is a sin to mishandle a book,
and in the next, it is a reminder of cultural violence.

In conclusion, the symbol of books in A Different History is a brilliant

contradiction. Bhatt portrays them as both holy and haunted, precious and
problematic. On one hand, they embody India's reverence for knowledge,
wisdom, and spirituality, connecting people to gods like Sarasvati and to the
natural world. On the other hand, they carry the scars of colonialism — written in
languages that once sought to erase native cultures. Through this symbol, Bhatt
challenges readers to re-evaluate what it means to honor knowledge in a
post-colonial world — and how to reconcile love for learning with the legacy of
linguistic domination.​
​
4. Sarasvati (Hindu Goddess of Knowledge)​
​
In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt invokes the symbol of Sarasvati, the Hindu
goddess of knowledge, wisdom, learning, and the arts, to emphasize the
spiritual reverence for knowledge in Indian culture and to contrast this with
the cultural dislocation brought about by colonialism. Through this powerful
symbol, Bhatt explores how knowledge is treated not only as a tool for
empowerment but also as something sacred and divine — a concept that
becomes distorted in the post-colonial reality where knowledge is often
disseminated through the language of the colonizer.

The reference to Sarasvati comes in the first half of the poem, where Bhatt sets
the tone for the deep spiritual relationship between Indian culture and
learning. She writes:

“You must learn how to turn the pages gently​

without disturbing Sarasvati…”

This line is gentle and yet rich with symbolic weight. Sarasvati is not physically
present in the poem, but her spiritual essence is imagined to dwell within
books and the act of reading. This links the intellectual activity of engaging with
books directly to a religious practice. It is not enough to simply read or gain
information; one must do so with reverence and care, as if the goddess herself
were watching.

The instruction to “turn the pages gently” can be seen as more than just a
comment on etiquette. It represents a ritualistic approach to learning, where
even the act of flipping a page becomes symbolic of respect for tradition, history,
and divinity. In Indian tradition, Sarasvati is often invoked before beginning
studies, playing an instrument, or starting any intellectual task. Bhatt taps into
this cultural consciousness to show that in India, knowledge is not just secular —
it is sacrosanct.

This is further reinforced by the preceding lines:

“It is a sin to shove a book aside​

with your foot…​
to slam books down hard on a table…”

Here, Bhatt positions Sarasvati as the moral guardian of knowledge. To

mistreat a book is not just rude — it is sacrilegious. The mention of “sin” suggests
that intellectual negligence or disrespect is akin to a spiritual violation. Sarasvati
becomes a symbol of the sacredness of learning, and Bhatt uses her to reflect
the Indian worldview that sees wisdom as a divine gift, not merely a human
achievement.

However, this reverence stands in sharp contrast to the second half of the
poem, where Bhatt shifts into a post-colonial reflection on the violent imposition
of the English language:

“Which language​
has not been the oppressor’s tongue?”

This rhetorical question invites the reader to consider how colonization corrupted
the purity of knowledge and education. In colonial India, English was used as a
tool of domination, replacing native languages and suppressing indigenous
knowledge systems — many of which were traditionally linked to figures like
Sarasvati. The sacredness symbolized by Sarasvati becomes disrupted; the
language used to transmit knowledge now comes from a place of violence, not
reverence.
In this context, the goddess Sarasvati symbolizes more than learning — she
symbolizes the cultural soul of India. Her presence in the poem signals a
longing for a time when knowledge was passed down in the mother tongue,
through oral storytelling, Sanskrit texts, and native traditions — not in the alien
language of the colonizer. Her invocation becomes a subtle resistance against
the cultural erasure caused by colonialism.

Moreover, Sarasvati’s symbolic presence also reveals the tension between

tradition and modernity, between sacred learning and Western-style secular
education. In India’s past, learning was intertwined with prayer, devotion, and
ritual. But colonialism — and, by extension, Western secularism — removed
knowledge from its spiritual roots. Bhatt, by highlighting Sarasvati, reasserts the
idea that education should not be divorced from cultural and spiritual
identity.

Ultimately, the goddess Sarasvati in A Different History functions as a symbol of

reverence, resistance, and cultural memory. She embodies the sacredness of
learning, the spiritual responsibility to honor knowledge, and the pain of watching
that reverence be trampled by colonial rule. Through her, Bhatt makes a broader
statement: true education is not just about content or language — it’s about
connection to culture, history, and identity. And in reclaiming Sarasvati, Bhatt
reclaims that connection.

5. Scythe​
​
In Sujata Bhatt’s A Different History, the symbol of the scythe is used as a
chilling and violent image to explore the brutality of colonialism and the deep
wounds it inflicted on cultural identity, language, and memory. Unlike the earlier
symbols in the poem (books, trees, gods) which are imbued with reverence and
spirituality, the scythe is a stark intrusion — a tool of destruction, used not for
harvesting life, but for severing the soul of a people. It is one of the most potent
symbols in the second half of the poem, where Bhatt shifts from a meditative
tone on Indian tradition to a bitter reflection on historical trauma.

Imagery and Placement

The scythe appears in these lines:

 “after the soul has been cropped​
with a long scythe swooping out​
of the conqueror’s face”

This metaphor is violent, swift, and surgical. The soul, which represents
culture, identity, language, and spiritual wholeness, is “cropped” — a word that is
deceptively gentle, yet in this context feels brutal. Cropping is usually associated
with trimming or harvesting, but here it becomes a symbol of forced mutilation.
It implies that the colonizer didn’t just oppress outwardly but cut into the very
essence of the colonized people — their soul.

The phrase “long scythe” suggests premeditation and magnitude. The damage
wasn’t quick or accidental. It was deliberate, systematic, and stretched across
generations. The scythe’s length is symbolic of both the power and reach of
colonialism — how it extended not just geographically but deep into the psyche
of the colonized.

The Conqueror’s Face

Perhaps the most powerful part of this image is the personification: the scythe is
described as “swooping out / of the conqueror’s face”. This is a disturbing fusion
of weapon and oppressor, suggesting that the violence isn’t just physical — it’s
ideological. The conqueror doesn’t even need to raise a weapon; his very
presence is cutting. His language, identity, and facial expression are extensions
of imperial power. The face becomes a symbol of domination, superiority, and
dehumanization, while the scythe emerges from it like an extension of that
oppressive gaze.

Symbolic Associations

Traditionally, the scythe is associated with the Grim Reaper, a universal

symbol of death. Bhatt repurposes this imagery to suggest that colonialism was a
kind of cultural death. It didn’t just kill bodies — it killed languages, erased
traditions, silenced gods, and displaced histories. This metaphor aligns with
the poem’s overarching critique: that language and cultural imposition are
tools of violence, and the scythe becomes the ultimate image of this
destruction.

Connection to Language and Legacy

What makes this image even more tragic is what follows:

“the unborn grandchildren​

grow to love that strange language.”

Here, the scythe's impact is not temporary. The cultural amputation it performed
persists. The new generations, disconnected from their ancestral languages and
traditions, grow up loving the very language that once oppressed their people.
This is internalized colonization — the scythe has done more than cut, it has
reprogrammed memory. The colonizer's tongue has replaced the native one,
and with it, a piece of the soul is lost — willingly embraced by those who don’t
even realize what was taken.

This cyclical consequence makes the scythe not just a symbol of destruction but
of permanent transformation, of irreversible damage to identity and culture.
Bhatt's tone here is not just sorrowful — it's laced with quiet outrage.

Conclusion
In A Different History, the scythe stands as one of the poem’s most harrowing
and powerful symbols. It encapsulates the violent legacy of colonialism — not
just as a political or economic system, but as a deliberate act of cultural
erasure. Through the scythe, Bhatt shows that the conquest wasn’t just external,
but internal: a deep slicing of language, soul, and self. It contrasts sharply with
the spiritual symbols of the first stanza, reinforcing the idea that colonialism was
not just a historical event but a spiritual and intellectual desecration — one
that continues to echo through generations.

6. Language​
​
In her powerful postcolonial poem A Different History, Sujata Bhatt treats
language not merely as a means of communication, but as a symbol of
cultural continuity, spiritual reverence, oppression, and psychological
displacement. Throughout the poem, language serves a dual symbolic
function: in one half, it is associated with sacredness, identity, and respect for
knowledge, and in the other, it becomes a symbol of colonial violence, cultural
dislocation, and historical trauma. Bhatt masterfully uses this layered
symbolism to explore the contradictions and complexities of postcolonial
identity, especially in a country like India that was colonized and linguistically
transformed by the British.

1. Language as a Sacred Symbol of Knowledge and Cultural Continuity

The first half of the poem situates language as a sacred object, tightly bound with
Indian cultural and spiritual heritage. Bhatt writes:

“It is a sin to shove a book aside / with your foot,​

a sin to slam books down / hard on a table…”

This reverence for books — as physical manifestations of language — points to

the Indian worldview that associates language and learning with divinity,
specifically through Sarasvati, the Hindu goddess of knowledge. Books are not
just tools; they are sacred vessels, containing the wisdom of generations and
the spiritual energy of the written word. Language here becomes a symbol of
living tradition, something not to be taken lightly or abused. The act of treating
books gently:

“You must learn how to turn the pages gently / without disturbing
Sarasvati…”

underscores the spiritual sanctity of language in Indian culture. Sarasvati is

not merely a metaphor here — she is a literal divine presence embedded within
language and learning. Bhatt links language to nature, as well:

“without offending the tree / from whose wood the paper was made.”

This line connects language symbolically to the natural world, suggesting that
the production and use of language must remain rooted in humility,
sustainability, and respect. There is a fusion between the physical, spiritual,
and intellectual — making language a holistic, sacred force.

