Artefacts are not passive remnants of history; they are charged with political meaning, embodying the tensions of power, identity, and memory. The story of artefacts in the Indian subcontinent, whether through their division during the Partition of 1947, their displacement under colonial rule, or the ongoing efforts to reclaim or reinterpret them, underscores their enduring significance in shaping national and cultural narratives. Far from being mere relics, artefacts function as contested sites where history is debated, rewritten, and weaponised.
The Partition of British India in 1947 was not just a division of territory but a rupture in the cultural and the historical continuum of the subcontinent. Alongside the division of land and people, the artefacts of a shared heritage were also split, reflecting the political and symbolic stakes of the new national boundaries. The ‘Priest-King’ of Mohenjo-daro was sent to Pakistan’s National Museum in Karachi, while the ‘Dancing Girl’, another iconic relic of the Indus Valley civilisation, remained in New Delhi’s National Museum. These artefacts, reminders of a single archaeological tradition, became representatives of fractured identities. This division has transformed these artefacts into objects of national pride and sources of contention, mirroring the broader struggle over identity and history that Partition engendered.
The tensions surrounding these artefacts also reveal the artificiality of modern national borders when imposed on ancient, shared histories. These relics, which belong to a pre-national past, now serve as tools in the construction of postcolonial national identities. The Partition’s division of artefacts occurred against the backdrop of an even larger displacement, the colonial extraction of cultural treasures. Over the longue durée of British rule, countless Indian artefacts were removed to Britain where they became symbols of imperial power and cultural superiority. Today, institutions like the British Museum in London house a vast array of these artefacts, from religious idols to manuscripts, often displayed without acknowledgement of their violent extraction.
The strategic curation of Indus Valley artefacts, including numerous figurines and seals within the British Museum, does more than merely preserve history. By categorising these relics under a constructed framework of ‘Muslim heritage’, the museum perpetuates the very historiographical distortions that once served imperial interests. This classification not only divorces these artefacts from their broader civilisational context that predates organised religious identities as they exist today but also reinforces the communal binaries institutionalised during British rule. It echoes the divisive epistemologies that framed Indian history as a perpetual struggle between Hindu and Muslim identities, a framework that proved instrumental in justifying colonial intervention and, ultimately, Partition.
The live and uninterrupted projection of Jawaharlal Nehru’s ‘Tryst with destiny’ speech, a spectral echo of India’s political breakup from the colonial rule, alongside a shadow puppet of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, perhaps deliberately frail, his diminished frame evoking the asceticism of his fasts unto death, and a painting by Rabindranath Tagore completes a tableau that is at once evocative and unsettling. For the average visitor from India, Pakistan, or Bangladesh, it is a confrontation with the spectral residue of history where the past is neither reclaimed nor fully alien, but suspended in an intermediary space, possessed, yet dispossessed. These carefully curated relics, suspended in the halls of former imperial centres, do not merely narrate history; they perform it, reminding the visitor that historical memory remains an active, and often coercive, construction.
The presence of these artefacts in London, far removed from the land that birthed them, signals not just a historical injustice but an ongoing asymmetry of access. Their display in institutions that require international travel and substantial financial means ensures that they remain out of reach for the vast majority of the people whose histories they embody. This exclusion is not merely physical but epistemological; it dictates who has the authority to interpret and engage with these remnants of the past. For many in India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh, the museum ceases to be a neutral space of preservation and instead emerges as a site where colonial hierarchies persist, veiled under the guise of academic stewardship and universal heritage, evoking strong emotions. Social media has amplified these sentiments, with videos of Indian-origin visitors expressing a desire to ‘steal back’ their heritage going viral. While such statements are often dismissed as nationalist posturing, they reflect a deeper political frustration. Social media platforms have thus become arenas for articulating historical grievances and asserting cultural pride, turning the politics of artefacts into a contemporary battleground.
This politics of reclaiming history is not confined to artefacts alone. One notable example is the project to reintroduce cheetahs to India, an initiative that carries both ecological and symbolic significance. The cheetah, once native to India, became extinct in the mid-20th century due to overhunting, particularly during the colonial era. The last recorded sighting of a cheetah is said to have been in 1947, coinciding with the nation’s Independence. Efforts to reintroduce the species began as early as the 1950s, with proposals to source cheetahs from Iran and, later, Kenya. However, logistical and legal challenges delayed the project for decades. In 2012, the project was completely abandoned by the Supreme Court, suggesting that such an attempt would now mean an introduction rather than an expected reintroduction. However, with the subsequent change in the political climate of the country, the Supreme Court relooked at its verdict and, in 2020, allowed an experimental translocation of cheetahs, with the government framing the initiative as part of a “broader effort to restore ecological balance and heal the wounds of colonial exploitation”. However, the narrative of ‘restoration’ can sometimes obscure the complexities of cultural memory, framing history as a linear progression rather than a contested and multifaceted process.
The scars of colonialism and Partition are integral to understanding India’s complex history. These scars serve as reminders of the violence and the exploitation that shaped the nation as well as the resilience and the unity that emerged in response. Erasing these scars risks undermining the very foundations of India’s postcolonial identity and struggles. Lakhs of individuals who fought and sacrificed their lives in their struggles against the atrocities unleashed by the colonial administration under the able guidance of M.K. Gandhi and hundreds of other leaders derive their relevance from the historical context of their resistance. If this context is erased, it creates a vacuum that can be filled by polarising narratives that privilege certain traditions while ostracising others.
The scars of history are not just symbols of loss; they are also markers of memory and resilience. They remind us of the dangers of unchecked power and the importance of collective struggle in resisting oppression. By preserving these scars, we honour the complexities of our past and ensure that its lessons are not forgotten.
Anjana Menon is with St. Paul’s College, Ernakulam, and explores intersectional histories of culture, gender, and health narratives in Kerala