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In a conversation with Scroll, Historians Romila Thapar and writer Namit Arora talk about their book Speaking of History: Conversations about India’s Past and Present. They discuss how historical knowledge is produced and why method matters, the discomfort with ambiguity in public understandings of the past, and the ways in which political and cultural pressures shape historical narratives.
The historians also spoke about the limits of evidence in recovering non-elite histories, the changing meanings of terms such as “Hindu” and “Sanatan,” and the challenges of writing and communicating history in an age of social media and artificial intelligence.
Excerpts from the conversation:
Speaking of History foregrounds method over conclusions. To what extent was your aim to shift readers away from received certainties towards asking better questions about the past? And how might we understand the broader discomfort – particularly in India – with ambiguity and the coexistence of multiple valid interpretations in history?
Romila Thapar (RT): The aim was not so much to shift readers away from received certainties, but to encourage familiarity with the methods through which historical knowledge is produced. Academic historians rely on the historical method to analyse sources and to describe or explain a historical situation. The general reader should have some sense of what this method involves.
After all, history is no longer just a narrative of what happened. It also involves asking how and why events unfolded as they did. The answers to these questions can vary from one historian to another. Non-specialist readers are often unfamiliar with these procedures and making them more visible can help clarify how historical interpretations are formed – and why they may differ. That is one of the things we have tried to do.
Namit Arora (NA): The discomfort with ambiguity and multiple valid interpretations in history is not unique to India, even if it may seem stronger here than in many other parts of the world. One reason is the deep-seated attachment many Indians have to various folk-mythological stories about their own group’s past: its origins, achievements, antiquity. These often-sanitised narratives, earlier localised but increasingly also transregional, are deeply intertwined with cultural identities and collective pride. Evidence, complexity, and ambiguity – the hallmarks of serious historical enquiry – can unsettle such narratives, and are therefore often resisted.
Another reason is our mediocre education system where pedagogy rewards rote learning of “correct answers” rather than critical thinking and nuance. It has long devalued the humanities and the social sciences. Most students approach history not as a field of enquiry and reflection but as a body of facts and explanations to be “mugged up”. What doesn’t help is the large-scale politicisation of our past, which projects clear-cut heroes and villains, often at odds with the evidence. Such ahistorical thinking, common even among our college graduates, makes little room for ambiguity or competing interpretations. Instead, it furthers attitudes of certainty, collective pride, and a wider apathy to learning.
Romila, as you both discuss in your book, much of early Indian history relies on elite textual and archaeological sources. How far, and by what means, can historians recover the lives and perspectives of non-elite groups – such as forest tribes, peasants, labourers, women, nomadic pastoralists – without overinterpreting the limited evidence available?
RT: Early periods of history do tend to have predominantly elite sources. Evidence relating directly to non-elite groups is sparse. However, they are not entirely absent from the record. If texts are read carefully – or, against the grain – and if archaeological excavations are carried out and studied keeping this question in mind among others, they can yield valuable, if indirect, insights into non-elite lives and activities.
References to non-elites are often incidental, so they easily get overlooked. Yet, if historical sources are revisited with a deliberate attention to such traces, some are likely to be recognised. The evidence for this social category is more likely to be found in literary sources that describe various facets of the lives of the elites but also refer to those who formed the wider context of their lives. One finds references to goods that the elites received from them through trade, and certain elite cultural customs and religious ideas, including gods, that originated among the non-elites.
It can, therefore, be a worthwhile exercise to comb through the Mahabharata, the Ramayana, and other texts searching for clues to the cultures and experiences of non-elite groups. Such evidence may be fragmentary and require cautious interpretation, but it nonetheless allows us to recover aspects of lives that are otherwise only faintly visible in the historical record.
Romila, terms like “Sanatan” and “Hindu” are widely used today with fixed, often unquestioned meanings. In many discussions, they are presented as though they have always conveyed a stable sense of identity and continuity. From a historical perspective, how have these meanings evolved over time? And how might we understand their present-day usage?
RT: The word sanatan simply means “eternal” and has been used in that sense for many centuries. Its association with religion, however, is not nearly as old. Its more specific usage – such as in sanatan dharma – is of relatively recent origin. What we now call “Hinduism” is a composite term that emerged over time, comprising a wide variety of sects, traditions, and teachings. And as with many religious formations, there has often been a tendency to claim a very long and continuous antiquity for it. Yet historians have shown that such claims do not always correspond to historical evidence; traditions that present themselves as ancient may, in fact, be of more recent vintage. This is not unusual – across the world, assertions of great antiquity are often made as a way of establishing legitimacy.