2. Language as a Symbol of Oppression and Cultural Violence

The tone of the poem shifts dramatically in the second stanza. From reverence
and spirituality, the speaker moves to anger and sorrow, as she begins to
question the historical burden language carries:

“Which language / has not been the oppressor’s tongue?”

This question is direct, unfiltered, and deeply rhetorical — it implies that almost
every major language carries a history of conquest and domination.
English, in the Indian context, is the most immediate reference. Bhatt forces the
reader to confront the paradox: the same language that once repressed Indian
people is now used for their education, expression, and even poetry.
Language thus becomes a loaded symbol — one that contains the DNA of
colonization.

Bhatt continues with a visceral metaphor of colonial trauma:

“after the soul has been cropped / with a long scythe swooping out / of
the conqueror’s face…”

This striking image likens language to a weaponized tool, a “scythe” used to

“crop” the soul. The soul represents indigenous culture, memory, and spiritual
wholeness, while the scythe is the instrument of cultural mutilation. Language
is no longer sacred here — it has become an instrument of erasure, wielded by
the colonizer to impose a new identity and silence native voices. The fact that it is
the “conqueror’s face” that yields the weapon suggests that language carries
the presence of power even in its spoken form. In other words, every time the
colonizer’s language is spoken, it echoes domination.

3. Language and Internalized Colonization

What makes the symbol of language even more complex is how it continues to
shape postcolonial identity, even long after the conquerors have left. Bhatt
writes:

“the unborn grandchildren / grow to love that strange language.”

This is perhaps the most devastating line in the poem. It shows how language,
even when imposed violently, can eventually be internalized, normalized,
and even loved. The “unborn grandchildren” symbolize future generations,
those who were not alive during the era of colonization but are still shaped by its
consequences. They are linguistically orphaned — disconnected from their
ancestral tongue, raised in a linguistic reality shaped by empire. Bhatt’s use of
“strange language” is deliberate; it emphasizes how unnatural this language is to
their cultural roots, even as it becomes familiar.

Language here symbolizes a deep identity crisis: how can one truly belong to a
culture if the language they use was once a tool to destroy it? This question
remains unresolved in the poem, adding to its emotional and philosophical depth.
Bhatt does not offer a solution — she only illuminates the painful irony that
language can both preserve and destroy, connect and alienate.

4. Language as a Symbol of Postcolonial Guilt and Irony

Another subtle layer in Bhatt’s use of language as a symbol is the fact that the
poem itself is written in English. The speaker is using the very language she
critiques. This adds a meta-symbolic dimension to the poem — it becomes a
living example of the very contradiction it explores. Bhatt is caught in the
same paradox as her speaker: to communicate, to reach an international
audience, to critique colonization — she must use English. Thus, the language
becomes both a bridge and a burden, both the wound and the bandage.

Bhatt is conscious of this tension, and she doesn’t try to resolve it. Instead, she
lets language exist in its contradiction — as something that has been
weaponized, yet also redeemed, reclaimed for artistic, spiritual, and political
expression.

Conclusion: Language as a Double-Edged Sword

In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt uses the symbol of language as a
double-edged sword — a sacred legacy and a brutal inheritance. The poem
forces readers to reflect on the layers of meaning embedded in language,
particularly for postcolonial societies who have had their own languages sidelined
or silenced. Through evocative imagery, rhetorical questions, and cultural
allusions, Bhatt portrays language as a symbol of both cultural reverence and
historical trauma.

By exposing the paradox of loving the language that once oppressed you, Bhatt
lays bare the emotional and intellectual scars of colonization. And by doing
so in English, she turns that language into a tool of resistance — proof that
symbols can be redefined, even if they can never be entirely cleansed of their
past.

7. Snakes and Monkeys

In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt uses symbolic imagery rooted in Indian

mythology and nature to explore the spiritual, cultural, and philosophical
complexities of postcolonial identity. Among these, the figures of snakes and
monkeys emerge as potent symbols that reflect India's mythological richness,
reverence for life, and resistance to Western rationalism and
anthropocentrism. These animals are not random references; they are deeply
encoded with religious, cultural, and philosophical meaning. Their inclusion
in the poem highlights Bhatt's concern with spiritual ecology, cultural identity,
and the clash between Western materialism and Eastern spiritual traditions.

1. Reverence for All Life in Indian Philosophy

Bhatt writes:

“Great Pan is not dead;​

he simply emigrated​
to India.​
Here, the gods roam freely,​
disguised as snakes or monkeys…”

This passage references Great Pan, the Greek god of nature, but quickly shifts
focus to the Indian context. In Bhatt’s India, gods roam the land not in grand
temples or as abstract deities, but in the form of humble animals — snakes
and monkeys. These animals are symbolic of the sacredness of all life forms in
Indian belief systems, particularly in Hinduism, where animals are vehicles of
gods (vahanas) or manifestations of divinity.
The monkey, for example, evokes Hanuman, the monkey god known for his
strength, devotion, and loyalty. Similarly, snakes are often associated with Shiva,
who wears a cobra around his neck, and with Nāgas, semi-divine serpent beings
in Hindu and Buddhist mythology. These symbols root the poem firmly in a
non-Western worldview — one where divinity is interwoven with nature, and
where humility before life is a moral imperative.

2. Contrast With Western Rationalism and Secularism

By referring to gods “disguised as snakes or monkeys,” Bhatt challenges the

Western tendency to compartmentalize the sacred from the mundane. In
Western (particularly Enlightenment-era) traditions, animals are often viewed
through the lens of science, utility, or evolutionary hierarchy. Bhatt rejects this
reductionist view. In her India, the monkey and the snake are not subjects of
the zoologist's study, but emissaries of the divine.

This symbolic representation directly contrasts with the West’s disenchanted view
of the natural world, suggesting that colonial powers not only imposed foreign
languages and systems but also stripped nature of its spiritual dimension.
The reverence for animals in Indian culture becomes a quiet form of resistance
against the secularism and materialism imposed during colonization.

3. Identity, Indigeneity, and Cultural Memory

The snakes and monkeys also symbolize the deep cultural memory and
identity that India holds onto — even in a postcolonial world where English
dominates. By referencing these animals as divine forms, Bhatt anchors the
Indian identity not in imported ideologies or languages but in native myths,
animals, and beliefs.

This serves as a cultural reclamation. In a world where the “unborn

grandchildren grow to love that strange language,” Bhatt reminds us that true
Indian identity lies in its connection to land, myth, and animal symbolism —
not in the colonial systems that sought to overwrite them.
4. Resistance and Survival

Both animals are also symbolic of resilience and survival, qualities that can be
read allegorically in a postcolonial context. The snake, often misunderstood or
feared, is also a symbol of wisdom, regeneration, and cyclical power in Indian
mythology. It sheds its skin, symbolizing transformation and the ability to survive
through eras of change.

The monkey, on the other hand, represents playfulness, cunning, and divine
strength. In the Ramayana, Hanuman plays a pivotal role in rescuing Sita and
defeating evil, making him a symbol of righteous rebellion. These traits —
adaptability, strength, spiritual alignment — reflect how Indian culture has
survived colonization, much like these animals have survived in environments
increasingly hostile to wild nature.

5. A Living World of Symbols

By claiming that the gods “roam freely” in these animal forms, Bhatt collapses the
barrier between the spiritual and the everyday, between the mythical past and
the modern present. The animal symbolism in the poem doesn’t just speak to
history — it speaks to an ongoing metaphysical worldview where reverence
for life and nature still guides moral behavior. This connects directly with Bhatt’s
earlier references to how books should be treated — with gentleness and
spiritual mindfulness, much like the world around us.

Conclusion: Animal Symbols as Carriers of Sacred Identity

In conclusion, Sujata Bhatt uses snakes and monkeys as powerful symbolic

carriers of Indian spirituality, cultural resilience, and postcolonial
resistance. These animals are not just decorative references; they represent an
entire philosophical system that views life — in all its forms — as sacred
and interconnected. Through them, Bhatt critiques the Western secular
worldview, affirms indigenous identity, and expresses a reverence for nature that
is deeply spiritual. In a poem that questions how colonial languages and histories
have reshaped Indian identity, the presence of these animal symbols becomes a
form of reclamation — an assertion that despite everything, the gods (and
the culture they represent) are still alive, and still roaming freely.​
​
.“ADifferent History ” Poetic Devices and Figurative
Language​
​
1. Allusion​
In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt makes strategic use of allusion to establish a
rich dialogue between cultures, belief systems, and colonial histories. Through
these references, she critiques the cultural aftermath of colonization while
celebrating indigenous spiritual traditions. Allusion in this poem is not
ornamental—it is deeply thematic, functioning as both a cultural map and a
postcolonial tool of resistance.

The opening line—“Great Pan is not dead;”—is a direct allusion to Greek

mythology, specifically the god Pan, associated with nature, the wild, and rustic
music. Pan’s "death" was historically misinterpreted in early Christian texts as
symbolic of the end of paganism and the rise of monotheism. By invoking Pan
and declaring that he “simply emigrated / to India,” Bhatt challenges the narrative
of cultural extinction. Here, Pan’s survival becomes symbolic of the continuity
of spiritual and cultural practices outside the Western world, especially in
India. The myth of Pan’s death is reworked to assert that ancient, non-Western
ways of life have not died—they have merely adapted and relocated. Bhatt subtly
critiques Eurocentric views that define global culture through the lens of Western
progress and religion.

