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6 December 2018
Indigenous Representation in David Malouf’s Remembering Babylon and Arundhati Roy’s The God of
Small Things
In his landmark text The Postcolonial Exotic, theorist Graham Huggan frames the imperial
project as an exercise in cultural perversion– a project that casts the subaltern as a hollow spectacle
of difference, an exotic “other” among the civilized (422). In spite of a claimed consciousness and
appreciation of indigenous epistemologies– systems of knowledge that value the land as an “intrinsic
part of human ‘being’” (Ashcroft et al. 491)– European colonialism, along with its neo-colonial
legacies, transforms the subaltern into the inert vehicle of ideological and material profit-making.
In the following paper, I will examine two postcolonial novels– David Malouf’s Remembering
Babylon a nd Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things– casting my analysis in light of Huggan’s central
inquiry: “Is it possible to account for cultural difference without at the same time mystifying it? To
locate and praise the other without also privileging the self? To promote the cultural margins
without ministering to the needs of the mainstream? To construct an object of study that resists, and
possibly forestalls, its own commodification?” (423). Since Remembering Babylon and The God of Small
Things a re extensively complex novels, I will center my argument on just two characters who
exemplify the subaltern worldview: Gemmy Fairley in Remembering Babylon a nd The Kathakali dancer
in The God of Small Things. Though I will certainly incorporate other characters and contexts into my
Admittedly, David Malouf and Arundhati Roy compose under vastly different styles,
contend with vastly different historical periods, discuss vastly different geographical locations.
whereas The God of Small Things addresses the newly-independent state of India, both in 1969 and
1993. While Malouf works in the realm of the personal and interpersonal, Roy concerns herself with
the “politics of ‘largeness’” (Mukherjee 96), a largeness that reflects emergent neo-colonial channels
of communication and control. Both novels, however, condemn the distorting, objectifying,
silencing power of imperial exoticism– a practice that reduces the subaltern to a mere tool on the
path to material and ideological dominance, a practice that takes indigenous epistemology and
Remembering Babylon recounts the tragic narrative of Gemmy Fairley, a Londoner who,
shipwrecked off the coast of Queensland, becomes absorbed in a society of Aborigines. When white
settlers enter the region (consistent with the mass migration of Europeans to temperate zones in the
mid-nineteenth century [Crosby 495]), Gemmy attempts a re-entrance into “civilization.” With his
capacity for English gone (replaced by the savage grunts of Aboriginal language), the settlers degrade
Gemmy to the status of hybrid, “white black man,” animal (Malouf 69). Though settlers Janet
McIvor and Mr. Fraser seem to recognize Gemmy’s hybridity as a vision of Aboriginal-European
harmony, this recognition proves self-serving– an iteration of hegemony. Gemmy’s sole purpose,
then, is that of a vehicle– a savage spectacle who provokes the settlers into a fuller understanding of
themselves. As he disappears wholly from the novel (as if in parentheses), Janet and Mr. Fraser emerge
seemingly heightened to a sense of oneness with the natural world. Reduced to an idealized
representation of the indigene, a representation lacking depth, Gemmy functions as a mere conduit
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for European self-revelation, a cog in the machinery of Imperial systems of representation. After all,
the Europeans are to be the transcribers and prophets, while the indigenous are to remain rigidly
defined specimens.
civilization. According to theorists Bob Hodge and Vijay Mishra, Australian Aboriginal cultures
hewed identities so connected to the land as to render both inseparable (359). Thus, as Gemmy
separatisms of the West– his language “becomes not the site of represented reality, but the
convergence of a forming selfhood and place” (Archer-Lean 1). Rather than define his dominion
over the natural world, as in European methodologies, Gemmy’s articulation of nature fuses with his
material presence. For instance, as Gemmy exits the borders of the settlement, he recovers his
capacity to unite language and land: “A drop of moisture sizzled on his tongue: the word—he had
found it. Water’ (Malouf 181). Here, Gemmy does not idealize nature, does not attempt
transcendence, does not force nature into a contrived mold. Instead, he undergoes full collapse into
nature (Byron 85). Indeed, no gap exists between word and experience: “water” is not so much
spoken as it is felt.