As for the term “Hindu”, its origins are geographical rather than religious. Ancient Iranian sources like the Avesta refer to heptahendu, corresponding to the Sanskrit name saptasindhu – the land of the seven rivers, broadly referring to the region of Panjab and its surroundings. The term “Hindu” comes from Sindhu, the Sanskrit name for the Indus River. In later Arabic and Persian usage, the term al-Hind referred to the land beyond the Indus. Over time, the word “Hindu” came to denote all people of that region, irrespective of their specific beliefs. Only subsequently did the term acquire an explicitly religious meaning, referring to the traditions and beliefs of a subset of its inhabitants.
In your book, you describe clear differences between early Vedic practices and contemporary forms of worship. Deities like Indra and Vedic fire rituals receded into the background as other modes of religiosity gained prominence. What social, philosophical, or cultural factors contributed to this shift? Did Buddhism play a role in these transformations? And how might we understand this evolution without falling into the binaries of complete continuity or total rupture?
RT: Every religion evolves in historical time and undergoes phases of change. Some shifts are small, while others are more extensive, such as internal splits and the emergence of sects – as, for instance, when Buddhism split into Mahayana and Hinayana. The more established a religion, the greater the effort to mute the changes as also the induction of new ideas – or, to put it another way, the changes get absorbed into the coverture of the religion. There are indeed clear differences between early Vedic practices and the forms of worship associated with present-day Hinduism. One obvious example is that large-scale Vedic yajnas are now rarely performed. Yet earlier practices do not always disappear entirely; some elements of them may survive in attenuated or transformed ways within later rituals and traditions.
The factors behind such shifts are multiple. Philosophically, early India witnessed sustained debates between Brahmanical and Shramana traditions, which included Buddhism, Jainism, the Ajivika, and, at times, the Charvaka. These exchanges led to the reworking of key ideas about ritual, ethics, and the nature of reality. In later centuries, especially from the second millennium CE, further cultural interactions – such as those with Sufi traditions – also contributed to new forms of religiosity.
No less important were social and political factors. The transition from clan-based or oligarchic polities to more centralised kingship, for example, was accompanied by shifts in religious ritual: big Vedic yajñas became less frequent and, in the first millennium CE, gave way in many regions to temple-based worship centred on icons. The rise of the varna-jati order, along with its distinct rules across different social strata, also shaped ritual practices. Migrant groups that settled in India, such as some Shakas and Kushans, and later some religious orders of Sufis, introduced new deities and forms of devotion and ritual. In some situations, mother goddess traditions grew more prominent and patronage to the Shramana religions increased. In other situations, the latter decreased or was altered.
Buddhism certainly played a role here. Initially, it questioned and challenged Brahmanical ritualism and offered alternative visions of religious practice and social ethics. Over time, it developed its own institutional and doctrinal forms, which did not align with Brahmanical modes of worship. Although patterns of political patronage varied – for instance, with the Mauryas supporting Shramana traditions and later dynasties such as the Shungas being described in Buddhist sources as less sympathetic – patronage to the Shramana traditions nonetheless continued well into the first millennium CE, and some of the most magnificent chaityas, stupas, and monasteries date to this period. So what we see is a long process of adaptation, interaction, and transformation within changing historical contexts.
When I was growing up, figures like Akbar were often presented as embodying a relatively secular, plural, and liberal ethos, while others such as Tipu Sultan, were seen as anti-colonial resisters. Today, their public images appear to have shifted, with increasing emphasis on religious identity in how they are portrayed. What explains such changes? More generally, how should we approach past figures and events in their historical context, without projecting our own concepts and categories on them – thereby avoiding the problem of anachronism?
RT: This is a complex problem because one has to look at the past without bringing in the present and also look at the present without bringing in the past. One way to address this is through the use of the historical method. This involves beginning with an analysis of well-dated and reliable evidence; ensuring that all causal links are based on rational and logical arguments; and explaining “the why” and “the how” of what happened in the past through interpretations that rest on credible evidence rather than conjecture or fiction. Explanations have to relate to the context of historical activity.