This allusion also establishes parallels between Western and Eastern

spirituality. Pan, a god of wilderness and fertility, shares qualities with many
Indian deities associated with nature—most notably, Sarasvati, who is
referenced later in the poem. By placing Pan and Sarasvati in the same poetic
space, Bhatt creates a mythological bridge between two civilizations,
suggesting an underlying unity in the sacredness of nature and knowledge.
These allusions dismantle the binary of colonizer/colonized, showing that
spiritual systems across the globe are interconnected and deserve equal
reverence.

Moreover, the poem is filled with indigenous allusions that affirm Indian culture
and spirituality. Bhatt writes, “Here, the gods roam freely, disguised as snakes
or monkeys,” which alludes to Hindu mythology—specifically to gods like
Hanuman (a monkey god symbolizing strength and devotion) and Nagas
(serpent deities symbolizing fertility and protection). These allusions serve to
reclaim religious and mythological imagery that colonial forces once deemed
primitive or idolatrous. By presenting these figures as everyday
presences—“roaming freely”—Bhatt underscores the deep cultural integration
of spirituality in Indian life. This reverent treatment of indigenous gods acts as
a counter-narrative to the secular, rationalist framework imposed during
colonial rule.

The reference to Sarasvati, the Hindu goddess of knowledge, further elevates

the cultural significance of books and language. By urging readers to handle
books with care “without disturbing Sarasvati,” Bhatt imbues intellectual
activity with spiritual gravity, contrasting the Western commodification of
knowledge with the Indian tradition of sacred learning. Sarasvati’s presence in
the poem functions as a spiritual guardian of knowledge, whose invocation
underscores the sacred duty of preserving and respecting cultural wisdom.

Ultimately, Bhatt’s allusions serve multiple purposes: they reassert

non-Western belief systems as valid and venerable; they expose the erasures
and misrepresentations caused by colonial ideologies; and they reinforce the
importance of preserving cultural identity in the face of linguistic and spiritual
assimilation. Far from being passive references, these allusions form the
ideological backbone of the poem, enabling Bhatt to perform a literary
decolonization through the reanimation of global mythologies.

​
2. Extended Metaphor (Conceit)​
Sujata Bhatt’s A Different History is saturated with metaphoric richness, but one
of its most structurally significant techniques is the extended metaphor—or
conceit—which she uses to link violence, reverence, and cultural identity to
language and books. This conceit is not limited to a single image but unfolds
gradually throughout the poem, threading together a constellation of symbols like
trees, gods, books, and language, to reflect a deeper philosophical and
postcolonial commentary.

At the heart of the poem lies an extended metaphor that books are living,
sacred beings, and that mishandling them is not simply carelessness—it is a
moral and spiritual violation. In Indian tradition, disrespecting a book is
considered a sin because it is a vessel of knowledge, and knowledge is sacred.
Bhatt extends this idea into a sweeping conceit where the physical act of
turning a page becomes a spiritual interaction:

“You must learn how to turn the pages gently / without disturbing
Sarasvati, / without offending the tree / from whose wood the paper
was made.”

This passage encapsulates the moral framework of the poem. The “tree” is not
simply a material resource but is imbued with agency and dignity. Sarasvati is not
an abstract deity but a spiritual presence intimately tied to the act of reading.
This metaphor transforms the relationship between the reader and the book into
one of ritual, reverence, and responsibility. Books are not inert objects; they
are descendants of nature, transformed by human hands, and thus must be
treated with ethical awareness. The conceit builds an ecospiritual worldview
where literature, language, and nature are all intertwined.

This metaphor becomes even more profound when Bhatt shifts her focus to
language as a tool of oppression. In the second stanza, she asks:

“Which language / has not been the oppressor’s tongue?”

Here, she extends the metaphor to language itself—suggesting that language is

not just a neutral medium, but a carrier of historical violence. The metaphor
continues when she describes how the soul has been “cropped / with a long
scythe swooping out / of the conqueror’s face.” This brutal image casts
language as a weapon—the “scythe” that reshapes identity, erases culture, and
inflicts intergenerational trauma. The metaphor of the scythe implies harvesting,
mutilation, and domination, continuing the theme that communication itself can
be an act of violence. The idea that “unborn grandchildren / grow to love that
strange language” extends the conceit to show how deep the damage goes—it
becomes internalized, even by those not directly colonized.

What makes this conceit powerful is its dual capacity—it can reflect both sacred
reverence and violent imposition, depending on the context. In indigenous
traditions, language is sacred and books are treated with awe. Under colonialism,
however, language becomes an instrument of erasure. This contrast is held
together by the poem’s extended metaphor, which never allows language,
trees, or books to exist passively—they are active agents in a moral universe
shaped by culture, colonization, and resistance.

In sum, Bhatt’s extended metaphor works as a conceptual scaffold for the

entire poem. By presenting language and books as sacred yet wounded, revered
yet weaponized, she constructs a poetic world where knowledge must be
approached with humility and historical awareness. This conceit unifies the
personal, the political, and the spiritual—an ambitious and masterful technique
that gives A Different History its quiet, burning power.

3. Personification​
Sujata Bhatt masterfully employs personification throughout A Different History
to challenge materialist views of nature and knowledge, reinforcing the poem’s
broader themes of cultural reverence, postcolonial resistance, and spiritual
ecology. By imbuing inanimate objects and abstract concepts with human or
divine attributes, Bhatt reasserts a worldview rooted in Indian philosophy, where
the sacred permeates all of existence—especially books, trees, and language.

One of the most striking uses of personification appears in the line:

“You must learn how to turn the pages gently / without disturbing
Sarasvati, / without offending the tree / from whose wood the paper
was made.”

Here, Bhatt personifies both Sarasvati, the Hindu goddess of wisdom, and the
tree that gave its wood for the book. Sarasvati, though a deity, is evoked as a
resident presence within the book—not metaphorically, but literally. To “disturb”
her is to commit a moral error, suggesting that each act of reading is also an act
of spiritual engagement. Similarly, the tree is not referred to as a dead material,
but as a living entity capable of being “offended.” This is a deliberate use of
personhood language, reinforced by the pronoun “whose,” typically reserved for
humans or animate beings. Through this, Bhatt collapses the binary between
the material and the spiritual, suggesting that learning is not only an intellectual
act but a relational one, filled with ethical and ecological consequences.

This poetic treatment of nature is a direct rebuttal to Western industrial and

colonial ideologies. In most post-Enlightenment worldviews, trees are
resources, and books are commodities. But Bhatt’s use of personification resists
commodification: she reanimates the tree as an ancestor or witness whose life
force continues in the form of the book. It also speaks to postcolonial
reclamation, as personifying the tree transforms it into a subject rather than an
object—exactly what colonialism denied to both people and land.

Another significant moment of personification occurs in the metaphor:

“the soul has been cropped / with a long scythe swooping out / of the
conqueror’s face.”

Here, the abstract “soul” is treated as a body part—something that can be

“cropped,” like hair or wheat. It is passive, mutilated by a tool (“scythe”) that
emerges from the “face” of the colonizer. The conqueror’s face, which
conventionally symbolizes human identity, here becomes the source of
violence, personified as the wielder of a destructive tool. This moment blends
personification and violent metaphor to expose the trauma of linguistic and
cultural colonization. Language, typically viewed as a medium of expression, is
transformed into a weapon of dismemberment, and the conqueror’s face into a
mask of domination.

Even language itself becomes personified throughout the poem. In the

interrogative:

“Which language / truly meant to murder someone?”

The phrase “meant to” assigns intention and agency to language. It’s no longer
just a tool, but a complicit actor in violence. This personification forces readers
to re-evaluate the neutrality of language. Under colonialism, English was not
merely taught—it was imposed; and in the process, it became a vehicle for
erasure and control. Bhatt’s rhetorical question prompts the unsettling realization
that the very words we use to think might carry histories of domination embedded
within them.

Through such personifications, Bhatt expands the moral and emotional terrain of
the poem. Books are not objects, trees are not timber, language is not neutral.
Everything in her poetic world has consciousness, dignity, and memory. This
not only aligns with Hindu animist traditions, but it also creates a poetic
structure that embodies the very respect it demands. By giving life and voice to
the silent, Bhatt constructs a form of resistance against Western
objectification, advocating for a world in which all things—living or not—are
treated with reverence.

4. Rhetorical Questions​
In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt uses rhetorical questions as a powerful
structural and philosophical device to interrogate the violent legacy of colonialism
and to explore the paradoxes of language, culture, and identity. These questions
are not merely stylistic — they function as ethical provocations, postcolonial
resistance, and spiritual reflections, forcing the reader to confront
uncomfortable truths about complicity, inheritance, and cultural loss.

The most pivotal rhetorical questions appear in the second half of the poem:

“Which language​
has not been the oppressor’s tongue?​
Which language​
truly meant to murder someone?”

These lines mark a dramatic tonal shift from the earlier reverent mood. The
diction becomes accusatory, with the repetition of “which language” acting as a
poetic indictment. The first question invites a moment of universal reflection: no
language is innocent. Bhatt reframes all linguistic expression in the context of
colonial violence, making the reader consider how every language — even
one’s mother tongue — may have been used to oppress.

By posing the question without answering it, Bhatt heightens its moral
ambiguity. The second question, “Which language truly meant to murder
someone?” is especially searing. It personifies language, assigning it intent
(“meant to”), which is a bold, unsettling move. It suggests that language is not
just a passive medium but can carry murderous agency, as if the colonizer’s
tongue carried out psychic and cultural assassination. The juxtaposition of
“language” with “murder” is intentionally jarring. Bhatt fuses semantics with
violence, showing how words, grammar, and discourse have been weaponized
to displace indigenous identities, names, gods, and thought systems.