complicating the European species boundary. Consider, for example, the settlers’ first encounter
with Gemmy: “The creature, almost upon them now… , came to a halt, gave a kind of squawk, and
leaping up onto the top rail of the fence, hung there, its arms outflung as if preparing for flight’
(Malouf 3). Exemplified by his liminal position– both literal (on the fence) and symbolic (on the
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border between the wilderness and civilization)– Gemmy “threatens the stability of the
animal-human-spirit hierarchy,” posits an existence in which human and nonhuman exist on a level
plane– in an equal, integral state of being (Byron 85). Nature, then, need not be bordered, need not
be separate from language or culture. After all, when the Aborigines visit Gemmy, they do not
“create hostilities or establish boundaries”; rather, “they had come to reclaim him; but lightly,
bringing what would feed his spirit” (Malouf 118). In other words, the Aborigines re-establish for
Though Mr. Fraser advocates for an Australia that celebrates a newfound focus on
indigenous life, his actions nevertheless confirm the colonial power’s capacity to dominate and
authenticate rather than understand and commune. Admittedly, Mr. Fraser demonstrates an
unparalleled fascination with Gemmy’s tribal existence, performing the role of the “sympathetic
‘researcher’” (Archer-Lean 1). In fact, as Bill Ashcroft observes, “Mr. Fraser is taken to the edges of
an imperial consciousness, a place constructed in the imperial language, to a vision of what Australia
might become’ (58). However, this epiphany, viewed in light of Fraser’s prior actions, becomes
profoundly problematic. Recall, for instance, Gemmy’s first day on the settlement. Frustrated by an
Mr. Fraser, all his body hunched and drawn forward till he was practically breathing into the
man’s mouth, would offer syllables, words, anything to relieve the distress he felt at
Gemmy’s distress…. “Yes sir, yes, that’s it,” Gemmy would splutter, delighted, since the
minister was, at having done so well, and Mr. Fraser, another fierce struggle ended, would
look relieved and say, “Good, I thought that might be it.” (Malouf 17)
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How can Fraser understand the nuances of indigenous epistemology if he himself imposes words
onto Gemmy? And what are the implications of this supposed omniscience? As long as Fraser
functions as the authenticator– the speaker– he erases the subaltern’s claims to his own
Furthermore, when Fraser writes of the infinite potential of the Australian land, when he
talks about Gemmy to his fellow settlers, he does so with an air of sustained difference and
superiority. In other words, though Fraser remains sympathetic to Gemmy’s indigenous existence,
he nevertheless sustains a definable distance between Gemmy and himself– an assumption that
Gemmy, and the land that Gemmy represents, subordinates to colonial interests. For instance, Mr.
Fraser's justification of Gemmy's “native” features resonates with the self-assured “crypto-eugenic
and phrenological theories which dominated racial discourse of the nineteenth-century” (Daly 14):
“The white man's facial structure came from the different and finer diet. It was the grinding down of
[Gemmy’s] teeth, and the consequent broadening of the jaw that gave him what they called a native
look” (Malouf 40). Fraser’s presumptions about Gemmy and the Aborigines, then, “exemplify the
Victorian notion of the ‘arrested humanity’ of the savage”: as an inferior species incapable of raising
himself above natural dependency, above atavism, Gemmy merits the derision of the civilized man,
who, “thanks to science, industry, Christianity, and racial excellence, had finally (and definitively)
raised himself" (White 34). Therefore, though Gemmy may represent a vision of the future in
Fraser’s eyes, this future bears connotations of sustained hierarchy, suppositions of the European’s
relative enlightenment.
metaphysical encounter with a swarm of bees, Janet “[surrenders] herself to a unity of consciousness
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with [their] ‘single mind,’” miraculously emerging unharmed (Malouf 142). Admittedly, several
literary theorists argue that such an intimate encounter with the non-human indicates an embrace of
the animal realm– translates to a newfound embrace of Gemmy and indigenous epistemology. After
all, Janet sees her newfound self “through Gemmy’s eyes” (Malouf 144). However, notice the use of
Gemmy that Janet grasps “the power of her own belief,” her understanding of the animal realm
sustains a species boundary. Gemmy is nothing more than a means, then– a means by which Janet
reaches a colonized awareness of nature. Though Janet’s fleeting communion with the swarm may
be interpreted as an example of “becoming” nature (Murphy 83), nature, here, remains tamed,
contained in the constructed hives of Mrs. Hutchence’s house, imported from Europe, extolled for
its “pure geometry” (Malouf 199). Indeed, without the imposed borders of the European mind, the
insect threatens the imperial viewpoint, as exemplified by the settlers’ collective fears of losing their
What you fix your gaze on is the little hard-backed flies that are crawling about in the corner
of its bloodshot eyes and hopping down at intervals to drink the sweat of its lip. And the
horror it carries to you is not just the smell…. you meet at last in a terrifying equality that
strips the last rags from your soul and leaves you so far out on the edge of yourself that your
fear now is that you may never get back. (Malouf 42-43)
Janet, no different than the settlers as a whole, yearns to impose reason onto Australia’s otherwise
unexplainable landscape. And though she continues her lifelong “apian devotion” into adulthood
(Murphy 84), her fascination plays out in the realm of institution, within the borders of a nunnery.