NA: Let me start by saying that no historical figure should be turned into a holy cow. I’m all for credible new scholarship that questions earlier portrayals. But the shifts you mention have largely occurred outside academia, in the public sphere, and mostly led by Hindu nationalists, who are not known for their respect for the historical method. They frequently fail to analyse sources for context and reliability, read selectively, ignore inconvenient details – and tend to put the cart of interpretation before the horse of evidence.
Anachronism is indeed a complex problem. One begins to address it by working with reliable literary, archaeological and other evidence to imaginatively enter the society one studies: to see the world, as far as possible, as its members might have seen it, and to grasp what it may have been like to live within it. Sure, this can only be partially achieved, but attending to this context is essential when writing about any past society.
At the same time, all historical inquiry is inescapably shaped by the concerns of the present – by the questions we ask, the historiographical frameworks we employ, and the moral climate in which we work, as well as by the historian’s own interests, commitments, and social location. Historians seek to understand the past through evidence and the disciplined use of reason, but their narratives are never entirely neutral. Historians cannot step entirely outside their own vantage points to apprehend the past as it “really” was – the elusive “view from nowhere.”
While anchored to the historical method, historians inescapably interpret the past through contemporary lenses: one may lean on Marxist analyses of economic structures and material conditions; another may draw on a Foucauldian framework of power and knowledge; and yet another may adopt Weberian, Ambedkarite, Feminist or other perspectives. These variously complement or revise earlier perspectives to enhance historical understanding. Each brings to the past new categories and concepts shaped by the present. The challenge, then, is to carefully use the contemporary concepts they employ – such as “religion”, “state”, “class”, “secular”, “liberal”, “egalitarian” – with an awareness of their shifting meanings across time and historical contexts. This helps tame anachronism, if not eliminate it. At the very least, historians must strive to make their interpretations self-aware, context-sensitive, grounded in evidence, and transparent in their reasoning. Readers, in turn, should read their work accordingly, more as reasoned interpretations than as supposedly ‘objective’ accounts presenting the “Truth”.
Readers today encounter a wide range of historical writing. At one end of the spectrum lies “academic history”. Though associated with deeply researched knowledge, many see it as less accessible. At the other end is what we might call “popular history”, which rarely engages with the works and methods of academic scholarship and frequently blurs the lines between myth and history. Between these lies the genre of “public history”, which seeks to make historical scholarship more accessible to wider audiences. In your view, what are the hallmarks of good public history, and how is its health in India today?
NA: In every modern society, a wide gap invariably exists between specialised scholarship and public understanding in most fields of knowledge – whether history, the natural sciences, economics, or climate change. A healthy democracy depends on informed citizens and civil debate, which in turn requires capable individuals who can distil and convey specialised scholarship to wider audiences. This is the role public historians play – whether as academic historians, specialists in public history, or independent scholars. It is a vital function, and those who can do it well are more important than ever.
Public historians engage audiences in diverse and creative ways. Their work now spans a wide range of activities: writing accessible books, essays, and reviews; curating museums and digital archives; managing heritage sites; producing podcasts and documentary films; and participating in public conversations through popular forums and social media. In the West, public history is a well-established and prominent genre, with notable practitioners like Ken Burns, Yuval Noah Harari, Michael Wood, John Keay, David McCullough, Charles C Mann, Tony Judt, Elizabeth Kolbert, Jared Diamond, James C Scott, Mary Beard, Simon Schama, Howard Zinn, Charles Allen, and others (many of these are not academic historians).
Good public history is grounded in the historical method, engages closely with academic scholarship, and draws on interdisciplinary insights. In this sense, it shares many of the core virtues of academic history. Yet it necessarily operates in a different style, register, and level of detail, and inevitably involves trade-offs between analytical rigour and accessibility. At its best, it conveys complex ideas lucidly while minimising oversimplification and distortion. It demands skills distinct from those required to produce an academic monograph – such as narrative storytelling, effective public communication, and the ability to synthesise material for varied audiences. It is, in short, a distinct craft, and as with any craft, standards vary, and some practitioners are more accomplished than others.
I think public history in India, most visible in the English language, suffers from limited reach and weak institutional support. There is much scope for urgently needed growth, particularly in areas such as documentary films, regional language books and podcasts, archaeological travel videos, and much better curated museums, digital archives, cultural heritage sites, and more.