Phonetically, the questions are relatively staccato and blunt, especially

compared to the earlier flowing descriptions of sacredness. This sudden textural
shift in sound and rhythm mirrors the rupture colonialism caused in indigenous
cultures. The initial stanza is soft, respectful, filled with modal verbs and
conditionals (“must learn,” “without offending”), but this section turns interrogative
and accusatory. The enjambment slows the reader down, drawing attention to
each phrase and demanding reflection. This sonic tension complements the
thematic disruption.

Structurally, rhetorical questions act as turning points in the poem. They mark
the moment when the speaker transitions from celebration of cultural
reverence to examination of inherited violence. The questions fracture the
poem’s earlier meditative tone, introducing a tone of inner conflict and cultural
guilt. These questions do not resolve — they hang in the air, unresolved,
mirroring the unresolvable contradictions in the postcolonial psyche: speaking
the language of your oppressor, revering books written in that very language,
learning your gods through a tongue that once silenced them.

Additionally, these rhetorical questions implicate the reader. The universal

phrasing (“Which language…”) expands the poem’s scope from India to a global
context. It’s no longer about just the British Raj or Indian deities — it becomes
about how all peoples wrestle with histories written in the voices of their
conquerors. Bhatt’s questions are not meant to be answered, but to unsettle,
to stir discomfort, and to awaken historical consciousness.

In conclusion, Bhatt uses rhetorical questions in A Different History not for

ornamentation, but for confrontation. They are sharp blades that cut through
nostalgia, forcing readers to reckon with their linguistic inheritance. In a poem
that meditates on the sacredness of knowledge, these questions serve as moral
alarms — a warning that even the most elegant language can conceal centuries
of erasure and pain.

5. Enjambment​
Sujata Bhatt’s A Different History makes extensive and intentional use of
enjambment, a structural and poetic device where a sentence or phrase
continues beyond the end of a line or stanza without a pause. Far from a mere
stylistic flourish, Bhatt’s enjambment serves multiple artistic and philosophical
purposes: it mirrors the fragmentation caused by colonialism, reflects the
fluidity and conflict of cultural identity, and constructs a rhythmic tension
that underpins the poem’s postcolonial and spiritual critique.

From the outset, enjambment defines the poem’s flow. Consider the opening
lines:
 “Great Pan is not dead;

he simply emigrated

to India.”

Here, enjambment creates a delay between “emigrated” and “to India,” allowing
the phrase to unfold with slow, contemplative pacing. The pause between
“emigrated” and “to India” adds dramatic tension, making the relocation of the
Greek god Pan feel both surprising and ironic. It captures the unsettling notion of
cultural transplantation — how foreign belief systems and symbols are relocated,
often forcefully, into colonized contexts. This structural technique reflects a
broader cultural dislocation, a theme central to Bhatt’s postcolonial
commentary.

Throughout the poem, enjambment mimics the stream-of-consciousness

quality of the speaker’s voice. The absence of punctuation in many places gives
the impression of continuous thought — as if the speaker is grappling with
unresolved questions, unable to pause or find finality. This suits the tone of the
poem, which deals with cultural confusion, loss, reverence, and inherited
trauma. The form, in other words, embodies the content. The structure is
fractured yet flowing, just like the identity it reflects: disjointed but ongoing.

One striking example is the sequence:

“You must learn how to turn the pages gently

without disturbing Sarasvati,

without offending the tree

from whose wood the paper was made.”

Here, enjambment functions to stretch the ethical instructions, giving each line
its own emotional weight. The spiritual act of reading is dissected line by line,
emphasizing each sacred component — Sarasvati, the tree, the paper — without
compressing them into a single thought. This fragmentation echoes the idea that
respect for knowledge is not a single action, but a layered, mindful
process. The slow, step-by-step rhythm reinforces ritualistic reverence.

Further down, in the rhetorical shift:

 “Which language

has not been the oppressor’s tongue?”

the enjambment sharpens the emotional impact. By isolating “Which language,”

Bhatt forces the reader to pause and reflect before hitting the politically charged
clause that follows. This mirrors the delayed realization of colonial harm,
where surface-level appreciation of language is later undermined by historical
violence. The device reinforces thematic duality — language as both beautiful
and brutal.

Phonetically, enjambment also alters sound and pacing. The lack of terminal
punctuation at the end of lines keeps the reader moving breathlessly, but not
aimlessly. The momentum mirrors a quest for clarity, suggesting that identity,
reverence, and linguistic heritage are in constant motion — always being
negotiated, never fully resolved. It also creates an underlying tension, a kind of
cognitive dissonance, between flowing form and fractured content.

In a symbolic sense, the enjambed lines can be seen as mirroring the

postcolonial condition itself: cultures, languages, and identities forced to
extend unnaturally across imposed borders, with no choice but to continue
beyond traditional boundaries. The poem refuses neat closure, just as
postcolonial identities resist neat categories.

In conclusion, Bhatt’s use of enjambment in A Different History is structurally and

thematically essential. It supports the poem’s emotional cadence, emphasizes
sacredness, interrogates colonial aftershocks, and reflects the complexities of
language and identity in a postcolonial world. Far from simply guiding the eye to
the next line, Bhatt uses enjambment to stretch meaning, echo cultural
disruption, and slow the reader’s gaze on sacred ground.

​
6. Sound Devices (Alliteration, Assonance, and Consonance)​
Sujata Bhatt’s A Different History is a poem of reverence, resistance, and
reflection — and its soundscape plays a critical role in shaping these effects.
Bhatt employs alliteration, assonance, and consonance not as decorative
features, but as structural and symbolic elements. These devices work
together to reinforce the sacredness of books, the violence of colonialism, and
the fragility of language and culture in a postcolonial world. Each sonic technique
serves to draw the reader’s attention to the moral weight of specific lines, evoke
mood, and mirror internal conflict.

🌀 Alliteration: Repetition with Purpose

Alliteration is used subtly but effectively throughout the poem to create rhythm,
highlight key ideas, and reinforce thematic contrasts. In the lines:

“You must learn how to turn the pages gently​

without disturbing Sarasvati…”

the soft, flowing “s” sounds in “Sarasvati,” “disturbing,” and even earlier in
“pages gently” create a hushed, reverent tone. This sonic softness mirrors the
caution and delicacy being described. The alliteration here serves a sacred
function — like a whispered ritual — underscoring the speaker’s respect for
knowledge and the divine.

Contrast this with lines like:

“after the soul has been cropped​

with a long scythe swooping out​
of the conqueror’s face…”

The repetition of harsh ‘s’ and ‘c’ sounds in “scythe,” “swooping,” “soul,” and
“cropped” evokes the sharpness and brutality of colonial violence. This shift in
sound quality is not coincidental. Bhatt uses sound to create a phonetic
contrast between the tenderness of cultural practices and the cold aggression of
conquest. The alliteration in this section cuts — literally and figuratively —
emphasizing the trauma that language and colonialism can inflict.

💫 Assonance: The Musicality of Mourning and Memory

Assonance, or the repetition of vowel sounds, enriches the emotional texture of
the poem. For example:

“Which language​
has not been the oppressor’s tongue?”
The repetition of the open “a” sound in “language,” “has,” and “not” produces a
lingering, somber resonance, drawing out the emotional heaviness of the
rhetorical question. This aural repetition reflects the inner mourning embedded
in the speaker’s interrogation of language. It's not just a question; it’s a lament.

Similarly, in:

“the unborn grandchildren​

grow to love that strange language…”

the long “o” sound in “grow,” “love,” and “language” stretches the line’s rhythm,
giving it a tone of inevitability and quiet grief. This sound pattern creates an echo
effect, mimicking the intergenerational repetition of colonial influence. The
assonance helps reflect the strange beauty and sorrow of inherited languages —
how even “strange” tongues become beloved through time and memory.

🔗 Consonance: Tension and Texture

Consonance appears in several key lines to build structural tension and create
textural richness. Consider:

“It is a sin to slam books down​

hard on a table…”

The repetition of the hard “d” and “t” sounds — “down,” “hard,” “table” —
mirrors the physical violence being described. The consonants land like thuds,
reinforcing the poem’s warning about mishandling books. Bhatt makes sound
perform meaning here — the auditory pattern mimics the actual act of slamming,
emphasizing how even subtle disrespect carries spiritual consequence.

In contrast, in the line:

“without offending the tree​

from whose wood the paper was made,”

there is a soft consonance of “w” and “m” sounds — “wood,” “whose,” “was,”
“made.” This gentler sonic quality emphasizes the sacredness of origin, the
quiet transformation of nature into knowledge. The consonance softens the tone
and invites reflection, aligning with the poem’s ecospiritual ethos.
🌊 Sound and Thematic Synergy
What makes Bhatt’s sound devices especially powerful is how they mirror her
thematic concerns. She uses sound to:

●​ Distinguish violence from reverence (harsh vs. soft consonants).​

●​ Reflect conflict between cultural reverence and colonial disruption

(tonal shifts from soft to hard).​

●​ Highlight the irony of linguistic inheritance (euphonious sounds in painful

contexts).​

●​ Create a ritualistic cadence, especially in the religiously charged

sections.​

The poem almost reads like a mantra, where the sound of the words matters as
much as their semantic meaning. By carefully crafting the acoustic texture of
each line, Bhatt ensures that her poem is not just read — it is felt in the body and
heard in the soul.

7. Violent Imagery​
Sujata Bhatt’s A Different History presents a powerful meditation on colonialism,
language, spirituality, and cultural memory — and nowhere is this more potently
felt than in her use of violent imagery. The poem is predominantly meditative in
tone, but embedded within its gentle reverence for books and gods are jarring,
brutal images that expose the historical violence of imperial conquest and
linguistic domination. These violent images are not gratuitous; they are
strategically inserted to disrupt the serenity of the poem’s spiritual themes,
creating a shocking emotional contrast and a thematic rupture that mirrors
the cultural trauma Bhatt interrogates.