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Such confines contradict the uncultivated wildness of indigenous epistemology, demonstrating her
As Sathyabhama Daly observes, “although Remembering Babylon ends on a spiritual note: ‘As
we approach prayer. As we approach knowledge. As we approach one another’ (200), the silence
that echoes is one of despair” (17). No reconciliation occurs between the Aboriginal inhabitants and
the white settlers, between their opposing views of natural value. Indeed, this sense of
incompatibility resonates with the same weight as the novel’s opening lines: “Whether this is
Jerusalem or Babylon we know not.” Because European revelation occurs at the expense of
Gemmy’s silencing, scholars cannot claim any sense of harmony between nature and culture. After
all, how can harmony be achieved if Gemmy himself– the Aborigines, too– are left dispersed, exiled,
Unlike David Malouf’s text, Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things deals with the legacies of
colonialism rather than colonialism itself– specifically the era of globalization. The plot of the novel
hinges on twins Estha and Rahel, who reunite in Kerala after a long separation and remain haunted
flashforwards, spans three decades, bearing witness to a burgeoning global market governed by
neo-colonial policies. Because neo-colonialism concerns itself with European domination on an
ideological level, Roy does not concern herself so much with Europeans as a people, but with
signifiers of past occupation– houses, factories, the land itself (Comfort 16). By containing the
trauma and oppression of the colonial project within physical places (particularly Chacko’s pickle
factory the “History House”), Roy demonstrates that the appropriation of indigenous space and the
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oppression of the subaltern are intimately tied and inseparable concepts– concepts that objectify,
Within this framework, the Kathakali Man symbolizes not an archaic Kerala culture, but a an
insertion into a garish global market. The Kathakali Man, then, reveals the vast dangers of the
Western imperial project– a project that commodifies natural India, a project that “renders oblivious
an awareness of history and social interdependency” (Comfort 7). Ultimately, Roy’s novel shows
how deeply Kerala – “God’s own country,” according to its tourism advertisements – is scarred by
the pursuit of neo-colonial profit, both in 1969 and 1993. More specifically, the image of the
Kathakali dancer, both at Paradise Pickles and the Heritage Hotel, exemplifies an appropriation of
the natural and indigenous, a reduction of culture to “inert, dead and manipulable matter” (qtd. in
Comfort 14). The Kathakali Man, like Gemmy, functions as a means to end– the end, in this case,
being profit.
Before discussing neo-colonial perversions of the Kathakali tradition, it is vital to first define
this custom within its original context. Kathakali, based largely on Hindu religious epics, is a classical
dance-drama native to Kerala. Enacted outdoors, the presentation often extends through the night–
rife with chanting, storytelling, and drum beats (“Kathakali”). It is important to note, here, the
particular importance of Hinduism to this tradition– a religion with a pantheistic view of the natural
world. Rather than attribute earthly creation to a single, patriarchal ruler (the patriarchal ruler
implicit in the term “God’s Own Country”), Hindus instead envision a nature that contains divine
multiplicities. Like the Aboriginals of Malouf’s novel, “Hindus see the surrounding world as a
“Thou” of which they are an interdependent part” (Coward 411). Humans, then, do not merely trod
on the land; rather, their every action occurs in continuity with the universe. Thus, according to the
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Kathakali dancer, body, soul, and environment unite in the act of dance, transcending the binaries of
However, in relation to Chacko’s pickle factory, The Kathakali Man represents a shift from
patterns of native subsistence to patterns of mass factory labor, from native appreciation to “the
super-exploitation of subaltern groups” (Comfort 6). In other words, as local enterprise yields to
from a labor that was once integral to the formation of identity and community: “Up to the time
Chacko arrived, the factory had been a small but profitable enterprise. Mammachi just ran it like a
large kitchen. Chacko had it registered as a partnership and informed Mammachi that she was the
Sleeping Partner. He invested in equipment (canning machines, cauldrons, cookers) and expanded
the labor force” (Roy 55-56). Exemplified by its rebranding as Paradise Pickles, by the crudely
painted Kathakali dancer with the slogan “emperors of the realm of taste” inscribed beside it,
Chacko’s products “represent the commodification of exotic regional flavours for international
markets, and as such … constitutes itself as the latest avatar of the old colonial logic of wealth
circulation” (Mukherjee 96). In other words, the Kathakali logo, though seemingly insignificant,
signifies a much deeper problem: that of false representation. Indeed, the workers at Paradise Pickles
are, according to Susan Comfort, “subjectless passive-tense constructions,” a community divested of
claims to its own identity (6): “Chopping knives were put down . . . Pickled hands were washed and
wiped on cobalt-blue aprons” (163). Reduced to two-dimensional proportions like the Kathakali
dancer, Chacko’s laborers form the inert background upon which “Paradise” is built.
