How Does an Asian Commons

Lawrence Liang
Prashant Iyengar
Jiti Nichani
 Table
of
Contents















1. Introduction

2. Violence,
Dispossession
and
the
Enclosures
Movement
in
Europe

3. How
 does
 an
 Asia
 Commons
 mean:
 Notes
 towards
 a
 Genealogy
 of
 the

Commons
in
Asia

4. Mapping
the
Enclosures
Movement
in
Asia

5. The
Uncanny
Lightness
of
Being
an
Asian
Cultural
Commons

6. Conclusion




2
 Introduction



A
walk
through
the
lexical
jungle
of
intellectual
property
reveals
a
range
of
strange

creatures
 lurking
 in
 various
 nooks
 and
 corners.
 A
 patent
 here,
 a
 trademark
 there

and
copyrights
springing
threats
at
trespassers
warning
them
not
to
stray
into
the

domain
of
protected
property.
On
the
other
side
of
the
IP
jungle
lies
the
enchanted,

albeit
mythical
commons
in
which
one
is
allowed
the
freedom
to
roam
and
sample

the
pleasures
of
the
forests
without
the
risk
of
legal
action.
The
invocation
of
these

metaphors
of
jungles
may
seem
self
indulgent,
but
we
believe
that
they
serve
more

than
 a
 decorative
 value,
 as
 this
 monograph
 seeks
 to
 return
 us
 ‐inhabitants
 of
 the

digital
commons‐
to
the
lands
and
forests,
where
the
twin
stories
of
the
making
of

property
and
the
destruction
of
the
commons
begins.
We
will
navigate
this
journey

via
history,
keeping
one
foot
firmly
within
the
contemporary,
so
that
the
past
may

reveal
our
present
to
us
in
clearer
light.



Philosophers
 have
 warned
 us
 that
 when
 a
 word
 or
 phrase
 becomes
 so
 commonly

used
as
to
require
no
explanation
or
substantiation,
then
we
have
to
be
all
the
more

careful
while
using
it.
In
recent
times
we
have
seen
the
dramatic
rise
in
the
career

of
 one
 such
 word
 in
 debates
 on
 the
 politics
 of
 information
 and
 knowledge,
 “the

commons”.
 The
 idea
 of
 the
 commons
 has
 entered
 the
 debate
 on
 copyright
 in
 a

significant
 manner
 to
 signify
 a
 domain
 of
 collaboration
 and
 creation
 unhinged
 by

the
usual
restrictions
placed
by
copyright1.




The
aggressive
expansion
of
intellectual
property
into
every
domain
of
life
has
been

the
 cause
 of
 concern
 for
 a
 number
 of
 people.
 Academics
 and
 scholars
 have

responded
 to
 this
 problem
 in
 various
 ways.
 Recent
 scholarship
 on
 intellectual

property
has
been
marked
by
the
invocation
of
the
metaphor
of
the
commons
and

the
 public
 domain,
 and
 the
 threat
 that
 it
 faces
 from
 this
 limitless
 expansion
 of

intellectual
property.

More
often
than
not
the
commons
is
allegorized
as
a
mythical

ideal
 governed
 by
 principles
 of
 sharing,
 access
 and
 collaboration,
 which
 was
 lost

after
 the
 first
 enclosures
 movement.
 The
 argument
 proceeds
 to
 caution
 against
 a

similar
enclosure,
the
second
enclosures
movement
in
the
realm
of
the
information

ecology
 that
 threatens
 to
 privatize
 every
 aspect
 of
 information
 and
 knowledge

thereby
threatening
creativity
and
access
to
knowledge.



There
seems
to
be
a
consensus
that
we
all
know
what
we
are
speaking
of
when
we

speak
 of
 the
 commons,
 and
 the
 task
 of
 this
 monograph
 will
 be
 to
 examine
 and

question
our
commonplace
assumptions
about
the
commons.



When
 we
 participate
 in
 the
 making
 of
 the
 
 digital
 commons
 we
 rarely
 ask
 the

question
 of
 why
 it
 is
 that
 the
 metaphor
 of
 the
 commons
 has
 emerged
 as
 the

dominant
metaphor
against
the
perceived
privatization
of
knowledge

and
culture.

When
 probed
 a
 little
 further,
 an
 entire
 set
 of
 questions
 are
 raised:
 How
 did
 the

commons
 come
 to
 be
 chosen
 as
 the
 most
 appropriate
 mode
 of
 describing
 a
 set
 of

collaborative
 practices
 of
 sharing
 that
 refuses
 to
 secede
 to
 the
 logic
 of

Commodification
 of
 knowledge?
 In
 what
 manner
 for
 instance
 does
 it
 differ
 
 from


1
A
few
examples
of
it
use
include
‘Creative
Commons’,
‘Science
Commons’,
‘Asian
Commons’,
‘Digital


Commons’
etc.


3
other
 ideas
 such
 as
 the
 public
 domain?
 Is
 the
 commons
 synonymous
 with
 the

absence
of
property
norms?
Can
there
be
an
automatic
translation
of
the
history
of

the
 commons
 in
 land
 to
 the
 world
 of
 intellectual
 property?
 It
 is
 to
 carve
 a
 space

through
which
we
can
collectively
navigate
this
rather
dense
world
of
the
commons

that
we
have
written
this
primer
on
the
commons
for
the
commoner.




There
 are
 various
 ways
 in
 which
 an
 introduction
 to
 the
 commons
 can
 be
 written

and
the
most
obvious
way
would
be
to
introduce
the
idea
of
the
knowledge/
culture

commons
 and
 examine
 how
 they
 have
 been
 threatened
 by
 the
 expansion
 of
 the

global
 IP
 regime.
 This
 would
 be
 followed
 typically
 by
 an
 introduction
 to
 various

initiatives
that
seek
to
counter
the
hegemony
of
intellectual
property
and
create
an

alternative
 normative
 paradigm,
 one
 that
 promotes
 freedom
 and
 access
 to

knowledge
and
culture
in
the
name
of
the
commons.

It
would,
in
other
words
serve

as
an
introduction
to
the
various
issues
at
stake
to
the
‘layperson’.




By
 now,
 this
 aspect
 of
 the
 story
 is
 familiar
 enough,
 and
 has
 been
 documented

extremely
 well2.
 We
 believe
 that
 there
 would
 be
 no
 purpose
 served
 in
 reiterating

the
 story,
 and
 we
 instead
 take
 this
 opportunity
 to
 introduce
 a
 set
 of
 critical

questions
 and
 directions
 in
 which
 future
 research
 on
 the
 nature
 of
 the
 commons

may
proceed.
We
have
therefore
chosen
to
take
a
slightly
different
route
to
tell
our

story
of
the
commons.
Rather
than
assume
one
single
story
for
the
commons
that

exists,
our
aim
has
been
to
expand
the
possibilities
of
engaging
with
the
commons

and
with
the
history
of
the
commoner
(a
phrase
that
the
historian
Peter
Linebaugh

uses
to
refer
not
just
to
laypersons
but
to
inhabitants
of
the
commons).




One
of
our
attempts
has
been
to
frame
the
question
in
such
a
manner
that
it
enables

the
coming
together
of
existing
approaches
to
the
problem
of
intellectual
property

along
with
genealogies,
disciplines
and
voices
that
are
not
normally
seen
as
having

a
take
on
questions
of
intellectual
property.
One
way
of
opening
up
the
debate
on
IP

may
 be
 to
 throw
 it
 beyond
 the
 question
 of
 information
 and
 the
 intangibles
 alone,

and
to
instead

examine
other
histories
and
routes,
which
will

enable
us
to
return

to
the
question
of
intellectual
property
differently.
Thus
rather
than
examining
the

question
of
intellectual
property
as
a
disjuncture
of
the
contemporary,
we
see
the

possibilities
 of
 looking
 at
 it
 through
 various
 continuums;
 some
 that
 navigate

through
the
chequered
histories
of
property,
others
that
engage
with
the
histories

of
spectral
figures
hovering
around
the
commons.



An
 example
 of
 such
 a
 continuum
 for
 instance
 lies
 in
 the
 processes
 through
 which

new
 languages
 of
 property
 are
 claimed,
 and
 have
 historically
 sought
 to
 be

instituted.
The
expansion
of
intellectual
property
is
a
story
that
continues
with
the

expansion
 of
 property
 rights
 in
 general.
 Contrary
 to
 common
 assumptions
 that

property
 is
 a
 universal
 and
 eternal
 facet
 of
 history,
 property
 is
 in
 fact
 a
 social


2
 
See
for
instance,
Lawrence
Lessig,
Free
Culture:
How
Big
Media
Uses
Technology
and
the

Law
to
Lock
Down
Culture
and
Control
Creativity
(New
York:
Penguin,
2004),
Rosemary
Coombe,

The
Cultural
Life
of
Intellectual
Properties:
Authorship,
Appropriation
and
the
Law
(Durham,
NC:

Duke
University
Press,
1998),
Yochai
Benkler,
The
Wealth
of
Networks,

http://www.benkler.org/wealth_of_networks/index.php/Download_PDFs_of_the_book,
Lawrence

Liang,
Primer
on
Open
Content,
http://en.wikibooks.org/wiki/FOSS_Open_Content




4
artefact
 that
 has
 to
 be
 actively
 created
 over
 a
 period
 of
 time
 and
 consolidated

through
 various
 social
 and
 legal
 processes.
 But
 once
 property
 norms
 are

established,
 they
 go
 on
 to
 define
 a
 larger
 universe
 of
 behaviours
 and
 set
 the

boundaries
between
the
prescribed
and
the
prohibited.




The
 making
 of
 property
 requires
 the
 establishment
 of
 the
 language
 of
 ownership,

and
the
grant
of
exclusive
rights.
They
determine
the
extent
and
range
of
rights
that

accrues

from
such
ownership
and
finally
also
define
a
set
of
practices
that
would
be

considered
an
infringement
which
is
suppressed
by
the
violent
force
of
the
law
in

the
form
of
criminal
sanctions
and
punishments.



An
 examination
 of
 the
 making
 of
 property
 necessarily
 brings
 us
 to
 the
 older

histories
of
how
the
commons
came
to
be
enclosed
through
the
creation
of
property

rights.
 This
 'enclosures'
 movement,
 which
 we
 shall
 examine
 in
 greater
 detail,
 was

accompanied
 by
 a
 large
 scale
 escalation
 of
 violence
 and
 dispossession
 of
 people.

Our
 concern
 with
 contemporary
 expansions
 of
 intangible
 property
 
 is
 also

motivated
 by
 the
 equal
 violence
 and
 dispossession
 that
 they
 are
 capable
 of

unleashing.




If
we
therefore
take
the
history
of
exclusion,
trespass
and
encroachment
not
merely

as
 linguistic
 inheritances
 from
 the
 history
 of
 the
 commons,
 but
 as
 conceptual

linkages
 that
 unite
 the
 worlds
 of
 the
 tangible
 and
 intangible,
 historical
 and

contemporary,
we
may
be
furnished
with
a
set
of
conceptual
resources,
which
are

otherwise
unavailable
at
any
singular
entry
point
into
the
domain.




The
 making
 of
 property
 is
 also
 a
 project
 that
 is
 fraught
 with
 tension
 and
 fragility.

Property
asserts
its
might
by
translating
the
terms
of
knowledge
practices
into
its

own
 logic
 using
 the
 same
 coercive
 language
 of
 exclusion
 and
 trespass,
 building

newer
 fences,
 boundaries
 and
 walls
 that
 marked
 the
 experience
 of
 the
 first

enclosures
 movement.
 Fences,
 boundaries
 and
 walls
 which
 marked
 the
 binaries

between
the
owner/
trespasser,
legal/
illegal,
occupier./
encroacher
face
are
sought

to
 be
 redefined
 in
 terms
 of
 access
 costs,
 access
 restrictions,
 royalty
 payments,

infringement
claims
and
monopoly
rights.




Our
 concern
 with
 intellectual
 property
 stems
 from
 the
 ways
 in
 which
 claims
 over

property
 over
 the
 word
 of
 intangibles
 ideas,
 expressions
 and
 creativity
 are

effectively
drawing
new
boundaries
and
fences
around
a
domain
that
was
relatively

free
for
people
to
use.