One of the most striking examples occurs in the line:

 “after the soul has been cropped​
with a long scythe swooping out​
of the conqueror’s face”

Here, Bhatt employs a metaphor of agricultural violence — “cropped with a

long scythe” — to describe the colonizer’s destruction of identity, language, and
spirit. The verb “cropped”, typically associated with harvesting, is transformed
into an act of psychic mutilation. The soul, an intangible essence, is forcibly cut,
reduced, and reaped. This conveys not just death, but a systematic erasure —
of history, of culture, of voice.

The phrase “long scythe swooping out of the conqueror’s face” intensifies the
horror. A scythe is not just a tool of harvest; it is also a traditional symbol of
death, associated with the Grim Reaper. By fusing the image of the scythe with
“the conqueror’s face,” Bhatt personifies colonial power as death incarnate,
stripping it of any moral ambiguity. The conqueror is not merely a political actor
— he is a force of existential annihilation. This image places violence not just in
action, but in facial expression and identity — the source of violence is
humanized, yet dehumanizing.

What’s particularly notable is Bhatt’s compression of metaphor and imagery.

These lines are packed with semantic violence, yet delivered in a controlled,
almost quiet tone — making the brutality feel eerily calm, as if normalized. This
reflects the insidious nature of colonial violence, which often came cloaked in
civility, religion, and education.

Another instance of violent imagery appears earlier in the poem, though it is

more subtle:

“a sin to slam books down​

hard on a table,​
a sin to toss one carelessly​
across a room.”

Though less overtly brutal than the scythe metaphor, these lines describe
physical aggression against sacred objects. The verbs “slam” and “toss” are
harsh, and when associated with books — symbols of wisdom and divinity in the
poem — they take on symbolic violence. These actions echo the colonial
devaluation of indigenous knowledge systems, where sacred texts, oral
traditions, and spiritual practices were dismissed, destroyed, or overwritten.

Moreover, these acts of violence are not grand or theatrical. They are mundane.
Bhatt presents them as casual violence — the kind we commit thoughtlessly in
daily life. This subtlety expands the scope of the poem’s critique. Violence, Bhatt
suggests, is not always overt conquest — it is also found in disrespect,
forgetfulness, and negligence. In postcolonial societies, these smaller violences
— erasing traditions, privileging the colonizer’s language — can be just as
damaging.

Finally, the poem's rhetorical questions towards the end are framed by an
undercurrent of implied violence:

“Which language​
truly meant to murder someone?”

The juxtaposition of “language” with “murder” is jarring. It transforms the act of

speaking or writing into a weaponized force, challenging the reader to confront
how language — often seen as a benign cultural tool — has been used to
dominate, erase, and kill. The violence here is both literal and metaphorical.
Colonial languages not only replaced indigenous tongues; they carried ideologies
that enabled cultural genocide, assimilation, and psychological subjugation.

8.Juxtaposition​
In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt masterfully employs juxtaposition to
illuminate the paradoxes of postcolonial identity, cultural displacement, and the
sacredness of tradition amid violent historical rupture. By placing contrasting
ideas, images, and tones side by side, Bhatt exposes the tension between
reverence and destruction, between cultural pride and inherited shame, and
between the spiritual and the political. This technique forms the core structural
and thematic strategy of the poem, allowing Bhatt to explore the complexities of
colonization, language, and memory without didacticism.

One of the most immediate juxtapositions occurs in the poem’s opening lines:

“Great Pan is not dead;​

he simply emigrated​
to India.”
Here, Bhatt juxtaposes Western classical mythology (Pan, the Greek god of
nature) with Indian spiritual geography. The verb “emigrated” is deliberately
mundane and modern, almost bureaucratic — as though a mythological figure
filed travel papers to India. This absurdity, caused by juxtaposing mythic
timelessness with contemporary movement, is intentional. It underlines Bhatt’s
subversion of colonial narratives, suggesting that the spiritual power revered
in Western culture has not vanished — it has relocated to a place still rich in
sacred meaning. The juxtaposition of Pan and India challenges the Western
assumption of cultural superiority and spiritual “progress.”

This technique continues in Bhatt’s description of Indian spirituality:

“Here, the gods roam freely,​

disguised as snakes or monkeys;​
every tree is sacred​
and it is a sin​
to be rude to a book.”

Here, she juxtaposes sacred reverence with daily ritual, blending the divine
and the ordinary. Monkeys and snakes — creatures often dismissed or feared in
Western contexts — are described as manifestations of gods, challenging
colonial binaries of “civilized” versus “primitive.” The natural world is not inert
matter, but sacred presence. Bhatt places Hindu ecological respect side by
side with the secular neglect of knowledge in the West. This makes the reader
question their own attitudes: is a book merely an object, or is it an extension of
sacred nature? The phrase “it is a sin” is repeated several times, emphasizing
how reverence is culturally constructed, and juxtaposing spiritual taboos
with modern carelessness.

Later in the poem, the tone undergoes a sharp shift — a deliberate juxtaposition
of tone and imagery:

“Which language​
has not been the oppressor’s tongue?​
…​
after the soul has been cropped​
with a long scythe swooping out​
of the conqueror’s face”
This moment is tonally jarring when placed against the reverence of the earlier
verses. The gentle sanctity of “Sarasvati,” trees, and books is now placed side by
side with violent, colonial imagery: the soul being “cropped” like a field with a
“long scythe”. This juxtaposition highlights the psychological violence of
colonialism — the sacred, internal self is violated. Bhatt uses this sudden switch
in tone and image to shock the reader, pushing them to feel the brutal
dislocation suffered by colonized peoples. The rhetorical question “Which
language has not been the oppressor’s tongue?” sits side by side with the more
meditative reflections on knowledge, asking the reader to hold both truths
simultaneously: that language can liberate, but also dominate.

The final and perhaps most poignant juxtaposition in the poem lies in the paradox
presented in these lines:

“the unborn grandchildren​

grow to love that strange language.”

Here, Bhatt painfully juxtaposes violence and affection, oppression and

inheritance. The “strange language” — English, most likely — once used to
erase indigenous identity, becomes the tongue of the next generation. This
evokes a kind of postcolonial identity confusion. Bhatt forces the reader to sit
with the irony: that the very tool of cultural destruction is now embraced, even
loved. The juxtaposition between the “torture” and the “love” that follows is
deeply unsettling. It reflects how trauma becomes internalized, and how culture
can be both survivor and betrayer.

9. Irony​
In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt wields irony with surgical precision to expose
the deep paradoxes and historical injustices embedded within language,
colonialism, and spiritual reverence. The poem, steeped in cultural veneration
and postcolonial consciousness, draws its power from the contrast between
what is sacred and what has been violated, and it is within this tension that
irony operates most potently. Bhatt’s irony is not comedic — it is tragic, painful,
and revealing, a tool for highlighting cultural hypocrisy, historical contradiction,
and the emotional cost of inherited trauma.

One of the poem’s most profound ironies lies in its central paradox: the reverent
treatment of books and knowledge in Indian tradition juxtaposed with the fact
that the language in which this poem is written — English — is the
colonizer’s tongue. Bhatt writes:

“It is a sin to toss [a book] carelessly​

across a room.”

Here, Bhatt adopts a tone of sincere reverence. The repetition of “it is a sin”
lends the passage a quasi-religious rhythm, reinforcing the spiritual sanctity of
learning in Indian culture. However, the poem soon shifts into a postcolonial
reflection:

“Which language​
has not been the oppressor’s tongue?”

This line signals a sharp ironic rupture. The very language the speaker uses to
defend cultural heritage and critique colonial violence is the same language
historically used to erase native cultures. This is the poem’s most painful
irony: language, the vehicle of thought and preservation, is also the tool of
conquest. Bhatt’s use of English, then, is deliberately ironic — a form of
resistance as well as surrender, simultaneously reclaiming and acknowledging
the paradox of her postcolonial identity. This duality reflects the poet's internal
conflict: she cannot fully reject the language that enables her expression, but nor
can she ignore its violent past.

Another layer of irony emerges in the way Bhatt explores the violence of
colonialism through gentle imagery. She uses reverent, peaceful diction —
“gently,” “sacred,” “learn” — to describe Indian cultural practices, only to contrast
them with violent metaphors:

“after the soul has been cropped​

with a long scythe…”

The irony here lies in the tonal dissonance. A poem that begins with
respectful spiritual observation descends into an almost clinical description of
colonial devastation. This shift highlights the ironic betrayal of culture by
history: a civilization that treasures trees and books must now contend with a
history in which its soul was metaphorically reaped. The contrast is not only
thematic but deeply linguistic — Bhatt’s tranquil, respectful tone makes the
sudden violence more disturbing, emphasizing how deeply incompatible colonial
ideology was with indigenous traditions.

Furthermore, Bhatt’s rhetorical question:

“Which language​
truly meant to murder someone?”

…is laced with bitter irony. Language, typically a symbol of communication,

expression, and connection, is here charged with premeditated violence — to
“murder.” The irony is intensified by the specificity of “meant”: it suggests intent,
not accident. This sharply ironic phrasing invites the reader to reconsider
assumptions about language as a neutral or benevolent force. It also reflects a
profound psychological irony: the tool used to oppress is now, paradoxically,
loved by the oppressed:

“the unborn grandchildren​

grow to love that strange language.”

