As the ubiquitous cloth bag carried by toiling Indians, the jhola is deemed an inexpensive accessory in this country. But when the same jhola is christened “Indian souvenir bag” and listed for sale on one of the United States of America’s premium shopping websites, it becomes a designer accessory worth over Rs 4,000. If this is causing Bengalis headed to the bajaar with a jhola in hand to do a double-take, they would not be the only ones. For what is being seen and sold as a luxury good abroad has often been an object of derision in India — both bag and its bearer, the ‘jholawala’, as Jean Drèze put it in his book, have pejorative connotations that are used to rubbish the views of naive socialists who refuse to recognise the hard truths of policy-making.
The jhola was not always an object of mockery, though. Its origins are ancient, and even warriors have been known to carry animal-skin jholas. The heyday of the jhola was perhaps the time of India’s freedom struggle when they were perceived as badges of patriotism and pride. Made of khadi and flaunted by M.K. Gandhi and his followers — each marcher to Dandi carried only a jhola with bare necessities with them — carrying these cloth totes symbolised one’s rootedness. Their affordability and functionality meant that almost anyone could use them. This is perhaps why every region in India has its own version of the jhola — farmers in Tamil Nadu have the wire koodai; the working class in Kerala carries the thol sanchi; the jholas of Nagas and the Manipuri people bear elaborate tribal motifs, as do Kutchi jholas that are equally ornate. Its association with the mundane and, consequently, hoi polloi also makes the jhola a potent symbol in the realm of politics. Narendra Modi, facing allegations of being rather cosy with crony capitalists, had described himself as a fakir who would pick up his jhola and leave; the Aam Aadmi Party’s finance minister, Manish Sisodia, had used a jhola to carry his budget speech.
The transformation of the jhola into a chic souvenir is not the only instance of the West’s penchant for cultural appropriation. It is in the same vein as the Kashmiri boota becoming the famed paisley print, the unassuming cheent fabric morphing into the chintz coveted by European nobles, and the material that is used to make the lungi transforming into the widely popular bleeding Madras fabric that was all the rage abroad. This shows that the repurposing of Indian products as an exoticised commodity has been central to global commerce and profiteering down the ages. Ironically, this economic orientalism also leads to a renewed appreciation for desi things in their native land. For instance, reports show that the sale of jholas has gone up since their appearance abroad. The real question, then, is this: why does it take videshi appreciation, in some instances, for the Indian to rediscover the magic of the desi?