The
introduction
of
a
discourse

on
property
entails
not
just
the
creation
of
a
new

system
of
legal
rights
and
obligations,
but
also

in
the
reworking
of
existing
social

relations.
 It
 introduces
 new
 forms
 of
 sociality
 via
 the
 terms
 of
 possession
 and

exclusion
where
none
may
have
existed
earlier.
Ideas
of
property
and
personhood

also
go
hand
in
hand
as
evidenced
in
the
work
of
John
Locke,
the
most
influential

theorist
of
property3.
It
is
also
Locke
who
provides
the
model
which
determines
the


3
See,
Etienne
Balibar,
My
self
and
My
own:
One
and
the
Same?,
in
Bill
Maurer
and
Gabriele
Schwab,


Accelerating
Possession:
Global
Futures
of
Property
and
Personhood,
(New
York:
Columbia
Univ.

Press,
2006)


5
core
philosophy
of
copyright.




A
 language
 of
 property
 is
 also
 totalizing
 in
 the
 sense
 that
 it
 overwrites
 all
 other

languages
 of
 social
 relations
 which
 may
 have
 existed.
 If
 for
 instance
 a
 community

had
various
norms
through
which
it
dealt
with
questions
of
the
control
over
natural

or
cultural
resources,
these
cannot
co
exist
with
a
property
claim.
The
introduction

of
 property
 transforms
 diverse
 practices
 by
 rendering
 them
 illegitimate
 or
 by

erasing
 them
 from
 the
 official
 memory
 of
 a
 community.
 We
 shall
 see
 many

examples
of
these
in
our
chapter
on
the
history
of
the
commons
in
Asia.




One
of
the
most
important
reasons
then
for
recalling
a
history
for
the
commons
is

to
also
look
at
the
ways
in
which
people
negotiated
and
managed
their
relations
to

land,
 to
 culture
 and
 to
 each
 other,
 without
 a
 property
 regime.
 We
 began
 by

asserting
that
the
Commons
is
more
than
a
romantic
metaphor
that
is
useful
for
the

contemporary.
 It
 is
 vital
 for
 us
 to
 understand
 the
 commons
 not
 only
 through
 the

lens
of
history,
but
to
examine
the
philosophical
challenges
that
it
throws
up
to
the

regime
of
property.
We
are
interested
in
the
practices
of
the
commons
that
can
help

us
rethink
ideas
of
owning,
possession
and
management
of
resources.
We
need
in

other
 words,
 an
 allegorical
 reading
 of
 the
 commons,
 which
 can
 alert
 us
 to
 new

modes
of
being
in,
and
relating
to
the
world
of
knowledge
and
culture.



C.
B.
Macpherson
has
stated
that
the
meaning
of
property
is
not
constant.
The
actual

institution
and
the
way
people
see
it,
and
hence
the
meaning
they
give
to
the
word,

all
change
over
time.
The
changes
are
related
to
changes
in
the
purposes
in
which

society
 or
 the
 dominant
 classes
 in
 society
 expect
 the
 institution
 of
 property
 to

serve.
 One
 interesting
 example
 of
 this
 is
 slavery.
 For
 a
 long
 period
 of
 time,
 it
 was

seen
 as
 being
 perfectly
 legitimate
 and
 moral
 to
 be
 able
 to
 own
 human
 beings.


Today
 slavery
 is
 considered
 morally
 reprehensible
 and
 humans
 are
 no
 longer

regarded
as
legitimate
objects
of
possession.
Consequently,
institutionalized
slavery

no
longer
"fits"
within
our
modem
conceptualization
of
property
and
is
deemed
an

illegal
form
of
ownership
by
most
cultures.
And
yet,
most
people
would
be
shocked

by
 the
 suggestion
 that
 there
 may
 be
 ways
 of
 going
 about
 the
 world
 without
 the

concept
of
property,
at
least
in
the
manner
in
which
it
is
applied.



When
John
Locke
theorized
the
state
of
nature,
one
of
the
most
important
insights

that
 he
 drew
 on
 was
 the
 idea
 that
 the
 state
 of
 nature
 lacked
 a
 regime
 of
 private

property.
 And
 it
 was
 this
 lack
 of
 private
 property,
 for
 Locke,
 that
 resulted
 in
 the

unpredictable
nature
of
life
since
there
was
no
rule
of
law
which
regulated
society.

It
 is
 important
 to
 remember
 that
 Locke’s
 state
 of
 nature
 was
 not
 merely
 an

imaginary
 one.
 While
 writing
 about
 the
 state
 of
 nature,
 he
 really
 had
 in
 mind

practices
of
indigenous
and
aboriginal
people
in
Belize
and
Guyana.
Under
English

common
law,
land
that
was
already
occupied
or
in
possession
of
another
could
not

simply
 be
 taken
 by
 force.
 But
 Locke
 helped
 redefine
 the
 concept
 of
 property

ownership
to
overcome
the
legal
bars
to
appropriation
of
the
land
in
the
possession

of
the
Aboriginals
and
to
facilitate
the
colonial
purpose
of
the
European
settlers.
4


4
 
Mary
Caldbick,
Locke's
doctrine
of
property
and
the
dispossession
of
the
Passamaquoddy,

PhD
Dissertation
submitted
to
The
University
of
New
Brunswick,
1997,
Tara
Letwiniuk,
John
Locke:

The
Devonshire
Farmer
and
the
Dispossession
of
the
Amerndians
of
Belize
and
Guyana,
PhD

Dissertation
submitted
to
the
University
of
Toronto,
1998


6


Traditional
 approaches
 to
 Locke's
 work
 have
 failed
 to
 appreciate
 the
 extent
 to

which
 his
theory
 of
 land
ownership
 is
 constructed
around
 his
attempts
to
 resolve

the
 debate
 in
 England
 over
 the
 unique
 legal
 problems
 arising
 from
 British

territorial
expansion
and
the
settlers'
need
for
land
in
the
new
world.
Locke,
in
his

defense
of
the
dispossession
of
natives,
constructed
a
set
of
arguments
intended
to

deflect
 claims
 that
 European
 rights
 to
 land
 in
 the
 new
 world
 were
 limited
 by
 the

prior
occupation
of
the
Aboriginals.



Locke
 also
 remains
 one
 of
 the
 exemplar
 philosophers
 of
 the
 seventeenth
 and

eighteenth
 century,
 a
 period
 in
 which
 many
 of
 our
 ideas
 of
 selfhood
 emerges.
 In

many
 ways,
 the
 question
 of
 personal
 identity
 was
 the
 primary
 question
 that

motivated
 Locke’s
 enquiry,
 and
 his
 theories
 set
 the
 stage
 for
 the
 philosophic
 and

juridical
 establishment
 of
 what
 Macpherson
 calls
 the
 theory
 of
 “possessive

individualism”.5
 While
 the
 question
 of
 personal
 identity
 troubled
 many

philosophers
 even
 before
 Locke,
 it
 was
 only
 with
 the
 publication
 of
 Locke’s
 Two

Treatises
 on
 Government
 and
 Essay
 Concerning
 Human
 Understanding
 that
 you

have
the
establishment
of
the
most
coherent
argument
linking
theories
of
identity

to
property.



For
Locke,
consciousness
is
a
mental
operation
that
appropriates
the
self
to
itself,

where
to
appropriate
means
to
identify
with
or
to
make
a
property
of.
The
use
of

the
word
own
is
both
as
an
adjective
(my
own
thought)
and
as
a
verb
(to
confess).

The
 relationship
 between
 the
 self
 and
 the
 own
 is
 therefore
 dependent
 on
 a

circularity
 whereby
 ideas
 of
 identity
 and
 identification
 on
 the
 one
 side
 and

appropriation
 on
 the
 other
 continuously
 exchange
 their
 function
 and
 become

virtually
equivalent.
The
relationship
between
the
self
and
the
own
is
dependent
on

a
 self
 fulfilling
 prophesy
 where
 “what
 I
 can
 consider
 as
 me,
 myself
 is
 my
 self
 and

‘my’
self
is
some
‘thing’
that
I
own,
or
that
I
must
own
(confess)
is
mine,
was
done

or
thought
by
me,
has
become
my
own
because
I
appropriated
it
to
me
by
doing
it

or
thinking
it
consciously”.6



If
 there
 is
 such
 a
 strong
 link
 between
 the
 history
 of
 property
 and
 the
 creation
 of

concepts

of
personhood,
it
is
arguable
then
that
the
history
of
the
commons
is
not

merely
an
interest
in
alternative
regimes
of
property,
but
a
quest
for
fundamentally

different
ideas
of
personhood
as
well.

JGA
Pocock
says
that
if
property
is
both
an

extension
 and
 a
 pre
 requisite
 of
 personality
 then
 we
 should
 be
 aware
 of
 the

possibility
that
different
modes
of
property
may
be
seen
as
generally
encouraging

different
modes
of
personality.7



This
monograph
will
thus
address
three
core
thematic
concerns:




5
 
Macpherson,
C.
B.
The
Political
Theory
of
Possessive
Individualism:
Hobbes
to
Locke.

Oxford:
Clarendon
Press,
1962.

6
 
See,
Etienne
Balibar,
My
self
and
My
own:
One
and
the
Same?,
in
Bill
Maurer
and
Gabriele

Schwab,
Accelerating
Possession:
Global
Futures
of
Property
and
Personhood,
(New
York:
Columbia

Univ.
Press,
2006)

7
 
J
G
A
Pockock,
Tangata
Whenua
and
Enlightenment
anthropology,
New
Zealand
Journal
of

History,
Vol.
26,
No.1
(1992),
28‐33


7
 The
 first
 segment
 takes
 us
 through
 the
 history
 of
 the
 commons.
 We
 will

attempt
to
answer
the
question
of
why
the
metaphor
of
the
commons
is
used

in
 contemporary
 debates
 on
 IP
 by
 linking
 the
 experience
 of
 pre
 property

forms,
as
well
as
providing
an
account
of
dispossession
created
by
property.



The
next
segment
poses
the
rather
difficult
question
of
how
we
can
provide

an
account
of
the
commons
in
the
Asian
context.
Given
the
different
histories

of
Europe
and
Asia
with
respect
to
enclosures,
it
seeks
to
raise
fundamental

questions
 of
 what
 it
 means
 to
 make
 a
 claim
 of
 an
 Asian
 experience
 of
 the

commons.



In
the
third
segment,
we
will
attempt
to
chart
out
possible
directions
that
a

project
 on
 theorizing
 of
 the
 commons
 in
 Asia
 will
 need
 to
 take.
 We
 will
 do

this
by
sampling
the
history
of
the
commons
in
land
in
Asia,
as
well
as
look

at
the
ways
in
which
an
Asian

cultural
commons
may
be
thought
of.




Finally,
we
will
return
to
the
contemporary
debates
to
see
how
an
Asian
Commons

can
contribute
to
the
global
debate
on
the
commons.





 




8
 Violence,
Dispossession
and
the
Enclosures
Movement
in
Europe






Recent
intellectual
property
debates
have
witnessed
a
manifold
expansion
of
catch

phrases
 such
 as
 the
 e‐commons,
 creative
 commons,
 network
 commons,
 digital

commons
 and
 other
 such
 adaptations
 of
 the
 ‘commons’
 to
 describe
 a
 system
 of

collaboration,
 access
 and
 exchange
 of
 information.
 Invoking
 this
 metaphor
 of
 the

‘commons’
has
helped
create
an
alternative
language
to
the
dominant
discourse
of

intellectual
 property.
 However,
 very
 often,
 the
 contemporary
 invocation
 of
 the

commons
does
not
really
capture
the
historical
experience
of
the
commons,
and
we

attempt
 to
 revisit
 the
 history
 of
 the
 commons
 to
 provide
 an
 account
 of
 the

commons,
which
is
attentive
to
its
tenuous
relationship
with
property,
legality,
and

the
experience
of
dispossession.
But
first
we
need
to

begin
with
a
few
instances
of

the
way
that
the
commons
is
evoked
in
contemporary
scholarship.






“By
 the
 commons
 I
 mean
 a
 resource
 that
 is
 free
 –
 not
 necessarily
 zero
 cost,
 but
 if

there
is
a
cost,
it
is
a
neutrally
imposed,
or
equally
imposed
cost”.
Lawrence
Lessig
8





Lessig
defines
the
e‐commons
as:



“It
 is
 commonplace
 to
 think
 about
 the
 Internet
 as
 a
 kind
 of
 commons.
 It
 is
 less

commonplace
to
actually
have
an
idea
what
a
commons
is.
By
a
commons
I
mean
a

resource
that
is
free.
Not
necessarily
zero
cost,
but
if
there
is
a
cost,
it
is
a
neutrally

imposed,
or
equally
imposed
cost.
…
Open
source,
or
free
software,
is
a
commons:
the

source
code
of
Linux,
for
example,
lies
available
for
anyone
to
take,
to
use,
to
improve,

to
advance.
No
permission
is
necessary;
no
authorisation
may
be
required.”9



In
 Lessig’s
 invocation,
 the
 commons
 is
 equated
 with
 the
 idea
 of
 freedom,
 and
 the

use
of
the
commons
is
to
describe
what
in
the
free
software
world
has
come
to
be

described
as
the
essential
freedom.