This closing image is one of generational irony. The descendants of the

colonized now cherish the language that once destroyed their ancestors’ cultural
frameworks. There is a tragic poignancy here: Bhatt does not criticize the
grandchildren for loving English, but rather mourns the conditions that made
such affection inevitable. The irony is not cruel — it is deeply human. It
acknowledges the survivor’s instinct to adapt, even if it means embracing what
once caused trauma. This is the irony of cultural survival: it requires the
integration of what once wounded you.

🎯 Conclusion
Irony in A Different History is not a decorative device — it is a critical lens,
exposing the layers of contradiction that define postcolonial identity. Bhatt uses it
to confront the absurdities and injustices of cultural displacement, linguistic
inheritance, and spiritual memory. Through tonal contrast, paradoxical phrasing,
and rhetorical questioning, she constructs a narrative in which irony becomes a
form of resistance — not to ridicule, but to reveal. It is in this revelation that the
poem finds its power: a quiet, relentless insistence that history be seen not just in
terms of what was taken, but in how painfully and ironically it lives on
10. Symbolism​
Sujata Bhatt’s A Different History is a poem rich in symbolism, weaving together
elements of Indian spirituality, postcolonial trauma, and ecological reverence to
articulate a deeply personal and collective cultural narrative. Symbolism in the
poem functions not merely as metaphor, but as a multi-layered device that
fuses spiritual reverence, historical critique, and identity conflict — especially in
the wake of colonial disruption.

From the opening line, the symbol of “Great Pan”, the Greek god of nature,
carries immediate weight. Pan is traditionally associated with the wild, untamed
forces of nature, music, and fertility. In declaring that “Great Pan is not dead; /
he simply emigrated / to India,” Bhatt draws on the Western claim that ancient
gods have faded in the face of modernity (referencing Elizabeth Barrett
Browning’s “Pan is dead”). Yet by stating that Pan now lives in India, Bhatt uses
him as a symbol of cultural continuity and resilience. This not only affirms the
vitality of Indian traditions but also reclaims mythology as a shared human
inheritance, transcending cultural boundaries. The symbolism is deeply ironic: a
Western god is used to legitimize Eastern spirituality, subtly reversing colonial
hierarchies.

The tree, which recurs throughout the poem, operates as a powerful symbol of
spiritual ecology, ancestry, and wisdom. Bhatt writes:

“without offending the tree​

from whose wood the paper was made.”

Here, the tree is not just a source of paper but a living ancestor. The use of the
pronoun “whose” personifies it, imbuing it with moral agency. Symbolically, the
tree represents sacrifice — the natural world giving itself for the preservation of
human knowledge. This symbolism disrupts Western materialist views of nature
as commodity and instead offers an ecospiritual worldview, where knowledge
and nature are intertwined in sacred reciprocity. The tree becomes a silent
martyr, and any disrespect toward a book is symbolic of disrespect toward life
itself.

Equally potent is the symbol of the book — not simply as a vessel of information
but as a sacred object. Bhatt treats the book almost like a religious relic: “It is a
sin to shove a book aside / with your foot.” This extreme reverence symbolizes
the Indian cultural attitude toward knowledge as divine and inviolable, often
associated with Sarasvati, the goddess of learning. At the same time, this
reverence is problematized by the poem’s second half, when Bhatt begins to
explore the violent colonial imposition of language. The book, though sacred,
also becomes a carrier of colonial power when its contents are written in the
oppressor’s tongue. Hence, the symbol of the book becomes dualistic — a
paradox of spiritual reverence and historical pain, reflecting the postcolonial
tension at the poem’s core.

Another striking symbol is the “scythe swooping out / of the conqueror’s

face” — a violent, jarring image that symbolizes cultural erasure and colonial
aggression. The scythe, typically associated with death or harvesting, becomes
a metaphor for the systematic stripping of native identity. The “conqueror’s
face” is an abstracted symbol of imperial violence, faceless and universal,
representing the many empires that have inflicted harm in the name of
civilization. It contrasts sharply with the gentle, sacred imagery earlier in the
poem, thereby dramatizing the thematic rift between reverence and
destruction.

Finally, the most enduring and unsettling symbol is language itself. Bhatt asks:

“Which language​
has not been the oppressor’s tongue?”

Language here is not neutral. It becomes a symbol of both violence and

survival. Bhatt explores how language, once a tool of subjugation, becomes
paradoxically loved by the oppressed — a deeply ironic symbol of cultural
adaptation and betrayal. Language, in this reading, becomes a contested site,
a symbolic battlefield where memory, identity, and assimilation collide. It is the
invisible colonizer, the one that stays after the empire leaves, living on in the
tongues of “unborn grandchildren.”

11. Anaphora​
In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt strategically employs anaphora — the
deliberate repetition of words at the beginning of successive lines or clauses —
to reinforce cultural reverence, spiritual instruction, and emotional emphasis. This
device appears most explicitly in the repetition of the phrase “It is a sin…”,
which becomes a poetic refrain echoing throughout the first half of the poem. Far
from being stylistic ornamentation, this repetition serves multiple structural and
thematic purposes, underpinning Bhatt’s philosophical and postcolonial
critiques.

The phrase “It is a sin” is repeated three times in close succession:

“It is a sin to shove a book aside​

with your foot,​
a sin to slam books down​
hard on a table,​
a sin to toss one carelessly​
across a room.”

This use of anaphora foregrounds a ritualistic moral code surrounding books —

objects that, in many cultures (particularly within the Indian subcontinent), are
treated with reverence akin to religious artifacts. The repetition mimics a
liturgical cadence, almost as though Bhatt is chanting commandments from a
sacred text. In doing so, she elevates cultural customs around learning and
knowledge to a spiritual plane, highlighting the symbolic weight books carry in
Indian tradition, particularly in the presence of the goddess Sarasvati.

Thematically, the anaphora emphasizes a spiritual ethic of respect, especially

toward knowledge and its vessels. The repetition of “sin” injects religious and
ethical seriousness into actions that, from a secular Western lens, might seem
minor or even irrelevant. Bhatt is deliberately challenging that secular view by
creating an accumulative rhythm: the more the phrase is repeated, the heavier
and more sacred the object — the book — becomes. What’s especially powerful
is how this repetition creates a didactic, almost parental tone, as if the speaker
is passing down unwritten laws of respect, emphasizing that knowledge is not
merely consumed, but honored.

On a phonetic level, the repetition of the phrase “It is a sin” creates a sonic
anchor in the stanza. The soft “s” sounds in “sin” and “shove” build a hissing,
whisper-like quality, echoing the sacred silence of a temple or holy place. The
contrast between the gentle beginning and the harsher verbs — “slam,” “shove,”
“toss” — amplifies the tension between reverence and violence. Each verb
adds a layer of escalating disrespect, and the repeated opening “It is a sin”
ensures that the moral weight builds cumulatively.
From a postcolonial lens, this repeated phrase can also be interpreted as a
reclaiming of moral narrative. Whereas colonialism often imposed Western
moral frameworks onto colonized cultures, Bhatt reverses the gaze: here, Indian
ethical and spiritual codes are the standard, and any violation of them is
labelled “sin.” By repeating this phrasing, Bhatt places non-Western values at
the center of the poem’s moral universe, challenging the reader to reconsider
what is sacred and what is profane.

Form, Meter, Rhyme Scheme, Speaker, and Setting

in “A Different History”​
​
Form​
​
Sujata Bhatt’s poem A Different History is a rich and emotionally charged
exploration of identity, spirituality, and the lingering legacy of colonialism.
However, beyond its content, the poem’s form plays a critical role in conveying
its themes and emotional texture. Bhatt employs free verse, staggered
lineation, unpredictable indentation, and deliberate sectional shifts to mirror
the poem’s cultural dislocation, reverent tone, and philosophical questioning.
Through its unstructured appearance and unconventional rhythm, the poem's
form becomes a living reflection of its meaning: it enacts the fragmentation of
colonised identity while also gesturing towards a spiritual and cultural
reclamation.

Form as Cultural Migration and Resistance

The poem begins with the line: “Great Pan is not dead;”, immediately invoking
Western mythology, but this assertion is swiftly interrupted by an unconventional
line break:

“he simply emigrated​

to India.”
This exaggerated indentation is not random — it visually mimics migration and
signals a geographic and spiritual shift. The god Pan, a symbol of nature and
pagan freedom, is shown to have “emigrated” to India, where such reverence for
the sacred continues. Bhatt uses the line break and spatial shift to physically
move the reader’s eyes across the page, simulating Pan’s journey. This sets
the tone for the rest of the poem: fluid, migratory, and spatially expressive.

By rejecting traditional Western poetic forms (such as fixed metre, rhyme, or

stanza structure), Bhatt resists the very cultural domination she critiques in the
poem. The form becomes an act of decolonisation — a deliberate refusal to
confine her ideas within European conventions. The free verse allows her voice
to travel freely, mirroring the gods who "roam freely" in India. This lack of
structural boundaries reflects the cultural richness and spiritual openness of the
Indian setting, as contrasted with the rigidity of colonial oppression.

Sacred Rhythm: Structure as Ritual

The poem then shifts into a series of ethical statements, describing the Indian
reverence for books, trees, and knowledge. These lines are visually fragmented
and poetically repetitive:

“It is a sin to shove a book aside​

with your foot,​
a sin to slam books down​
hard on a table,​
a sin to toss one carelessly​
across a room.”

Here, Bhatt employs anaphora — the repetition of “a sin to…” — creating a

ritualistic, almost religious rhythm. This pattern mimics the recitation of
commandments or sacred laws. Each "sin" is given its own moment of focus, its
own line or couplet, reinforcing the weight of each action and encouraging deep
reflection.