RT: Academic history is often limited to those familiar with the specialised methods used to assess evidence. For example, when investigating the Indo-Aryan question, historians may need to draw on linguistic analysis or genetic research. In such cases, it is best to rely on the findings of specialists in those fields – whether by citing their work directly or by incorporating their responses to questions posed by historians, both academic and public.
Such an approach to history has the approval of both academic and public historians. It comes from reliable evidence and is based on logical and rational arguments. The co-authors of the book that we are discussing, Speaking of History, are in a conversation that is in effect between an academic historian and a public historian. Neither of us feels that the evidence is lacking or dubious. Rather, we are curious about the kind of inputs we are getting from other disciplines and interested in how they might be integrated into a careful historical interpretation.
Namit, in this age of Artificial Intelligence, social media, and rapid information flows, what new challenges – and perhaps opportunities – do you see for public understanding of the past?
NA: Like most powerful technologies, I expect AI to have mixed consequences for society, including for public understanding of the past. Predictably, its proponents speak of its benefits while downplaying its harms. Among its benefits are a more intuitive, natural language search for historical information, rapid linguistic translations, and its ability to digest vast bodies of text to provide competent first-order summaries of at least widely studied historical events or ideas, such as the French Revolution, the Vietnam War, or Existentialism. This can be useful for many, though it is not clear if, in terms of quality, this is a huge improvement over Wikipedia.
Such benefits, however, depend heavily on the quality of the underlying training data, which is neither transparent nor guaranteed – and therein lies a grave risk. Many users already treat AI outputs as authoritative, without feeling the need to verify their sources or cross-check claims. They forget that AI can reproduce existing biases, flatten scholarly disagreements, hallucinate citations, or present contested interpretations as settled fact – or vice versa – all with an air of supreme confidence. Students who use AI for assignments do so at the expense of thinking and assimilating the material in their own brains. Can this be good for public historical literacy?
Among other harms, AI is already being used to create and spread disinformation at scale – fabricating sources, producing plausible but false narratives, and even creating realistic-looking images of archaeological artefacts, sites, and historical “reconstructions.” I recently came across a fake “museum display” of the so-called Pashupati seal from the Harappan era. It showed an idealised figure of Shiva, rather than the more ambiguous seated figure recognised by most scholars. There are countless such examples already. Fabrications like these can easily reinforce popular but historically questionable interpretations. AI-generated fake text, images and videos may well become part of future AI training data, and then all bets are off.
Overall, I’m pessimistic about the likely outcomes. AI will bring some benefits, but it is another potent technology shaped and controlled by today’s entrenched corporate and political power, which cares little about raising the quality of public education or civic discourse. In a society like ours, with its very weak historical and scientific temper, I fear that AI yoked to social media will more often be used as a tool of propaganda and misinformation – manipulating historical memory – than as a vehicle for advancing critical thinking or historical literacy in public life.
Namit, you’ve shaped this book by asking questions that many readers themselves might have. After these conversations, what new insights did you gain as an interviewer and in your own understanding of history? And for readers who desire a deeper understanding of our past, what one habit or approach would you recommend as they engage with history?
NA: This book gave me the opportunity to explore many questions and ideas I had carried with me since my previous book and web series, Indians, through a long conversation with a master of the craft – Romila Thapar – one of my longstanding intellectual heroes, whose scholarly work I have read for decades. I was free to frame the questions, and the resulting dialogue pushed me to think more deeply about both the past and the present.
I witnessed, for instance, how a skilled historian weighs different kinds of evidence, assesses what conclusions are warranted and what’s better left unsaid, reflects on her discipline’s blind spots, stays open to new perspectives, and remains humble in approaching a past that we can only know imperfectly through our ever-evolving frameworks. It became, for me, a genuinely rewarding intellectual adventure – and I hope readers will approach it in a similar spirit.
My recommendation to readers would be to read widely and across disciplines – literature and philosophy, but also the natural and social sciences. The entire intellectual tradition of the world is yours by birthright. Discover how others have answered your questions and refine your vision. Seek out a diversity of books by authors of repute. Read, as Kafka said, “the kind of books that wound and stab us … that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply … A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.” Such intentional reading across disciplines, alongside history, may well prepare the ground for a more refined and reflective historical sense and sensibility, which is far more valuable than mere knowledge of this or that aspect of our past.
Abdullah Khan is the author of Patna Blues and A Man from Motihari.
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