Yochai
 Benkler,
 whose
 work
 focuses
 on
 a
 ‘Commons‐based
 approached’
 to

managing
network
economies
describes
the
commons
as
a
new
model
of
economic

production
 in
 which
 the
 creative
 energies
 of
 large
 numbers
 of
 people
 
 are

coordinated
 (usually
 with
 the
 aid
 of
 the
 internet)
 into
 large,
 meaningful
 projects,

mostly
 without
 traditional
 hierarchical
 organisation
 or
 financial
 compensation.10

He
 defines
 the
 “networked
 information
 economy”
 as
 a
 non‐market
 economy
 of

information,
 knowledge
 and
 culture
 that
 flows
 through
 society
 over
 a
 ubiquitous,

decentralised
network.




And
 finally,
 the
 ‘Creative
 Commons’
 sees
 the
 commons
 as
 the
 cultural
 domain
 in

which
cultural
resources
are
available
freely
for
people
to
use,
modify
and
share.





8
 
Larry
Lessig,
The
Architecture
of
Innovation,
51
Duke
L.J.
1783,
1788
(2002).

9
 
Ibid.

10
 
Coase's
Penguin
or
Linux
and
The
nature
of
the
firm
‐
a
paper
by
Yochai
Benkler
defining

what
Commons‐Based
Peer
Production
is
and
how
it
works.
The
paper
also
includes
a
long
study
of

what
motivates
contributors.


9


As
 we
 have
 stated
 in
 our
 introduction:
 When
 we
 participate
 in
 the
 making
 of
 the


digital
 commons
 we
 rarely
 ask
 the
 question
 of
 why
 it
 is
 that
 the
 metaphor
 of
 the

commons
 has
 emerged
 as
 the
 dominant
 metaphor
 against
 the
 perceived

privatization
 of
 knowledge
 
 and
 culture.
 We
 would
 like
 to
 restate
 some
 of
 the

questions
that
motivate
us
such
as
:




 How
did
the
commons
come
to
be
chosen
as
the
most
appropriate
mode
of

describing
a
set
of
collaborative
practices
of
sharing
that
refuses
to
secede
to

the
logic
of
Commodification
of
knowledge?




 In
 what
 manner
 for
 instance
 does
 it
 differ
 form
 other
 ideas
 such
 as
 the

public
domain?




 Is
the
commons
synonymous
with
the
absence
of
property
norms?




 Can
there
be
an
automatic
translation
of
the
history
of
the
commons
in
land

to
the
world
of
intellectual
property?




The
 invocation
 of
 the
 commons
 in
 the
 digital
 age
 is
 a
 useful
 starting
 point,
 but
 it

would
 be
 incomplete
 if
 we
 did
 not
 acknowledge
 the
 histories
 of
 the
 making
 of

property
and
its
subsequent
history.
The

contemporary
invocation
of
the
commons

do
 not
 seem
 to
 address
 the
 fundamental
 question
 of
 the
 effect
 of
 the
 language
 of

property
on
existing
social
relations,
on
ideas
of
ownership
and
on
ideas
of
crime.

Our
primary
interest
in
revisiting
the
history
of
the
commons
is
to
explore
the
ways

in
which
people
imagined
forms
of
existence
and
relationality
that
were
outside
of

the
imagination
of
property,
the
violence
unleashed
by
the
gradual
enclosure
of
the

commons,
 and
 how
 a
 large
 number
 of
 people
 dispossessed
 by
 the
 enclosures

movement
 relied
 on
 the
 memory
 of
 the
 commons
 in
 future
 struggles
 for
 basic

entitlements.



Social
historians
of
crime,
for
instance,
have
rigorously
alerted
us
to
the
intertwined

histories
of
property
and
criminalization.
It
may
therefore
be
insufficient
for
us
to

invoke
the
commons
only
in
allegorical
terms,
and
it
may
be
more
fruitful
to
look
at

current
 conflicts
 over
 intellectual
 property
 within
 a
 wider
 historical
 continuum,

which
examines
the
nature
of
contestation
over
the
definition,
the
contours
and
the

enforcement
of
property
itself.



The
first
enclosures
which
resulted
in
the
expropriation
of
the
commons
freed
large

territories
 for
 capitalist
 agriculture,
 logging,
 mining,
 and
 speculation
 in
 land,
 and

created
at
the
same
time
a
vast
army
of
the
dispossessed
who
were
then
freed
to

become
 wage
 earners
 in
 new
 industrializing
 areas
 at
 home
 or
 abroad,
 or

criminalized
through
harsh
laws
that
imposed
penal
servitude
in
the
colonies.
The

enclosure
 of
 the
 commons
 was
 therefore
 just
 the
 first
 step
 towards
 the

consolidation
of
the
rule
of
property,
and
the
career
of
capital.




Linebuagh
 characterizes
 the
 history
 of
 the
 period
 starting
 from
 the
 enclosures
 of

the
commons
in
the
following
manner:





1
0
We
 can
 periodize
 the
 almost
 two
 and
 a
 half
 centuries
 covered
 here
 by
 naming
 the

successive
and
characteristic
sites
of
struggle:
the
commons,
the
plantation,
the
ship

and
 the
 factory.
 In
 the
 years
 1600­1640,
 when
 capitalism
 began
 in
 England
 and

spread
 through
 trade
 and
 colonization
 around
 the
 Atlantic,
 systems
 of
 terror
 and

sailing
 ships
 helped
 to
 expropriate
 the
 commoners
 of
 Africa,
 Ireland,
 England,

Barbados
 and
 Virginia
 and
 set
 them
 to
 work
 as
 hewers
 of
 wood
 and
 drawers
 of

water.”

11





The
 history
 of
 the
 ‘commons’
 can
 be
 traced
 to
 the
 early
 fifteenth
 century
 when

nearly
quarter
of
all
the
‘common
land’
in
England
and
Wales
began
to
be
enclosed

by
 multiple
 Acts
 of
 Parliament.12
 The
 ‘enclosure
 movement’
 was
 characterised
 by

the
 process
 of
 physical
 fencing
 of
 arable
 land
 with
 a
 hedge
 or
 wall,
 therein

transforming
‘common
lands’
into
pieces
of
privately
owned
property.




Prior
to
the
enclosure
movements,
the
majority
of
the
population
in
England
lived

in
nucleated
settlements
whose
fields
lying
open
were
used
in
common.

Under
this

old
 system,
 two
 main
 labouring
 methods
 were
 practiced:
 the
 first
 was
 open‐
 field

farming
 where
 “each
 farmer
 had
 rights
 over
 individual
 lands
 but
 decisions
 about

the
timing
of
ploughing,
sowing
and
harvesting
were
communal”.13
The
other
was

communal
grazing
of
flocks
of
sheep
and
herds
of
cattle
on
the
commons.
Since
the

two
 activities
 conflicted
 with
 each
 other,
 frictions
 were
 resolved
 usually
 by

community
action.




The
following
account
by
Victor
Magagna
provides
some
insight
into
the
process:



“In
open
field
system
the
core
of
daily
life
revolved
around
a
complex
of
cooperative

practices
 that
 integrated
 arable
 farming
 and
 animal
 husbandry.
 In
 open
 field

villages,
 the
 property
 rights
 of
 individuals,
 households
 and
 communities
 were

intermixed
in
a
pyramid
of
tenurial
rights
and
duties
that
defy
any
reduction
to
a

simple
 dichotomy
 between
 private
 and
 public
 property.
 Household
 or

“hearths”
were
the
usual
bearers
of
ultimate
property
rights
to
land
in
the
common

fields
 and
 forests,
 but
 the
 whole
 membership
 of
 the
 village
 had
 rights
 of
 control

over
what
specific
households
could
do
with
their
property.
Individual
proprietors

were
 bound
 by..
 rules
 of
 property
 as
 trusteeship,
 and
 householders
 could
 be
 held

accountable
for
violating
their
role
as
trustees
of
the
village.
For
example,
excessive

grazing
 of
 animals,
 chopping
 of
 wood,
 or
 enclosure
 without
 the
 consent
 of

neighbours
 and
 kin
 could
 result
 in
 penalties
 ranging
 from
 stiff
 fines
 to
 violent

reprisals.
Rights
of
access
to
a
household’s
arable
strips,
for
instance,
were
crucially

moulded
 by
 the
 patterns
 of
 exchange
 and
 co‐ordination
 that
 existed
 among
 all

villager
members.
Even
the
decision
about
when
and
what
to
plant
was
shaped
by


11
 
Peter
Linebaugh,
The
Many‐Headed
Hydra:
Sailors,
Slaves,
Commoners,
and
the
Hidden

History
of
the
Revolutionary
Atlantic.
Boston:
Beacon
Press,
2000.
See
also,
Peter
Linebaugh,
The

London
Hanged:
Crime
and
Civil
Society
in
the
Eighteenth
Century.
London:
Verso,
2006.,
Peter

Linebaugh,
The
Magna
Carta
Manifesto:
The
Struggle
to
Reclaim
Liberties
and
Commons
for
All.

Berkeley:
University
of
California
Press,
2008.

12
 
Rojer
J.P.
Kain,
John
Chapman
and
Richard
R.
Oliver,
The
Enclosure
Maps
of
England
and

Wales,
1595‐1918,
Chapter
1
(Cambridge:
Cambridge
University
Press,
2004).


13
 
John
Goodacre,
“Common
fields
and
open
spaces
in
an
English
midland
county”,
p.2


1
1
the
group
practices
of
the
village,
and
a
cultivator
who
was
foolish
enough
to
plant

when
 his
 neighbours
 grazed
 ran
 the
 risk
 of
 having
 his
 crops
 eaten
 by
 the
 village

flock.”
14



It
 is
 clear
 from
 Magagna’s
 account
 that
 the
 commons
 was
 not
 the
 zone
 of

lawlessness
of
popular
imagination.
There
existed
a
complex
set
of
norms
through

which
people
governed
their
relation
to
land
and
natural
resources.
In
contrast
to

this,
 one
 of
 the
 most
 cited
 theorists
 of
 the
 commons
 Garret
 Hardin
 provided
 an

account
of
‘the
Tragedy
of
the
Commons’,
in
which
he
argues
about
the
depletion
of

the
 commons
 was
 caused
 by
 the
 absence
 of
 private
 property.
 He
 argues
 that
 the

exploitation
of
public
resources
by
a
growing
population
causes
the
tragedy
of
the

commons.
 He
 based
 his
 argument
 on
 the
 selfish
 nature
 of
 individuals,
 who
 are

inherently
 driven
 by
 the
 singular
 interest
 of
 maximising
 their
 own
 consumption,

devoid
of
any
injury
caused
to
another.




Collective
loss
is
far
smaller
than
the
individual
gain
‐
Hardin

Hardin
used
the
analogy
of
the
pastures
to
highlight
his
point
–
where
he
describes

how
local
herdsmen
use
the
common
village
pastures
to
graze
their
cows,
with
the

understanding
 that
 by
 adding
 animals
 to
 work
 on
 the
 land,
 the
 value
 of
 the
 land

increases
 reaping
 greater
 profits.
 However,
 it
 also
 generates
 negative
 effects
 such

as
 overgrazing
 the
 land,
 therein
 affecting
 the
 prosperity
 of
 the
 villages.
 Hardin

underlines
 that
 the
 collective
 loss
 is
 far
 smaller
 than
 the
 individual
 gain
 for
 the

farmer,
making
the
village
susceptible
to
the
tragedy
of
the
commons
–
‘each
man
is

locked
 into
 a
 system
 that
 compels
 him
 to
 increase
 his
 herd
 without
 limit
 –
 in
 a

world
that
is
limited.
Freedom
of
the
commons
brings
ruin
to
all’.
15



Hardin’s
thesis

has
been
refuted
by
a
number
of
scholars,
and
we
shall
also
explore

its
claims
in
a
subsequent
chapter
on
the
commons
in
Asia.
One
does
not
get
a
sense

in
Hardin’s
analysis
of
the
material
experience
of
the
enclosures
movement.
Central

to
 the
 experience
 of
 the
 enclosure
 of
 the
 commons
 is
 the
 experience
 of

dispossession.
 When
 lands
 which
 were
 available
 to
 all
 for
 agriculture
 and
 for

grazing
are
converted
into
private
property,
what
happens
to
the
people
who
relied

on
the
commonness
of
the
land
for
their
livelihood
and
sustenance?