Additionally, the placement of words on the page plays a role in meaning. For
example, “with your foot,” and “hard on a table” are isolated by line breaks and
indentation, making these phrases feel physically and morally separated — a
visual manifestation of guilt or taboo. The spacing slows the reader down and
mirrors the reverence Bhatt is emphasizing — one must treat books, and by
extension knowledge and culture, with care. The structure reflects this moral
precision, mimicking the delicate act of turning a page “without disturbing
Sarasvati”. Thus, the form becomes a moral teacher, instructing the reader
through pacing and space.

Form as Fracture: Philosophical Interrogation

Midway through the poem, the tone and structure both shift dramatically. The
questions begin:

“Which language​
has not been the oppressor’s tongue?​
Which language​
truly meant to murder someone?”

This section appears deeply indented, visually separated from the previous
lines, marking a formal and thematic break. Where the first half was reflective
and reverent, the second half is confrontational and philosophical. The poem’s
visual disruption reflects a psychological rupture — the cultural fracture
caused by colonisation and linguistic domination. The questions arrive almost
without warning, as though erupting from the subconscious.

The use of enjambment — where lines flow into one another without terminal
punctuation — creates a sense of urgency and disorientation:

“after the soul has been cropped​

with a long scythe swooping out​
of the conqueror’s face”

The slow unfurling of these violent images across lines mimics the emotional
unraveling of the speaker. The metaphor of the scythe — already a powerful
image of destruction — is drawn out across multiple lines, making the reader
linger on the trauma. Here, Bhatt turns the structure of the poem into a
reflection of postcolonial suffering. The conqueror's “face” arrives only at the
end of the line, like a sudden reveal — creating a visual and emotional climax in
the form itself.
Tentative Reconciliation: Form as Fragile Continuity

The final three lines of the poem shift again in tone, length, and placement:

“the unborn grandchildren​

grow to love that strange language.”

This stanza is shorter, more subdued, and deeply indented. It offers a subtle,
possibly ironic resolution. After the philosophical questioning and historical
trauma, the poem ends on a quiet, almost mournful note. These lines are
visually isolated, giving them a sense of distance — both temporal (they refer
to future generations) and emotional (they acknowledge the complexity of love
for an inherited colonial language).

The minimalist structure of these final lines suggests tentative hope or

unresolved tension. They are not triumphant; they are quietly reflective. The
starkness of the layout allows the poem to end not with clarity, but with
ambiguity — a stylistic choice that honours the emotional and historical
complexity of the subject matter. This restraint in form leaves space for the
reader’s contemplation.

Conclusion

In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt does not merely use form as a vessel for
meaning — she turns form into meaning itself. Through free verse, disjointed
indentation, deliberate pacing, and sectioned shifts, she enacts the cultural,
spiritual, and political tensions of a postcolonial identity. The poem moves
physically across the page as the gods move across lands, as languages move
across generations, and as pain moves through memory. In this way, Bhatt’s
poem becomes an example of how form can be an extension of history, and
how the shape of a poem can carry the shape of a people’s experience.
Ultimately, her poetic structure is as sacred and intentional as the values she
describes — reverent, fractured, and searching for wholeness.

2. Meter and Rhyme Scheme​

​
Sujata Bhatt’s A Different History is a poem that deliberately breaks from
traditional expectations of poetic meter and rhyme. The poem employs free
verse — a form without consistent metrical pattern or end rhyme — to reflect its
central concerns of displacement, colonisation, spiritual reverence, and cultural
fragmentation. This choice is not accidental; the absence of regular rhythm and
rhyme is thematically potent. It mirrors the dislocation experienced by colonised
peoples and reinforces the tension between imposed Western forms and
indigenous cultural values. Bhatt’s control over sound, silence, and stress
becomes a subtle form of resistance, allowing the poem’s unstructured form to
echo the cultural chaos and spiritual resilience at its core.

Free Verse and the Rejection of Formal Constraint

The most immediate observation is that A Different History has no fixed meter.
There is no iambic pentameter, trochaic tetrameter, or any other repeating
metrical pattern. Bhatt uses free verse to maintain a natural, almost
conversational tone that suits the poem’s reflective and philosophical nature. For
example, the opening lines:

“Great Pan is not dead;​

he simply emigrated​
to India.”

These lines have varying syllable counts — 6, 5, and 2 respectively — with

irregular stress patterns. This unpredictability helps reinforce the idea of
movement and migration, as the lines seem to shift and travel across the page
without being anchored by metrical regularity. The poem’s meter, or lack thereof,
becomes an enactment of freedom, aligning with the opening concept of gods
who “roam freely.”

By rejecting traditional meter, Bhatt subtly critiques the imposition of Western

literary structures — a poetic parallel to the cultural colonisation she
interrogates. In a postcolonial context, this abandonment of formal meter
becomes symbolic. Just as the English language was forced upon colonised
nations, traditional metrical forms often reflect a Eurocentric literary heritage.
Bhatt’s free verse liberates the voice of the speaker, offering a rhythm that
arises organically from the subject matter rather than conforming to an imported
framework.

Absence of Rhyme as Cultural Commentary

There is also no consistent rhyme scheme in the poem. Occasionally, there are
sound echoes, such as in:

“a sin to slam books down​

hard on a table,​
a sin to toss one carelessly​
across a room.”

Even here, while “table” and “room” do not rhyme, the lines develop a rhythmic
cohesion through repetition and parallel structure, especially the phrase “a sin
to…”. The lack of rhyme does not feel chaotic, but rather intentional — it
preserves the serious, contemplative tone of the poem. A rhyming pattern
might have sounded too playful or structured, which would conflict with the
poem’s meditative and reverent mood.

Furthermore, by avoiding rhyme, Bhatt encourages the reader to focus on the

semantic weight of the lines rather than being lulled by predictable sound
patterns. This suits a poem that deals with subjects like cultural memory,
oppression, and linguistic violence. The unpredictability of the sound pattern
mirrors the cultural disorientation experienced by the colonised — a deliberate
move to let form reflect theme.

Use of Pauses, Line Breaks, and Caesurae

Although traditional meter is absent, Bhatt carefully orchestrates pauses and

line breaks to control rhythm. For example:

“You must learn how to turn the pages gently​

without disturbing Sarasvati,​
without offending the tree​
from whose wood the paper was made.”
Here, the poem slows down noticeably. The enjambment and line breaks create
a gentle, respectful rhythm, mimicking the delicate physical act of turning
pages — and by extension, interacting with culture and knowledge. The rhythm
becomes meditative, matching the poem’s spiritual undertones. Even in free
verse, internal rhythm still exists, guided by syntax, phrasing, and natural
speech cadences.

Later, in the second half, the rhythm becomes more fragmented:

“after the soul has been cropped​

with a long scythe swooping out​
of the conqueror’s face”

The enjambment here creates a delayed revelation, building tension until “face”
appears at the end. The absence of regular meter gives Bhatt the freedom to
manipulate pacing for dramatic effect, underscoring the violence and trauma of
colonisation.

Sound Effects and Subtle Internal Rhyme

Although external rhyme is absent, Bhatt uses internal sound techniques such
as:

●​ Alliteration: “slam books down,” “swooping scythe,” “sacred… sin… slam”

— these provide rhythm and cohesion without formal rhyme.​

●​ Assonance: Repetition of vowel sounds in “a sin to toss one carelessly /

across a room” or “Sarasvati… softly… tree” — contributes to a musical
undertone.​

These devices help Bhatt maintain aural unity without being bound by rhyme. In
other words, the poem sounds purposeful and controlled — not random — even
though it lacks a conventional rhyme structure.

Conclusion: The Function of Irregularity

In conclusion, Sujata Bhatt’s deliberate use of free verse, unrhymed lines, and
irregular meter in A Different History serves as both a stylistic and thematic
decision. The rejection of traditional poetic structures mirrors the rejection of
colonial cultural imposition. Instead of rigid order, Bhatt offers a fluid, organic
rhythm that reflects the freedom of spiritual belief, the reverence for knowledge,
and the fragmented yet resilient experience of colonised people. Her
manipulation of rhythm, sound, and silence becomes an integral part of the
poem’s meaning — not just what is said, but how it is said. The absence of
meter and rhyme is, in this case, not a deficiency but a powerful poetic
statement in itself.

3. Speaker​
​
In Sujata Bhatt’s A Different History, the speaker navigates a complex web of
cultural identity, postcolonial loss, and spiritual reverence through a deliberately
unstructured poetic form. The poem is written in free verse — a form that
deliberately resists fixed meter and rhyme — and this poetic decision is deeply
tied to the speaker’s identity, tone, and emotional evolution throughout the
piece. The irregular rhythm and lack of rhyme allow the speaker to express
fragmented thoughts, spiritual awe, postcolonial critique, and rhetorical
questioning with flexibility and rawness. Bhatt uses this form to shape a voice
that feels both reverent and rebellious — a voice that questions inherited
systems while clinging to sacred roots.

Free Verse: A Mirror of the Speaker’s Internal Conflict

The speaker of the poem speaks with a tone that is at once meditative and
defiant. Bhatt gives this voice form through free verse, allowing the speaker to
shift in pace, rhythm, and focus without being constrained by formal metrical
rules. For instance, consider the first three lines:

“Great Pan is not dead;​

he simply emigrated​
to India.”

These lines carry no metrical regularity — the syllable counts vary (6, 5, 2), and
there’s no rhythmic pattern to latch onto. Instead, Bhatt relies on natural speech
rhythm, mimicking the way a reflective speaker would talk, slowly working
through ideas. The indentation of “to India” on its own line emphasizes a
thematic pivot and introduces one of the speaker’s core positions: gods,
cultures, and meanings don’t die — they migrate. This layout and pacing give the
speaker a sense of philosophical authority, as if they are thinking aloud but
with spiritual conviction.