The Kathakali dancer also appears at the heritage hotel, formerly and aptly coined “The
History House” by Estha and Rahel. Originally “built for the colonial profit-making exercise that
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was the nineteenth-century rubber cultivation in Kerala,” The History House morphs into a five-star
hotel complete with artificial decor, signifying a transition from colonialism to neo-colonialism, from
direct exploitation to indirect “human and cultural degradation.” (Mukherjee 94, 99).“Thrust
towards the logic of apartheid,” foreign visitors experience not the “real” India, but an India of
shallow simulation; in fact, they “arrive not through Ayemenem, but are ferried straight from Cochin
on speedboats along a route that is carefully designed to deny them a glimpse of the people who live
there” (Mukherjee 99). It is here that the Kathakali materializes again: “ancient stories were collapsed
and amputated. Six-hour classics were slashed to twenty-minute cameos” (Roy 121). Like labels on a
can of exotic pickles, the Kathakali dancer bows to his constructed image– an image that deprives
After acknowledging their complicity in this materialistic ploy, their blatant anabasement of a
sacred tradition, the dancers travel back to their temple to atone for their wrongs, “to ask the pardon
of their gods. To apologize for corrupting their stories. For encashing their identities.
Misappropriating their lives” (Roy 218). According to Makerjee, “Unlike the hotel, the temple is not
a part of the global circuit of commodified regional exotica” (102); rather, it is a reversion to the
natural– white-walled, moss-tiled, moonlit, rain-scented (Roy 217). It is here that “the dancers…
stage their counter-performance, one that does not cater to the tourist’s short attention span, that
cannot be exchanged for dollars, that tells the ancient epics and great stories through the idiom of
twitching muscles, impossible leaps and blurs of movement” (Mukherjee 102). In other words,
hidden from the imposing definitions of globalization, the dancers experience a reconnection to
their own epistemology– an epistemology of unfathomable intricacy and depth. As the dancers
inhabit the multitudinous cosmos of the Hindu tradition, they enter into transcendent oneness with
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the movement of their bodies, with their stories: “The Kathakai Man is the most beautiful of men.
is soul. His only instrument…. He has magic in him, this man within the
Because his body is h
painted mask and swirling skirts” (Roy 219). Here, in the temple abandoned “by the touch of global
development” (Mukherjee 103), the dancer glimpses his inherent dignity. Thus, the derelict temple
poses the potential for redemption– albeit a redemption that is physically crumbing. Indeed, Roy
Both Remembering Babylon a nd The God of Small Things d emonstrate the replacement of the real,
the natural, the indigenous, with that of empty spectacle. The settlers’ fascination with Gemmy is no
more than a means to achieve a self-congratulatory ownership of his thoughts, his words, and his
beliefs. The Kathakali dancers degrade themselves in service of the incontrovertible pursuit of global
profit and “Regional Flavor” (Roy 219). Indeed, as Julia Emberley argues, “The society of
spectacle… has displaced questions of political economy into a postcolonial discourse in which
images, representations, ‘authenticities,’ and ‘the experience of marginality’ circulate as the currency
of exchange” (qtd. In Huggan 422). Though Malouf and Roy allow us to glimpse instances of
unhindered indigenous belief– Gemmy’s lingual ties to the land, the Kathakali dancers’ retreat to
their private temple– these instances are no more than fading glimpses. Malouf and Roy seem to
suggest that the subaltern may only exist in his fullness through private, marginal
projection of European fears and desires masquerading as [objective knowledge]” (Ashcroft et al.
93). After all, as Edward Said warns us, the line between representation and ownership is all but
indistinguishable.
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