In
his
discussion
of
‘Expropriation
of
Agricultural
Population’
in
Capital,
Karl
Marx

cites
 Bacon’s
 account,
 of
 the
 enclosures
 movement
 in
 England
 which
 is
 worth

reproducing
here:



“Inclosures
 at
 that
 time
 (1489)
 began
 to
 be
 more
 frequent,
 whereby
 arable
 land

(which
could
not
be
manured
without
people
and
families)
was
turned
into
pasture,

which
was
easily
rid
by
a
few
herdsmen;
and
tenancies
for
years,
lives
and
at
will

(whereupon
much
of
the
yeomanry
lived)
were
turned
into
demesnes.
This
bred
a

decay
of
people,
and
(by
consequences)
a
decay
of
towns,
churches,
tithes
and
the

like.”16


14
 
Victor
V.
Magagna,
Communities
of
Grain:
Rural
Rebellion
in
Comparative
Perspective

15
 
Davis,
Philip
M.
‘The
Tragedy
of
the
Commons
Revisited:
Librarians,
Publishers,
Faculty
and

the
Demise
of
the
Public
Resource’,
The
John
Hopkins
University
Press.


16
 
Marx,
Karl,
Capital,
Vol.
I..
Chicago:
Charles
H.
Kerr
and
Co.
1906.
Trans.
Samuel,
and

Edward
Aveling
Moore.
Ed.
Frederick
Engels.
Library
of
Economics
and
Liberty.
6
May
2008.


1
2


Marx
also
cites
an
account
by
a
Dr.
Price,
which
is
instructive
on
the
effects
of
this

enclosure:




“When
this
land
gets
into
the
hands
of
a
few
great
farmers,
the
consequence
must

be
 that
 the
 little
 farmers
 will
 be
 converted
 into
 a
 body
 of
 men
 who
 earn
 their

subsistence
 by
 working
 for
 others,
 and
 who
 will
 be
 under
 a
 necessity
 of
 going
 to

market
for
all
they
want..
There
will,
perhaps
be
more
labour,
because
there
will
be

more
compulsion
to
it..
Towns
and
manufacturers
will
increase,
because
more
will

be
driven
to
them
in
quest
of
places
and
employment.
This
is
the
way
in
which
the

engrossing
 of
 farmers
 naturally
 operates.
 ..
 Upon
 the
 whole,
 the
 circumstances
 of

the
 lower
 ranks
 of
 men
 are
 altered
 in
 almost
 every
 respect
 for
 the
 worse.
 From

little
occupiers
of
land,
they
are
reduced
to
the
state
of
day‐labourers
and
hirelings;

and,
at
the
same
time,
their
subsistence
in
that
state
has
become
more
difficult”.17



During
the
Middle
Ages
in
England,
feudal
lords
began
to
evict
small
farmers
from

their
lands,
denying
them
access
to
the
“commons”.
So
land
that
was
once
held
in

‘common’
or
was
‘open
or
unfenced’
but
held
in
severalty
slowly
began
to
disappear

as
 a
 result
 of
 the
 manifold
 changes
 in
 the
 economic
 and
 social
 conditions
 of
 the

time.

The
impression
we
are
left
with
after
this
account
is
of
communities
that
have

a
 rather
 loose
 notion
 of
 private
 property,
 but
 a
 corresponding
 strong
 notion
 of

collective
 or
 shared
 entitlements
 which
 the
 entire
 community
 may
 draw
 upon

equally.




Robert
Gray,
a
publicist,
recalled
a
time
when,


“the
commons
of
our
country
lay
free
and
open
for
the
poore
common
[er]s
to
injoy,

for
there
was
roome
enough
in
the
for
every
man,
so
that
no
man
needed
to
encroach

[on]
 or
 inclose
 from
 another,
 whereby
 it
 is
 manifest,
 that
 in
 those
 dayes
 we
 had
 no

great
 need
 to
 follow
strange
 reports,
or
to
 seeke
 wild
adventures,
for
 seeing
we
 had

not
onely
sufficiencie,
but
an
overflowing
measure
proportioned
to
everie
man.”.18

The
enclosures
movement,
began
to
reveal
how
the
trend
of
appropriation
was
set

off
 against
 the
 accumulation
 of
 capital,
 transforming
 land
 and
 labour
 into

commodities.
 The
 enclosure
 of
 common
 grazing
 land
 involved
 two
 processes:
 a

property
reorganisation
movement
an
(field
and
meadow
land),
and
a
reclamation

movement
 (common
 and
 waste),
 in
 other
 words,
 the
 making
 of
 property
 itself.19

And
finally
a
conversion
of
the
dispossessed
into
wage
labour.





Enclosures,
Dispossesion
and
Violence



Linebaugh
 and
 Rediker
 begin
 with
 an
 invocation
 of
 the
 twin
 myths
 of
 the
 many

headed
hydra
and
of
Hercules’s
task
of
slaying
the
hydra
as
away
of
thinking
about

the
challenges
faced
by
the
world
of
capital,
as
it
seeks
to
reproduce
itself
endlessly,

across
border,
domains
of
life,
having
the
sovereign
authority
of
law
as
its
eternal

companion.
 The
 slaying
 of
 the
 hydra
 was
 the
 second
 of
 the
 twelve
 labors
 of


<http://www.econlib.org/Library/YPDBooks/Marx/mrxCpA27.html>.

17
 
Ibid

18
 Peter
Linebaugh
and
Marcus
Rediker,
The
Many
Headed
Hydra
(London,
Verso,
2000)


19
 
See
Supra
note
5,
p
3


1
3
Hercules.
Confronted
with
the
monstrous,
many‐headed
Hydra,
a
water
snake
with

nine
 to
 a
 hundred
 heads,
 Hercules
 found
 that
 as
 soon
 as
 he
 cut
 off
 one
 head,
 two

grew
in
its
place.
With
the
help
of
his
nephew
Iolaus,
he
learned
to
use
a
firebrand

to
 cauterize
 the
 stump
 of
 the
 beast’s
 neck.
 Thus
 they
 killed
 the
 Hydra.
 Hercules

dipped
 his
 arrows
 in
 the
 blood
 of
 the
 slain
 beast,
 whose
 venom
 thus
 gave
 to
 his

arrows
their
fatal
power.




Using
the
allegory
of
the
hydra
as
the
various
obstacles
that
capital
faces
from
the

18th
 century
 to
 the
 present,
 Linebaugh
 starts
 from
 the
 material
 organization
 of

many
thousands
of
workers
into
transatlantic
circuits
of
commodity
exchange
and

capital
accumulation
and
then
proceeds
to
look
at
the
ways
in
which
they
translated

their
 cooperation
 into
 anti‐capitalist
 projects
 of
 their
 own.
 The
 first
 enclosures

which
 resulted
 in
 the
 expropriation
 of
 the
 commons
 freed
 large
 territories
 for

capitalist
 agriculture,
 logging,
 mining,
 and
 speculation
 in
 land,
 and
 created
 at
 the

same
 time
 a
 vast
 army
 of
 the
 dispossessed
 who
 were
 then
 freed
 to
 become
 wage

earners
 in
 new
 industrializing
 areas
 at
 home
 or
 abroad,
 or
 criminalized
 through

harsh
laws
that
imposed
penal
servitude
in
the
colonies.
Those
dispossessed
from

the
land
also
became
the
bulk
of
the
work
force
for
the
new
engines
transporting

commodities
 across
 continents,
 the
 Ship.
 Sailors
 and
 ships
 linked
 the
 mode
 of

production
 and
 expanded
 the
 international
 capitalist
 economy.
 The
 ship
 was
 also

the
site
for
the
coming
together
of
diverse
labours,
from
different
ethnicities,
bound

together
by
a
pidgin
tongue.
The
solidarity
of
this
motley
crew,
like
many
others
of

the
 era
 was
 forged
 around
 a
 commonality
 of
 their
 situation
 of
 dispossession
 and

their
labour.



Linebaugh
and
Rediker
document
in
detail
the
very
difficult
conditions
under
which

these
sailors
worked,
the
dangers
that
they
were
constantly
exposed
to,
while
at
the

same
 time
 creating
 the
 conditions
 for
 a
 solidarity
 which
 would
 challenge
 smooth

flow
of
capital.
The
first
pirates
in
a
sense
were
often
the
‘outcast
of
the
land’
who

would
 mutineer
 against
 the
 conditions
 of
 their
 work,
 and
 create
 an
 alternative

order
challenging
the
division
of
labour
and
of
capital.




Thus
 summarizing
 the
 characteristic
 of
 the
 multitude
 or
 the
 hydra
 of
 the
 era
 of

early

capitalism,
Linebaugh
says
that
“It
was
landless,
exploited.
It
lost
the
integument
of

the
commons
to
cover
and
protect
its
needs.
It
was
poor,
lacking
property,
money
or

material
riches
of
any
kind.
It
was
often
unwaged,
forced
to
perform
the
paid
labours

of
capitalism.
It
was
often
hungry,
with
uncertain
means
of
survival.
It
was
mobie,

transatlantic.
It
powered
industries
of
worldwide
transportation.
It
left
the
land,

migrating
from
country
to
town,
from
region
to
region,
across
the
oceans,
and
from

one
island
to
another.
It
was
terrorized,
subject
to
coersion.
Its
hide
was
calloused
by

indentured
labour,
gallery
slavery,
plantation
slavery,
convict
transportation,
the

workhouse,
 the
 house
 of
 correction.
 Its
 origins
 were
 often
 traumatic:
 enclosure,

capture,
 and
 imprisonment
 left
 lasting
 marks.
 It
 was
 female
 and
 male,
 of
 all
 ages.

(indeed,
the
very
term
proletarian
originally
referred
to
poor
women
who
served
the

state
 by
 bearing
 children.)
 It
 included
 everyone
 from
 youth
 to
 old
 folks,
 from
 ship’s

boys
to
old
salts,
from
apprentices
to
savvy
old
masters,
from
young
prostitutes
to
old

“witches.”
 It
 was
 multitudinous,
 numerous,
 and
 growing.
 Whether
 in
 a
 square,
 at
 a

market,
 on
 a
 common,
 in
 a
 regiment,
 or
 on
 a
 man­of­war
 with
 banners
 flying
 and


1
4
drums
 beating,
 its
 gatherings
 were
 wondrous
 to
 contemporaries.
 It
 was
 numbered,

weighed,
 and
 measured.
 Unknown
 as
 individuals
 or
 by
 name,
 it
 was
 objectified
 and

counted
 for
 purposes
 of
 taxation,
 production,
 and
 reproduction.
 It
 was
 cooperative

and
laboring.
The
collective
power
of
the
many
rather
than
the
skilled
labor
of
the
one

produced
 its
 most
 forceful
 energy.
 It
 moved
 burdens,
 shifted
 earth,
 and
 transformed

the
landscape.
It
was
motley,
both
dressed
in
rags
and
multiethnic
in
appearance.
Like

Caliban,
it
originated
in
Europe,
Africa,
and
America.
It
included
clowns,
or
cloons
(i.e.,

country
 people).
 It
 was
 without
 genealogical
 unity.
 It
 was
 vulgar.
 It
 spoke
 its
 own

speech,
 with
 a
 distinctive
 pronunciation,
 lexicon,
 and
 grammar
 made
 up
 of
 slang,

cant,
 jargon,
 and
 pidgin—talk
 from
 work,
 the
 street,
 the
 prison,
 the
 gang,
 and
 the

dock.
 It
 was
 planetary,
 in
 its
 origins,
 its
 motions,
 and
 its
 consciousness.
 Finally,
 the

proletariat
was
self­active,
creative;
it
was—and
is—alive;
it
is
on
a
move”.20



The
 history
 of
 “commoning”
 would
 be
 incomplete
 without
 addressing
 parallel

developments
that
took
place
in
the
society.
Rediker
and
Linebaugh’s
account
of
an

alternative
to
the
imagination
of
property
highlighted
that
any
form
of
resistance
to

the
 enclosure
 movement
 amounted
 to
 high
 treason.
 There
 were
 
 several
 statutes

that
were
enacted
against
the
crimes
of
robbery,
burglary
and
stealing,
which
were

targeted
at
the
dispossessed.
According
to
A.L.
Bier,
vagabonds
were
like

“a
hydra‐
headed
monster
poised
to
destroy
the
state
and
social
order.”21




In
England
for
instance,
the
successful
expropriation
of
the
commons
ensured
that

there
was
enough
idle
labour
available
to
be
expropriated
as
maritime
labour
and

this
obtained
through
the
twin
strategies
of
law
and
terror.
The
use
of
Press
Gangs

and
 
 martial
 laws
 which
 provided
 for
 death
 penalties
 as
 the
 punishment
 for

resistance
has
been
documented
by
social
historians
of
property
and
crime.