Absence of Rhyme: Freedom from Colonial Rhythms

There is no regular rhyme scheme in the poem. The speaker is not trying to
entertain or follow a formula; instead, they speak in a voice that prioritizes
meaning over music, substance over structure. Consider these lines:

“It is a sin to shove a book aside​

with your foot,​
a sin to slam books down​
hard on a table,​
a sin to toss one carelessly​
across a room.”

Here, the repetition of “a sin to” gives rhythm without relying on end rhyme. The
lack of rhyme emphasizes seriousness — the speaker isn’t playing with words,
they’re warning, teaching, almost preaching. That tone wouldn’t have the same
gravity if dressed up in sing-song rhymes. The speaker’s voice, then, becomes
unfiltered and urgent, grounded in sacred respect for books and trees, and
implicitly for history and identity.

Rhythmic Shifts and Enjambment: The Speaker’s Emotional Arc

One of the poem’s most powerful features is its use of enjambment — where
one line flows into the next without a pause. The speaker’s thoughts pour out
continuously, often delaying key images for impact. Consider this section:

“after the soul has been cropped​

with a long scythe swooping out​
of the conqueror’s face”
The violent metaphor of the “scythe” is broken over three lines, slowing the
rhythm and building tension. The speaker’s horror at cultural erasure is shown
not through a scream, but through the slowed, stretched rhythm of these
broken lines. These rhythm breaks mirror the internal damage inflicted by
colonisation — as if the very act of saying these words is difficult, broken, and
painful.

Throughout the poem, the speaker’s rhythm accelerates and decelerates, not
based on a formal structure, but based on emotional need. When discussing
reverence (“You must learn how to turn the pages gently…”), the pace slows,
almost meditative. When discussing colonisation (“Which language / has not
been the oppressor’s tongue?”), the lines grow sharper and more direct. The
flexibility of free verse gives the speaker emotional agility — they can reflect,
accuse, question, mourn, and revere all within one poetic space.

Silences and Indentation: The Speaker’s Control of Space

The speaker also commands attention through visual form. Bhatt indents certain
lines, isolates phrases, and plays with the visual layout of the poem to control
rhythm and focus. Look at the placement of:

“ to India.”

This indentation isolates the idea, making it land with more force. The speaker
uses visual space as silence, as emphasis, as a kind of poetic punctuation.
These visual pauses reinforce the speaker’s message — that meaning is found
not just in what is said, but in how space is treated. This mirrors traditional
religious or oral storytelling methods, where pauses carry spiritual weight.

Conclusion: Form as a Voice of Resistance and Reverence

The meter and rhyme scheme — or more accurately, their intentional absence
— are fundamental to the voice of the speaker in A Different History. Bhatt’s
speaker does not follow colonial literary rules because their story — a
postcolonial, spiritual, and philosophical narrative — does not fit into those
structures. Instead, through free verse, fragmented rhythm, and unrhymed
lines, the speaker crafts a voice that is uncolonised and authentic. This poetic
form becomes a vehicle for both mourning and resistance — a tribute to the
sacred while also pointing an accusatory finger at the forces that tried to erase it.
In this way, the speaker’s voice is not just speaking about oppression — it is
actively defying it through form.

4.Structure​
​
In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt crafts a poetic structure that is deliberately
fluid, fragmented, and spatially dynamic, mirroring the ideological conflicts at the
heart of post-colonial identity. The poem’s themes — spiritual reverence, cultural
dislocation, linguistic oppression, and historical trauma — are not only expressed
through language but embodied in the physical form of the poem itself. Bhatt
rejects regular meter and rhyme, opting for free verse with strategic indentation,
line spacing, enjambment, repetition, and visual asymmetry. The structure
becomes a visual metaphor for disruption — a poetic space where reverence
meets rupture, and where the sacred confronts the scars of history. From the first
disjointed stanza to the final haunting image, Bhatt's structural choices powerfully
reflect the emotional and philosophical progression of the poem.

🌀 I. Opening Fragmentation and the Symbolic Displacement of the Divine

Great Pan is not dead;​
he simply emigrated​
to India.

The opening lines present a striking structural fragmentation. The third line, “to
India,” is heavily indented, isolated from the rest of the sentence. This
indentation acts like a rupture in the page — emphasizing cultural displacement
and sudden arrival. Bhatt introduces the idea of Pan, the Greek god of nature,
having migrated to India, symbolizing a shift in cultural and spiritual ownership.
Structurally, this creates a collision of Western and Eastern symbols in both
content and form. The fragmentation also reflects a break from narrative tradition
— there’s no rhythmic flow, no rhyme to guide the reader comfortably. Instead,
the disjointed structure forces the reader to pause, engage, and feel the
unfamiliarity of cultural convergence.

This beginning also foreshadows the poem’s thematic tension — the spiritual
richness of India contrasted with the intrusion of colonial forces. Structurally,
the poem doesn’t “start” so much as it arrives, suddenly and uneasily — much
like colonisation itself.

🌿 II. Sacredness and Repetition: Reverence Encoded in Form

Here, the gods roam freely,​
disguised as snakes or monkeys;​
every tree is sacred​
and it is a sin​
to be rude to a book.

It is a sin to shove a book aside​

with your foot,​
a sin to slam books down​
hard on a table,​
a sin to toss one carelessly​
across a room.

This section shifts from philosophical displacement to cultural instruction, and

Bhatt reflects this through ritualistic repetition and spatial arrangement. The
repetition of the phrase “It is a sin” mimics sacred oral traditions, functioning like
commandments or mantras. The consistent rhythm created by this refrain instills
moral gravity in the actions described — not through a sermonizing tone, but
through reverential cadence.

Bhatt pairs this with strategic indentation of the clauses describing each
disrespectful act (“with your foot,” “hard on a table,” “across a room”). This
technique isolates each action, forcing the reader to visually and mentally pause.
These actions — otherwise mundane — become visually and spiritually
weighty, transformed into violations of culture. The non-uniform line lengths
and deliberate white space reflect the sacred caution the speaker urges when
dealing with knowledge and tradition. This poetic form is didactic without being
dogmatic — Bhatt lets the shape of the poem teach the lesson.

📜 III. A Brief Lyrical Flow: The Transition into Reflection

You must learn how to turn the pages gently​
without disturbing Sarasvati,​
without offending the tree​
from whose wood the paper was made.

This stanza shifts in tone from caution to instruction, and the structure reflects
this softening. The lines are longer, more fluid, and lack the jagged indentation
seen earlier. This calmer rhythm mirrors the respectful interaction the speaker
promotes — turning pages “gently,” invoking the presence of Sarasvati, goddess
of learning. The unbroken flow of this stanza structurally evokes gentleness and
respect. There is a subtle unity of sound and shape here — just as the poem
advises physical gentleness with books, the lines themselves are gentle in form.
This marks a structural transition from sacred cultural habits to deeper
philosophical questioning.

🗣️ IV. Structural Interrogation: Rhetorical Questions and Colonial

Language

Which language​
has not been the oppressor’s tongue?​
Which language​
truly meant to murder someone?

Here, Bhatt uses visual uniformity and repetitive structure to heighten

rhetorical pressure. The repetition of “Which language” as the opening line of
each question is emphasized through strong indentation, giving it visual weight
and mirroring the relentless historical repetition of linguistic domination.

The structure of these lines — concise, isolated, and increasingly unsettling —

mimics an interrogation. The indents pull the reader deeper into the page, just
as the questions pull the speaker deeper into introspection and critique. There's
no resolution structurally or emotionally, reinforcing the poem’s central anxiety:
language itself is compromised.

⚔️ V. Trauma, Enjambment, and Emotional Unravelling

after the soul has been cropped​
with a long scythe swooping out​
of the conqueror’s face

This section of the poem introduces violent, graphic imagery, and Bhatt’s
structure reflects this tension. She uses enjambment — the continuation of one
idea across multiple lines — to delay revelation, mirroring the suspense and
damage of colonial trauma. The line “with a long scythe swooping out” floats
ominously before we realize it emerges “of the conqueror’s face.” Structurally,
this enjambment enacts trauma — slicing meaning apart across lines as the
scythe slices cultural soul. The lack of punctuation adds to the breathless,
uncontrolled pace — mimicking emotional chaos and loss of autonomy.

🧬 VI. Postcolonial Irony and Isolated Acceptance

the unborn grandchildren​
grow to love that strange language.

The final two lines are deeply indented and visually separated from the rest of
the poem. This physical distancing mirrors temporal distance — these are the
future generations, emotionally and linguistically removed from the original
cultural violence. The structure isolates them, but also draws attention to the
tragic irony: that they grow to love “that strange language” — a language born
from colonisation.

The indented form at the end echoes the earlier indented line “to India” —
suggesting a cyclical return. What began with displacement ends in
assimilation, and the structure quietly enforces this tragic symmetry. There’s a
sense of structural surrender, mirroring the emotional resignation of the poem.
📌 Conclusion: Structure as Subtext and Substance
In A Different History, Sujata Bhatt transforms the structure of the poem into
more than just a container for content — it becomes content itself. Through
fragmentation, indentation, enjambment, and irregularity, Bhatt enacts the very
experiences she describes: cultural reverence, colonial violence, linguistic
confusion, and generational loss. The free verse form liberates the poem from
traditional Western constraint, aligning with the poem’s challenge to colonial
legacies. At the same time, its visual disjointedness mirrors the broken identities
that result from cultural erasure and forced assimilation. Ultimately, Bhatt's
structural choices deepen our understanding of the poem's emotional truth —
that in a post-colonial world, even form itself must bend, adapt, and sometimes
break, to express the unspoken wounds of history.