A
series
of
laws
that
were
passed
to
ensure
that
this
effort
was
successful.
Some
of

these
included
the
:



Navigation
Act
1651

Articles
of
war
1652

Navigation
Act
1660
–
outlining
commodities

Navigation
Act
1673‐
enforcement
of
trade



The
quantity
shipped
had
doubled
over
a
span
of
fifty
years.
In
1629
merchants
had

shipped
115,000
tons
and
by
1686
they
have
shipped
340,000
tons
of
commodities.

In
 1633
 they
 had
 50
 ships
 and
 9500
 sailors
 and
 by
 1688
 173
 ships
 with
 42,000

sailors.
 This
 massive
 expansion
 in
 the
 world
 of
 maritime
 trade
 and
 commodity

production
 and
 circulation
 was
 also
 accompanied
 by
 an
 equally
 meteoric
 rise
 in

laws
that
criminalized
social
life.
The
Articles
of
war
of
1652
for
instance
imposed

death
penalty
in
25
out
of
39
clauses.




The
first
pirates
in
a
sense
were
often
the
‘outcast
of
the
land’
who
would
mutiny

against
the
conditions
of
their
work,
and
create
an
alternative
order
challenging
the

division
 of
 labour
 and
 of
 capital.
 In
 fashioning
 their
 hydrachy,
 these
 buccaneers


20
 
See
Supra.
Note
11
at
332


21
 
Ibid.
to
Supra
Note
p
18


1
5
often
drew
from
the
memory
of
utopias
created
by
pedants,
where
work
had
been

abolished,
 property
 redistributed,
 social
 distinctions
 leveled,
 health
 restored
 and

food
 made
 abundant.
 By
 expropriating
 a
 merchant
 ship
 (after
 a
 mutiny
 of
 a

capture),
 pirates
 seized
 the
 means
 of
 maritime
 production
 and
 declared
 it
 to
 the

common
property
of
those
who
did
its
work.
Rather
than
working
for
wages
using

the
 tools
 and
 larger
 machinery
 (the
 ship)
 owned
 by
 a
 merchant
 capitalist,
 pirates

abolished
the
wage
and
commanded
the
ship
as
their
property,
sharing
equally
in

the
risks
of
common
adventure.



Thus,
 the
 introduction
 of
 property
 was
 central
 to
 the
 making
 of
 the
 figure
 of
 the

trespasser
 and
 the
 criminal.
 Emerging
 from
 the
 history
 of
 the
 enclosure
 of
 the

commons,
 the
 idea
 of
 the
 trespasser
 has
 shown
 remarkable
 resilience
 and

adaptability
 to
 the
 changing
 ideas
 of
 property
 and
 value.
 The
 trespasser
 and
 the

language
 of
 trespass
 has
 resurfaced
 in
 recent
 times
 in
 the
 context
 of
 the

information
era
along
with
other
familiar
figures
from
the
history
of
property
such

as
 the
 pirate,
 the
 copier
 etc.
 The
 expansion
 of
 intellectual
 property
 also
 relies
 on

similar
strategies
where
various
categories
of
illegality
are
mobilized,
both
to
justify

intellectual
property
as
well
as
to
argue
for
stronger
enforcement
regimes.
And
yet

the
 resurfacing
 of
 the
 trespasser
 is
 necessarily
 complicated
 by
 the
 fact
 that
 they

also
bring
with
them
residual
memories
such
as
that
of
the
commons.



Comparing
the
history
of
the
commons
with
the
story
of
IP
in
the
contemporary,
the

Raqs
 Media
 Collective
 says
 that
 the
 history
 of
 the
 commons
 and
 of
 dispossession

and
violence
holds
an
important
lesson
for
us
interested
in
looking
at
the
condition

of
life
under
the
sign
of
intellectual
property.
Intellectual
property
is
the
new
sign
of

value
 in
 the
 contemporary.
 Embodied
 in
 different
 commodities
 ranging
 from
 film

and
music
to
software
and
branded
clothes,
this
new
cluster
of
commodities,
made

up
 of
 culture
 and
 information,
 is
 also
 brought
 into
 the
 world
 through
 trans‐
continental
 networks
 of
 new
 indentured
 labour,
 made
 in
 virtual
 vessels
 that
 pass

each
other
in
the
global
working
night,
on
the
high
seas
of
data.




They
argue
that
“These
tall
ships
of
our
times
that
fly
many
flags
of
convenience
are

the
 software
 sweatshops,
 the
 media
 networks,
 the
 vast
 armadas
 of
 the
 culture

industries
 and
 the
 lifestyle
 factories.
 They
 produce
 high
 value
 primary

commodities,
 stars,
 stories,
 sagas,
 software,
 idols,
 lifestyles,
 and
 other
 ways
 of

ordering
meaning
in
an
increasingly
chaotic
world.
Typically,
even
though
they
sell

the
 fantasies
 of
 place
 and
 identity
 in
 an
 increasingly
 enmeshed
 world,
 they
 are

produced
 in
 a
 global
 everywhere,
 and
 delivered
 through
 electronic
 pipelines

everywhere,
 and
 when
 necessary
 more
 or
 less
 instantaneously,
 through

telecommunication
 networks.
 Their
 ubiquity,
 and
 their
 global
 reach
 is
 also
 the

hallmark
 of
 their
 greatest
 vulnerability;
 for
 like
 their
 precursors,
 the
 cargo
 of
 the

tall
 ships
 of
 the
 new
 economy
 is
 just
 as
 vulnerable
 to
 attacks
 of
 piracy.
 The
 new

electronic
 pirates
 are
 located
 in
 the
 precise
 interstices
 of
 the
 global
 culture

economy,
which
are
the
nodes
that
make
the
network
viable
in
the
first
place.
If
we

cannot
imagine
a
global
media
industry
without
the
technology
that
made
possible

the
 phenomenon
 known
 as
 peer‐to‐peer
 networking
 on
 intranets,
 then
 it
 is

precisely
 the
 same
 technology
 on
 the
 Internet
 that
 renders
 any
 attempt
 to
 police

the
distribution
channels
of
media
content
in
the
interests
of
proprietary
agencies

almost
 impossible.
 Just
 as
 the
 piracy
 of
 the
 past
 disturbed
 the
 equilibrium


1
6
composed
 of
 slavery,
 indentured
 labour,
 the
 expropriation
 of
 the
 commons,
 the

factory
system
and
penal
servitude,
the
electronic
piracy
of
the
present
is
destined

to
 wreck
 the
 culture
 industry
 either
 by
 making
 the
 economic
 and
 social
 costs
 of

policing
content
prohibitive,
or
by
ushering
in
a
diversity
of
new
protocols
of
usage,

distribution
and
reproduction
of
cultural
and
intellectual
content
that
will
make
the

whole
 enterprise
 of
 making
 vast
 sums
 of
 money
 out
 of
 the
 nothing
 of
 data
 and

culture
a
difficult
business”.22



We
 have
 chosen
 to
 take
 this
 detailed
 route
 through
 the
 history
 of
 commons
 to

celebrate
the
possibility
of
forms
of
life
which
were
not
governed
only
by
the
norms

of
property,
but
equally
to
bear
witness
to
the
scale
of
violence
that
went
into
the

making
 of
 a
 rule
 of
 property.
 We
 also
 need
 to
 be
 alert
 to
 the
 fact
 that
 like
 the

experience
of
the
past,
the
making
of
a
language
of
intellectual
property
will
also
be

governed
 by
 the
 dispossession
 of
 people,
 the
 acceleration
 of
 social
 conflicts
 over

law
and
crime.



The
Commons
and
the
Public
Domain



We
can
now
return
to
trace
the
legal
history
of
the
commons,
as
well
as
the
other

concept
 popularly
 used
 in
 IP
 debates,
 the
 Public
 Domain.
 By
 the
 end
 of
 the

seventeenth
century
forms
of

non‐exclusive
or
common
property
slowly
started
to

decline
 as
 a
 result
 of
 the
 enclosure
 movement.23
 But
 despite
 the
 enclosures

movement,
there
still
existed
older
Roman
law
principles
of
nonexclusive
property

or
 the
 ‘public’
 which
 continued
 to
 exert
 an
 influence
 on
 the
 English
 common
 law.

Carol
 Rose
 says
 that
 though
 Roman
 law
 did
 not
 develop
 the
 categories
 of
 non‐
exclusive
property
in
detail
–
the
rise
of
civil
society
and
the
modern
state
afforded

an
 opportunity
 for
 the
 classical
 texts
 to
 discuss
 them
 broadly
 under
 the
 rubric
 of


‘the
commons’.




Concepts
 such
 as
 ‘res
 communes’
 [things
 open
 to
 all
 by
 their
 nature]
 and
 ‘res

publicae’
[things
belonging
to
the
public
and
open
to
the
public
by
operation
of
law]

served
 as
 an
 antidote
 to
 the
 idea
 of
 exclusion/exclusive
 property
 itself.
 But
 the

burgeoning
 market
 space
 only
 emphasized
 the
 notion
 of
 individual
 ownership,

weakening
the
influence
of
traditional
postulates
of
Roman
law.
24



While
the
notion
of
the
public
and
the
private
goes
back
to
the
seventeenth
century,

the
division
of
things
into
corporeal
and
incorporeal
is
coincident
with
the
division

of
 objects
 into
 tangible
 and
 intangible
 categories
 under
 Roman
 law
 tradition.
 The

difference
between
them
was
brought
to
the
forefront
only
when
English
property

law
recognized
the
various
forms
of
incorporeal
property
such
as
debts
and
choses

in
action,
or
‘intellectual
property’
(jura
in
re
propria)
claims.




There
 are
 thus
 two
 distinct
 histories
 of
 the
 ‘commons’.
 The
 first
 consists
 of
 the


22
 
Raqs
Media
Collective,
Value
and
its
Other
in
Electronic
Culture:
Slave
Ships
and
Private

Galleons,
DIVE,
ed.
Armin
Medosch,
FACT
Liverpool,
2003

23
 
Daniel
R.
Coquillette,
Mosses
from
an
Old
Manse:
Another
Look
at
Some
Historic
Property

Cases
about
the
Environment,
64
CORNELL.
L.
REV.
761,
807‐809
(1979).

24
 
Carol
Rose,
Romans,
Roads,
And
Romantic
Creators:
Traditions
of
Public
Property
in
the

Information
Age.
Law
and
Contemporary
Problems
66(1&2).


1
7
commons
 and
 the
 ‘enclosure
 movement’
 or
 the
 disappearance
 of
 the
 ‘open
 fields’,

and
 the
 second
 idea
 of
 the
 public
 domain,
 emerged
 from
 principles
 of
 publicness

under
Roman
law.
While
the
former
consider
the
‘commons’
as
a
state
or
condition

of
 
 ‘pre‐property’,
 the
 latter
 is
 an
 exception
 that
 is
 carved
 out
 from
 property
 for

public
 purpose
 ‐
 offering
 to
 us
 a
 dual
 trajectory
 to
 understand
 the
 notion
 of
 the

‘commons’.




James
Boyle
compares
the
history
of
IP
to
the
history
of
land
in
the
UK,
where
the

literary
work
was
considered
as
a
kind
of
landed
estate.
Implicitly
woven
into
the

story
 of
 the
 ‘enclosure
 or
 landed
 property’
 also
 lies
 the
 twin
 narrative
 about
 the

birth
 of
 copyright
 –
 where
 all
 literary
 material
 that
 was
 once
 free
 has
 been

circulated
 via
 control
 mechanism
 restricting
 it’s
 outreach
 and
 circulation.
 Even

though
 today
 it
 may
 sound
 paradoxical,
 the
 protection
 under
 the
 IP
 regime
 was

primarily
designed
to
protect
the
‘commons’
‐
to
boost
innovation
and
creativity.




The
 second
 enclosure
 movement
 or
 the
 “enclosure
 of
 the
 intangible
 commons
 of

the
mind”
was
a
term
used
by
James
Boyle
that
referred
to
the
newly
developed
set

of
property
rights
(incorporeal)
granted
as
a
return
on
the
investment
of
time
and

money
of
the
creator.25




Boyle’s
work
most
explicitly
links
the
history
of
the
enclosures
movement
with
the

developments
 in
 IP
 law.
 He
 questions
 whether
 the
 terms
 that
 justified
 one
 could

justify
 the
 other.
 It
 is
 argued
 that
 there
 are
 no
 traditional
 claims
 over
 the
 digital

commons,
 as
 demanded
 by
 the
 victims
 of
 the
 first
 enclosure
 movement
 ‐

information
 is
 principally
 very
 different
 from
 the
 notion
 of
 property
 in

land(immoveable
 property),
 primarily
 due
 to
 its
 the
 “non‐rival”
 and
 “non‐
excludable”
 character.
 Therefore,
 unlike
 a
 scarcity
 of
 the
 physically
 owned

property,
 there
 cannot
 be
 a
 paucity
 of
 ideas
 or
 information,
 as
 once
 they
 are

introduced,
ideas
can
be
recycled
and
reused
without
reducing
original
possession

of
it.26




James
Boyle
went
on
to
exemplify
the
common
characteristics
shared
by
enclosure

movements,
stating
that
“protecting
new
subject
matter
for
longer
periods
of
time,

criminalizing
 certain
 technologies,
 making
 it
 illegal
 to
 cut
 through
 digital
 fences

even
if
they
have
been
the
effect
of
foreclosing
previously
lawful
uses
and
so
on”.27




Drawing
 from
 Boyle’s
 work
 ,the
 second
 enclosure
 movement,
 it
 appears
 that
 the

digital
 commons
 has
 revived
 a
 thinking
 of
 public
 domain
 once
 again.
 He
 cites
 the

example
 of
 the
 environment
 movement
 of
 the
 1950’s
 as
 an
 analogy
 to
 point
 out

how
 today
 we
 are
 witnessing
 a
 gradual
 disappearance
 of
 the
 public
 domain.

According
to
him,
a
rise
in
private
property
claims
within
a
linear
scientific
system

that
treats
the
world
as
a
set
of
causes
and
effects
controlled
by
the
market,
forced

the
 environment
 to
 steadily
 disappear
 from
 the
 debate
 on
 conserving
 public


25
 
James
Boyle,
Fencing
off
ideas:
enclosure
and
the
disappearance
of
the
public
domain,

Daedalus,
Vol.
131,
2002.

26
 
Boyle,
James.
“Law
and
Contemporary
Problems:
James
Boyle,
The
Second
Enclosure

Movement
and
the
Construction
of
the
Public
Domain”
Law
&
Contemp.
Probs.
66.Winter/Spring

(2003):
33.(at
p.41)

27
 Ibid..


1
8
resources.
 Similarly,
 the
 expansionist
 tendency
 of
 the
 IP
 regulations,
 built
 around

the
notion
of
originality,
ownership
and
layered
protections
is
pushing
forward
the

agenda
 which
 supports
 the
 shrinking
 of
 the
 public
 domain,
 urging
 it’s
 own

reinvention.



 

“The
idea
of
the
public
domain
takes
to
a
higher
level
of
abstraction
a
set
of
individual

fights
 over
 this
 chunk
 of
 the
 genome,
 that
 aspect
 of
 computer
 programs,
 this
 claim

about
 the
 eaning
 of
 parody
 or
 the
 ownership
 of
 facts.
 Just
 as
 the
 duck
 hunter
 funds

common
 cause
 with
 the
 bird
 watcher
 and
 the
 salmon
 geneticist
 by
 coming
 to
 think

about
 ‘the
 environment’,
 so
 an
 emergent
 concept
 of
 the
 public
 domain
 could
 tie

together
 the
 interests
 of
 groups
 currently
 engaged
 in
 individual
 struggles
 with
 no

sense
of
the
larger
context.”
28



Given
 this
 background,
 let
 us
 examine
 the
 meaning
 of
 the
 ‘public
 domain’,
 whilst

attempting
 to
 clarify
 the
 conceptual
 confusion
 between
 the
 often‐exchangeable

categories
of
the
‘commons’
and
the
‘public
domain’.
Are
the
characteristics
of
the

categories
universal
in
their
application,
or
are
these
metaphors
challenged
as
we

move
along
altering
geographies
of
the
world?




The
 scholarship
 on
 the
 public
 domain
 in
 the
 IP
 debate
 can
 be
 traced
 to
 the
 initial

writings
of
David
Lange
(1983).
According
to
Lange
in
this
first
article,
“Recognising

the
Public
Domain”,
the
“recognition
of
new
IP
interests
should
be
offset
today
by

equally
deliberate
recognition
of
individual
rights
in
the
public
domain”.29
But
what

does
 this
 mean?
 Although
 Lange’s
 article
 set
 momentum
 to
 the
 thinking
 on
 the

subject
 of
 public
 domain
 through
 the
 analysis
 of
 various
 cases,
 he
 did
 not
 further

expound
on
the
theory
or
definition
of
the
public
sphere
specifically.
Nonetheless,

from
then
onwards,
other
theorists
have
attempted
to
throw
light
on
the
area,
yet

restrictively
developing
it
as
an
immediate
alternative.



The
 term
 ‘public
 domain’
 was
 derived
 from
 the
 French
 term
 ‘domaine
 public’

meaning
 ‘property
 unlikely
 to
 private
 ownership’,
 but
 its
 relevance
 has
 been

diverse
and
elastic
through
the
years.
30




In
 the
 US,
 the
 term
 found
 in
 a
 judicial
 pronouncement
 when
 Ralph
 Brown
 &
 Ben

Kaplan
made
references
to
it
with
regard
to
a
patent
case
in
1966,




‘The
 Congress
 in
 the
 exercise
 of
 the
 patent
 power
 may
 not
 overreach
 the
 restraints

imposed
by
the
stated
constitutional
purpose.
Nor
may
it
enlarge
the
patent
monopoly

without
 regard
 to
 the
 innovation,
 advancement
 or
 social
 benefit
 gained
 thereby.

Moreover,
 Congress
 may
 not
 authorize
 the
 issuance
 of
 patents
 whose
 effects
 are
 to

remove
 existent
 knowledge
 from
 the
 public
 domain,
 or
 to
 restrict
 free
 access
 to

materials
already
available.”
31





In
 the
 more
 recent
 writing
 of
 Lange,
 he
 expands
 on
 the
 concept
 of
 the
 Public


28
 
Ibid

29
 
David
Lange,
Recognising
the
Public
Domain,
44
LAW
&
CONTEMP.
PROBS.
147
(Autumn

1981)

30
 
Wikipedia
–
check
‘public
domain’
visited
on
27/01/08.

31
 
Graham
v
John
Deere
Co.
,
383
U.S.
1,
5‐6
(1966)



1
9
Domain,
referring
to
it
as
“a
recognisable
place
of
refuge
for
creative
endeavour
in

its
 own
 rights;
 a
 sanctuary
 conferring
 affirmative
 recognition/protection
 against

the
 forces
 of
 private
 appropriation
 that
 threaded
 such
 expression”.32
 
 Can
 the

metaphor
 of
 the
 public
 domain
 be
 associated
 to
 a
 wilderness,
 a
 commons,
 a

sanctuary,
a
home?
While
Boyle
agrees
with
this
analogy,
David
Lange
affirms
that

the
 public
 domain
 needs
 to
 be
 re‐imagined
 in
 terms
 of
 a
 distinct
 ‘status’,
 “as
 if
 it

were
a
status
like
citizenship,
but
a
citizenship
arising
from
the
exercise
of
creative

imagination
rather
than
as
a
concomitant
of
birth”.33
The
public
domain
should
be

then
 understood
 as
 “an
 affirmative
 source
 of
 entitlements
 capable
 of
 deployment,

as,
 when
 and
 where
 required,
 against
 the
 encroachments
 upon
 the
 creative

imagination
threatened
by
intellectual
property”.34
This
conception
undermines
the

need
 for
 a
 re‐thinking
 on
 the
 ideas
 of
 the
 commons/public
 domain
 as
 opposed
 to

the
 ownership
 of
 property
 –
 in
 an
 attempt
 to
 move
 beyond
 the
 traditional

arguments
of
‘network
commons’.






What
 remains
 still
 unclear
 is
 whether
 the
 terrain
 of
 the
 public
 domain
 can
 be

envisioned
 into
 clearly
 a
 defined
 compartment
 for
 all
 practical
 purposes?
 For

example,
according
to
Pamela
Samuelson,
who
also
believes
that
the
public
domain

is
that
sphere
in
which
content
is
free
from
intellectual
property
rights,
it
is
also
a

sphere
where
the
boundaries
are
still
blurred
and
uncertain.35
Citing
the
example
of

the
 open
 source
 movement,
 she
 argues
 that
 most
 information
 and
 content
 that

appears
 to
 be
 outside
 the
 public
 domain
 in
 theory
 is
 seemingly
 inside
 in
 effect,

while
 some
 works
 rest
 on
 the
 periphery.
 Therefore,
 however
 necessary
 and

important
 it
 may
 appear
 to
 map
 out
 the
 layout
 of
 the
 public
 domain,
 it
 is
 still
 a

contentious
assessment
to
say
the
least.





In
writings
on
Intellectual
property,
there
is
a
tendency
to
use
of
the
terms
‘public

domain’
and
the
‘commons’
as
though
they
were
synonymous.
But
it
is
important
to

bear
in
mind
the
two
distinct
histories
that
inform
the
concept,
because
central
to

the
distinction
between
the
two
is
the
question
how
you
deal
with
the
question
of

property.
Our
reading
of
the
commons
places
it
outside
of
formal
property
regimes,

while
the
public
domain
may
be
seen
as
exceptions
carved
out
of
private
property.













32
 
David
Lange,
‘Reimagining
the
Public
Domain’,
66
Law
&
Contemp.
Probs.
463

(Winter/Spring)

33
 
Ibid.

34
 
Ibid.

35
 
Pamela
Samuelson,
Mapping
the
Digital
Public
Domain:
Threats
and
Opportunities.
66
LAW

&
CONTEMP.
PROBS.
147
(Winter/Spring
2003)



2
0
 How
does
an
Asia
Commons
mean?

Notes
towards
a
genealogy
of
the
Commons
in
Asia



In
 an
 episode
 in
 Lewis
 Carrol’s
 Alice
 in
 Wonderland,
 the
 Mad
 Hatter
 approaches

Alice
and
says
“Pray,
can
you
tell
me
what
the
answer
is”.
Alice
says
that
she
doesn’t

know
the
answer.
To
which,
the
Mad
Hatter
then
says,
In
that
case,
can
you
tell
me

what
the
question
is”.
This
episode
alerts
us
to
the
importance
of
formulating
our

questions
 clearly
 before
 we
 seek
 answers.
 In
 the
 rather
 accelerated
 world
 of

internet
 time,
 it
 seems
 as
 though
 the
 virtues
 of
 slowness
 advocated
 by
 Nietzsche

are
a
thing
of
the
past.
Our
experience
of
the
present
is
one
of
constant
crisis,
and
as

activists
and
scholars
we
are
also
prompted
to
respond
with
urgency
to
the
crisis.

The
 crisis
 to
 the
 flows
 of
 knowledge
 and
 culture
 caused
 by
 the
 expansion
 of

copyright
has
resulted
in
the
creation
of
the
commons
as
the
symbolic
alternative,
a

symbol
that
is
sought
to
be
extended
in
different
domains.
One
of
these
has
been
to

see
 the
 idea
 of
 the
 Asian
 commons
 as
 a
 solution
 to
 the
 specific
 problem
 of

restrictions
 on
 knowledge
 and
 culture
 in
 Asia.
 Heeding
 the
 Mad
 Hatter’s
 and

Nietzche’s
warnings,
we
will
attempt
to
read
the
question
of
Asia
Commons
a
little

slowly
and
try
to
be
clear
about
how
an
Asian
commons
means
before
we
attempt

to
theorize
its
relevance
in
the
global
debate.



Beginning
with
the
Asia
Commons
workshop
in
Bangkok
in
2006,
there
has
been
a

move
towards
examining
what
an
Asian
commons
can
look
like,
and
how
the
Asian

commons
 can
 add
 a
 distinctive
 perspective
 to
 the
 global
 debate
 from
 the
 world’s

most
populous
region.
This
segment
of
the
monograph
argues
that
while
there
may

be
 a
 lot
 of
 value
 in
 thinking
 through
 the
 idea
 of
 an
 Asian
 Commons,
 the
 more

difficult
task
may
be
to
think
through
what
exactly
this
Asian
commons
is
without

reverting
 to
 any
 easy
 cultural
 relativism,
 or
 falling
 into
 the
 trap
 of
 being
 ‘native

informants’
 of
 a
 global
 concept.
 We
 have
 already
 traversed
 a
 fair
 distance
 in

charting
out
the
history
of
the
commons
and
the
enclosure
movement
in
the
west,

and
it
is
clear
that
there
is
no
single
history
that
can
encompass
the
entire
story
of

the
commons
even
in
Europe.
But
before
we
even
begin
to
examine
the
idea
of
the

commons
 in
 Asia,
 we
 have
 to
 deal
 with
 the
 rather
 tricky
 question
 of
 how
 do
 we

think
through
the
idea
of
Asia
itself.



In
the
1950’s
Umesawa
Tadao,
a
Japanese
intellectual
and
theorist
of
Asia
was
in
a

meeting
where
he
was
having
a
conversation
with
a
Pakistani
intellectual
who
said

to
 Tadao,
 ‘We
 are
 all
 Asians’.
 Tadao
 writes
 that
 he
 was
 completely
 taken
 by

surprise,
 and
 he
 felt
 that
 the
 identity
 claim
 of
 being
 an
 Asian
 was
 merely
 a

conceptual
 play,
 lacking
 in
 either
 substantial
 content
 or
 
 affective
 support.
 He

asserted
that
this
could
only
be
a
certain
‘diplomatic
fiction’36.




This
story
for
us
alludes
to
the
complexity
and
difficulties
involved
in
making
any

claims
 in
 the
 name
 of
 Asia
 or
 Aisanness.
 
 This
 is
 further
 complicated
 when
 we

attempt
to
graft
the
idea
of
the
commons
upon
Asia,
given
the
specific
history
of
the

commons.
 It
 is
 not
 entirely
 clear
 to
 us,
 as
 to
 what
 kinds
 of
 claims
 are
 being
 made

when
we
speak
of
An
Asian
Commons.



36
 
Umesawa
Tadao
(1967)
An
Ecological
Historiography
of
Civilization,
cited
in
,
Sun
Ge,
How

does
Asia
mean,
Part
1,
Inter‐Asia
Cultural
Studies,
Volume
1
,
Number
1
,
2000




2
1


Prima
facie,
the
phrase
“Asia
Commons”
has
a
misleading
intelligibility
about
it,
and


it
seems
to
signify
the
idea
of
what
a
commons
in
Asia
means.
But
on
probing
the

idea
a
little
further,
we
immediately
discover
that
the
phrase
imagines
the
coming

together
of
two
categories,
which
are
distinct
in
terms
of
their
histories,
as
well
as

their
 epistemological
 status,
 and
 it
 seems
 less
 intelligible
 than
 it
 initially
 looked.

The
invocation
of
Asia
to
elucidate
a
historical
and
cultural
idea
like
the
commons

poses
 a
 number
 of
 conceptual
 problems
 and
 questions.
 So
 we
 need
 to
 begin
 by

mapping
out
the
various
ways
in
which
an
Asian
Commons
in
invoked:



i.
Asian
Commons
as
part
of
Global
Commons



In
 the
 narrowest
 sense
 of
 the
 term
 Asia
 Commons
 is
 an
 extension
 of
 the
 global

commons
movement,
which
acts
as
an
antidote
to
the
expansionist
tendency
of
the

global
 IP
 regime.
 In
 particular
 it
 can
 be
 seen
 as
 an
 expansion
 of
 the
 Creative

Commons
initiative.
And
this
indeed
seems
to
be
one
of
the
ways
in
which
the
Asian

Commons
is
used
by
a
number
of
people.
It
is
clear
that,
in
this
usage,
neither
the

terms
 Asia
 nor
 the
 terms
 commons
 actually
 have
 any
 substantive
 content.
 The

former
 is
 understood
 to
 be
 geographic
 category,
 and
 the
 latter
 a
 reference
 to
 an

existing
movement.
The

idea
of
Asian
commons
in
such
a
usage
ends
up
being
no

more
 than
 the
 demonstration
 of
 the
 way
 that
 the
 commons
 works
 in
 the
 world’s

most
populous
region.
One
could
replace
Asia
with
Africa,
or
Latin
America,
and
the

import
 would
 be
 the
 same.
 In
 other
 words,
 there
 is
 no
 real
 sense
 of
 any
 issues

specific
to
the
history
of
the
common
in
Asia
that
are
raised.





ii.
Asian
History
of
the
Commons



The
second
way
of
thinking
about
the
Commons
is
to
look
at
the
various
histories
of

the
 commons
 and
 the
 making
 of
 property
 in
 Asia.
 As
 the
 Asian
 equivalent
 of
 the

history
of
the
commons
or
the
enclosures
movement‐
this
would
entail
‐
a
history
of

the
making
of
private
property
and
the
story
of
the
enclosures
in
different
parts
of

Asia.




But
as
we
have
already
demonstrated
in
the
previous
chapter,
the
by
now
familiar

story
 of
 the
 commons
 and
 of
 the
 enclosure
 movement
 encompassing
 a
 wide

canvass
of
the
making
of
private
property,
emerged
in
the
specific
historical
context

of
land
in
Europe.
Do
we
have
the
equivalent
of
the
history
of
the
commons
in
Asia

at
 all,
 and
 if
 not
 what
 are
 the
 differences,
 and
 what
 genealogies
 will
 we
 have
 to

provide
 before
 we
 begin
 to
 build
 a
 theory
 of
 the
 commons
 in
 Asia?
 For
 a
 large

number
of
Asian
countries
the
enclosures
of
the
commons
is
not
concomitant
with

the
history
of
the
west
but
intrinsically
tied
with
the
experience
of
colonialism.



As
a
result
there
can
be
no
easy
mapping
of
the
history
of
the
commons
onto
Asia

and
the
task
of
providing
a
historical
account
of
the
commons
in
Asia
would
entail

charting
 out
 different
 histories
 of
 the
 commons.
 It
 entails
 mapping
 out
 practices

around
 the
 management
 of
 land
 and
 natural
 resources,
 and
 the
 invocation
 of

histories
where
land
has
not
been
in
the
possession
of
individual
but
communities.

It
 is
 also
 important
 to
 remember
 that
 the
 commons
 has
 not
 been
 completely

relegated
to
the
annals
of
history,
and
in
many
parts

of
Asia
it
is
indeed
still
a
living


2
2
practice.
In
the
next
chapter,
we
shall
be
looking
in
some
detail
at
the
processes
of

the
enclosures
in
a
few
Asian
countries.




The
 commons
 has
 not
 been
 completely
 relegated
 to
 the
 annals
 of
 history,
 and
 in

many
parts

of
Asia
it
is
indeed
still
a
living
practice





iii.
The
Asian
Cultural
Commons



Finally,
 the
 third
 way
 of
 thinking
 about
 the
 commons
 may
 be
 to
 specifically

understand
the
cultural
traditions
and
practices
that
have
shaped
the
making
of
a

common
 cultural
 tradition
 or
 common
 cultural
 consciousness
 that
 is
 specifically

Asian
 in
 nature.
 One
 of
 the
 ways
 at
 looking
 at
 the
 formation
 of
 Asian
 Cultural

commons
 will
 be
 to
 examine
 the
 histories
 of
 informal
 cultural
 flows
 and
 the
 way

that
cultural
practices
have
spread
through
different
parts
of
Asia.
We
will
examine

this
in
some
greater
detail,
as
well
as
link
it
to
the
way
that
informal
cultural
flows

are
enabled
in
the
contemporary
by
piracy.





The
Question
of
Asian
Knowledge



All
three
approaches
seem
to
make
a
claim
for
Asianness,
albeit
in
varying
degrees,

and
for
different
purposes.
The
second
two
claims
in
particular
are
made
towards
a

different
epistemological
basis
of
the
commons
in
Asia.
They
are
claims
about
the

specificity
 of
 Asian
 knowledge
 and
 practice.
 We
 need
 to
 therefore
 examine
 the

manner
 in
 which
 these
 claims
 are
 made,
 and
 their
 links
 to
 older
 histories
 and

debates
on
the
idea
of
the
Asian
knowledge.



In
the
social
sciences,
there
has
been
considerable
thought
paid
to
the
question
of

how
Asia
is
configured
in
the
world
of
knowledge
production.
After
the
important

work
of
Edward
Said
and
the
impact
of
Orientalism
on
a
generation
of
postcolonial

historians
 and
 cultural
 theoreticians,
 scholars
 have
 argued
 for
 the
 importance
 of

seeing
 Asia
 not
 
 merely
 as
 a
 discursive
 invention
 of
 the
 west,
 nor
 as
 an
 object
 of

western
knowledge
but
as
a
subject
of
knowledge
through
which
Asian
knowledge

gets
to
be
counted
as
knowledge
at
all.




For
 the
 longest
 time,
 Asia
 existed
 only
 as
 an
 abstract
 other
 of
 Europe
 with
 no

history
to
claim
for
itself
(or
at
least
that
what
the
Europeans
historians
would
like

us
to
believe).
Every
single
category
of
the
experience
of
political
modernity
can
be

traced
 to
 a
 European
 history
 –
 rights,
 secularism,
 public
 sphere
 etc.
 It
 is
 this

dominance
 of
 Europe
 in
 the
 18th
 and
 19th
 century
 history
 that
 accounts
 for
 the

emergence
of
various
concepts
that
we
take
for
granted
as
universal
ideas.




The
 capacity
 of
 Europe
 to
 universalize
 itself
 and
 of
 European
 knowledge
 to

establish
itself
as
a
universal
knowledge
creates
the
risk
of
creating
meta
categories

of
 knowledge
 that
 shapes
 the
 experience
 of
 others
 and
 renders
 their
 own

experiences
 unavailable
 to
 them.
 
 Dipesh
 Chakrabarty,
 a
 leading
 historian
 of
 the

subaltern
studies
movement
argues
that
“The
dominance
of
Europe
as
the
subject

of
 all
 histories
 is
 a
 part
 of
 the
 
 much
 more
 profound
 theoretical
 conditions
 under


2
3
which
historical
knowledge
is
produced
in
the
third
world”37.
He
further
says
that

“Although
 categories
 that
 were
 once
 subject
 to
 detailed
 theoretical
 contemplation

and
 enquiry
 now
 exist
 as
 practical
 concepts,
 bereft
 of
 any
 theoretical
 lineage

embedded
in
quotidian
practices”38



This
claim
by
Dipesh
Chakarbarty
that
the
history
of
colonialism
and
its
apparatus

of
 knowledge
 production
 has
 ensured
 that
 Europe
 emerges
 as
 the
 site
 of
 the

production
of
theoretical
concepts
which
are
then
tested
against
a
range
of
regional

examples.
 This
 is
 evidenced
 for
 instance
 in
 Edmund
 Husserls’
 statement
 in
 1935

where
 he
 pointed
 out
 that
 only
 Europe
 possessed
 the
 capacity
 to
 produce
 a

theoretical
 insight
 (theoria
 or
 universal
 science)
 while
 all
 other
 histories
 are

matters
 of
 empirical
 research
 that
 fleshed
 out
 a
 theoretical
 skeleton
 that
 is

essentially
European.




While
 thinking
 about
 the
 commons
 as
 a
 conceptual
 category
 through
 which
 we

explore
the
experience
of
countries
in
Asia,
one
cannot
be
innocent
of
this
history
of

the
 unequal
 exchange
 between
 Europe
 and
 Asia
 in
 the
 creation
 of
 intellectual

discourse.
 The
 demand
 for
 a
 different
 history
 of
 the
 commons
 is
 not
 merely
 an

attempt
at
revisionist
history
but
to
argue
that
the
sphere
of
the
commons
is
itself

informed
by
various
cultural
histories
of
knowing
and
doing
of
which
the
European

commons
is
one
instance.
If
we
return
to
the
three
ways
in
which
the
Commons
can

be
 thought
 of
 in
 Asia,
 then
 it
 is
 clear
 to
 us
 that
 in
 the
 first
 instance,
 we
 will
 be

recycling
 the
 idea
 that
 Asia
 has
 no
 theory
 to
 offer,
 and
 is
 at
 best
 an
 empirical

category.
The
importance
therefore
of
the
second
two
routes
is
to
build
a
theory
of

Asia
,
a
task
that
we
will
see
requires
a
lot
more
work,
before
even
a

partial
theory

can
 be
 offered.
 The
 task
 of
 building
 a
 theory
 of
 the
 commons
 is
 significant
 to
 the

extent
 that
 one
 produces
 a
 theory
 of
 knowledge
 and
 culture
 that
 responds
 to
 the

global
 debate
 on
 its
 own
 terms.
 In
 other
 words,
 it
 produces
 a
 theory
 of
 itself
 but

also
of
the
world.
It
is
abundantly
clear
that
the
idea
of
the
commons
and
the
public

domain
cannot
be
an
assumed
sphere
of
neat
and
easy
consensus.




In
his
book,
Provincializing
Europe,
Chakarabrty
argues
for
a
project
which
seeks
to

provincialize
the
history
of
Europe.
By
this
he
means
that
we
need
to
see
whether

western
knowledge
as
a
knowledge
produced
within
a
temporal
and
spatial
horizon

called
 the
 west,
 and
 not
 necessarily
 as
 universal
 knowledge
 whose
 claims
 to

universality
remain
unchallenged.




There
is
of
course
a
paradox
here,
which
lies
in
the
fact
that
if
Europe
has
already

successfully
 universalized
 itself
 as
 a
 meta
 category
 of
 experience,
 how
 does
 one

then
provincialize
Europe
from
the
margins.

Can
Europe
be
provincialized
merely

through
 a
 claim
 of
 cultural
 difference?
 If
 we
 are
 claiming
 that
 as
 a
 result
 of
 the

historical
 differences
 between
 Europe
 and
 Asia,
 there
 is
 a
 mismatch
 between

theories
produced
in
Europe
and
the
Asian
experience,
then
the
first
task
that
we

will
 have
 to
 undertake
 is
 to
 create
 a
 theory
 for
 what
 constitutes
 the
 European

experience.





37
 
Dipesh
Chakrabarty,
Provincializing
Europe:
Postcolonial
Thought
and
Historical

Difference.
(Princeton:
Princeton
University
Press.
2000)

38
 
Ibid.


2
4
Vivek
Dhareshwar,
writing
about
what
it
means
to
create
a
theory
of
non
western

experience
 makes
 it
 clear
 that
 western
 theories
 are
 rejected
 not
 because
 they
 are

western
but
because
they
fail
to
be
theories.
In
other
words,
the
rejection,
far
from

excluding
 or
 negating
 the
 western
 experience
 (which
 would
 be
 a
 symmetrical

inversion
 of
 the
 negation
 of
 the
 experience
 of
 the
 non‐western
 cultures
 by
 the

western
 theories),
 would
 have
 to
 first
 make
 that
 experience
 theoretically

intelligible.
He
says
that
‘The
construction
of
the
meta
theory
of
western
theories
is

at
the
same
time
an
attempt
to
describe
or
theorize
ourselves.
We
cannot
attempt

the
latter
without
undertaking
the
former.
It
is
only
when
we
begin
to
describe
or

theorize
 our
 own
 experiences
 that
 valorizing
 the
 present
 can
 become
 a
 viable

political
task.
(The
'we'
and
'our'
indexes,
I
have
reason
to
hope,
not
only
the
place
I

come
from’39.



Western
theories
are
rejected
not
because
they
are
western
but
because
they
fail

to
be
theories



It
 is
 clear
 that
 a
 project
 attempting
 to
 describe
 an
 Asian
 Commons
 can
 easily
 fall

prey
 to
 the
 other
 side
 of
 the
 project
 of
 provincializing
 Europe,
 namely
 a
 crude

cultural
 relativism.
In
the
context
 of
Asia,
 we
have
 this
form
 of
cultural
 relativism

used
 in
 an
 instrumental
 manner
 by
 the
 invocation
 of
 ‘Asian
 values’
 v.
 ‘western

values’
debate.
The
‘Asian
values’
approach
was
popularized
by
Mahtir
Mohammad

and
 others,
 primarily
 as
 defence
 against
 any
 form
 of
 criticism,
 whether
 of
 the

violation
of
human
rights
or
of
mismanagement
of
public
money
by
institutions
of

governance.
It
attempts
to
make
a
claim
of
cultural
difference,
and
renders
it
as
a

question
of
different
ways
of
doing
things
and
different
outlook,
without
ever
making

it
clear
as
to
what
the
authority
or
the
basis
of
the
claim
is.



The
familiar
and
tired
binaries
of
western/
non
western
have
played
very
little
role

in
 the
 production
 of
 new
 terms
 through
 which
 we
 collectively
 theorize
 the
 world.

Instead,
 they
 have
 become
 a
 lazy
 excuse
 for
 the
 inability
 to
 have
 inter‐cultural

dialogue
 and
 debate.
 Thus
 if
 we
 are
 making
 a
 claim
 for
 a
 cultural
 and
 historical

difference,
we
will
have
to
do
more
than
claim
an
inapplicability
of
a
theory
because

it
emerges
from
the
west.
It
is
useful
to
recall
Dhareshwar’s
injunction
that
we
do

not
 reject
 western
 theories
 because
 they
 are
 western,
 but
 because
 they
 are
 not

theories.

 Dipesh
 Chakarabrty,
 while
 describing
 the
 project
 of
 provincializing

Europe
 argues
 “The
 idea
 is
 to
 write
 into
 the
 history
 of
 the
 modernity
 the

ambivalences,
contradictions
and
the
use
of
force,
and
the
trajectories
and
ironies

that
attend
it”.
If
we
were
to
replace
‘modernity’
with
the
word
‘commons’
in
this

statement,
it
would
be
equally
informative
and
telling.




The
 central
 question
 for
 us
 to
 answer
 is
 what
 role
 does
 a
 concept
 like
 the
 Asian

Commons
play
in
the
shaping
of
an
intellectual
debate?
What
are
the
ways
in
which

the
project
of
an
Asian
commons
reveals
the
inherent
problems
in
theories
of
IP
as

well
 as
 of
 the
 commons.
 In
 the
 early
 days
 of
 the
 IP
 debate,
 you
 would
 often
 find


39
 
Vivek
Dhareshwar,
Valorizing
the
Present,
Cultural
Dynamics
10(2)
211‐231.
See,

Balagangadhara,
S.
N.
"The
Heathen
in
His
Blindness"‐‐:
Asia,
the
West,
and
the
Dynamic
of
Religion.

Leiden:
E.J.
Brill,
1994.

2
5
references
to
the
fact
that
IP
is
a
western
idea
which
does
not
have
any
resonance

in
non
western
societies.
What
is
often
missing
from
these
claims
is
the
question
of

“What
 then?”,
 after
 making
 the
 claim
 that
 IP
 is
 not
 endemic
 to
 non
 western

societies.
If
western
theories
of
ownership
of
knowledge
and
culture
do
not
relate

to
a
non
western
context,
then
what
theories
of
knowledge
and
culture
do
we
have

as
 alternatives?
 What
 we
 need
 then
 from
 a
 project
 such
 as
 the
 Asian
 commons
 is

not
so
much
a
celebratory
account
of
the
spread
of
a
particular
practice
of
cultural

production;
rather
what
is
needed
is
a
complicating
account
of
what
it
may
mean
to

be
a
commons
itself,
and
how
indeed
does
an
Asian
commons
mean?



Having
established
the
motivations
behind
the
establishment
of
an
Asian
Commons,

we
can
now
link
to
older
debates
on
the
question
of
Asia
itself.




Asia
and
the
West



An
examination
of
the
intellectual
history
of
the
idea
of
Asia
reveals
that
there
can

be
no
consideration
of
Asia
without
a
reference
to
the
complicated
relationship
that

Asia
has
had
with
the
idea
of
the
west.
In
an
important
conceptual
mapping
of
the

history
of
the
Asian
question,
Chinese
scholar
Sun
Ge
says



The
 question
 of
 Asia,
 like
 the
 question
 of
 modernity,
 resists
 any
 attempt
 to

provide


a
clear
explanation
partly
because

it
is
loaded
with
interconnected
issues
from

many
facets
.
Asia
is
not
only
a
political
concept,
but
also
a
cultural
concept;
it
is

not
only
a
geographical
location,
but
also
a
measure
of
value
judgment.
The
Asia

question
itself
does
not
bear
any
necessary
relation
to
the
question
of
hegemony

and
 counter­
 hegemony,
 although
 the
 attempts
 to
 tackle
 this
 question
 have

brought
 into
 play
 considerations
 of
 hegemony
 of
 the
 East
 and
 the
 West.
 The

question
 itself
 does
 not
 entail
 nationalism,
 although
 the
 theme
 of
 nationalism

has
been
conjured
in
the
course
of
discussing
this
question.
Another
reason
why

the
 question
 of
 Asia
 is
 difficult
 to
 explicate
 is
 that
 it
 is
 hardly
 a
 question
 of

substantialization,
 namely,
 by
 way
 of
 ascribing
 to
 it
 unequivocal
 geographical

attributes.
Quite
contrarily,
it
is
often
invoked
in
the
discussion
of
questions
that

bear
 no
 direct
 relation,
 or
 are
 even
 in
 stark
 opposition,
 to
 any
 geographical

considerations.
For
a
long
historical
period,
Asia
has
not
been
treated
as
a
self­
contained
geographical
concept,
but
has
only
been
put
forward
ideologically
in

opposition
 to
 Europe.
 The
 discussion
 of
 Asia
 involved
 not
 only
 the
 question
 of

Eurocentrism,
but
also
the
question
of
hegemony
within
the
East.
As
difficult
as

it
 is
 to
 sort
 out
 the
 question
 of
 Asia,
 it
 remains
 an
 underlying
 thread
 running

through
 the
 intellectual
 history
 in
 the
 modern
 world.
 Hence,
 we
 still
 have
 to

grapple
with
the
question
of
Asia
as
one
that
constitutes
a
totality
in
itself.40



Asia
is
not
only
a
political
concept,
but
also
a
cultural
concept;



The
 history
 of
 the
 debate
 on
 Asia
 as
 a
 category
 of
 intellectual
 experience
 can
 be

traced
 to
 Japanese
 scholars
 in
 the
 turn
 of
 the
 19th
 century.
 The
 Japanese
 were

understandably
most
concerned
with
the
question
of
western
civilization,
and
their


40
 
Sun
Ge,
How
does
Asia
mean
Part
1,
Inter‐Asia
Cultural
Studies,
Volume
1
,
Number
1
,
2000


2
6
own
status
as
an
Asian
country.
Given
Japan’s
preeminent
place
in
the
global
order,

there
 were
 competing
 strands
 of
 thought
 about
 how
 Japan
 should
 deal
 with
 the

west.
 Writing
 in
 1885,
 Fukuzawa
 Yukichi
 for
 instance
 argued
 that
 Japan
 should

disassociate
 from
 Asia
 and
 align
 itself
 with
 Western
 Europe.
 His
 idea
 of
 ‘Datsu‐A‐
Ron’41
 was
 an
 attempt
 at
 dislocating
 Japan
 temporally
 from
 Asia,
 and
 seeing
 its

point
of
reference
vis
a
vis
western
modernity.
Fukuzawa
saw
in
the
experience
of

western
 modernity,
 a
 pinnacle
 of
 human
 achievements,
 which
 outclassed
 the

relative
 backwardness
 of
 its
 Asian
 counterparts.
 He
 saw
 no
 reason
 for
 Japan

aligning
with
Asia,
and
felt
that
if
Japan
were
to
progress
then
it
should
follow
the

lead
 of
 western
 Europe,
 and
 look
 forward
 rather
 than
 backward
 at
 tradition
 as

many
countries
in
Asia
were
wont
to
do.
In
a
sense
it
was
an
attempt
at
abandoning

the
‘waiting
room
of
modernity’42
that
Asia
had
been
consigned
to
exist
in.




It
is
clear
that
what
animates
Fukuzawa’s
rather
dramatic
disavowal
of
Asia
is
the

experience
 of
 modernity
 in
 Europe
 from
 the
 enlightenment
 onwards.
 It
 is
 also
 an

important
 attempt
 at
 reconfiguring
 the
 experience
 of
 time.
 Fukuzawa
 saw
 Japan

existing
in
a
time
zone
of
eternal
deference,.
It
was
unlike
the
rest
of
Asia
which
he

saw
as
being
underdeveloped
and
backward,
and
at
the
same
time
being
an
Asian

country,
 it
 was
 somehow
 never
 modern
 enough
 in
 the
 western
 sense
 of
 the
 term.

The
 idea
 of
 disassociating
 from
 Asia
 was
 therefore
 simultaneously
 a
 move
 away

from
 the
 traditions
 and
 cultural
 histories
 associated
 with
 Asia,
 and
 an
 attempt
 to

create
one’s
own
sense
of
time
which
is
measured
not
by
the
past
but
by
the
future.



In
 contrast
 to
 Fukuzawa’s
 desire
 to
 disassociate
 from
 Asia
 was
 another
 Japanese

intellectual
writing
in
the
early
decade
of
the
twentieth
century.
Okakura
Tenshin
,

one
of
the
most
influential
art
curator
of
the
early
twentieth
century
wrote
in
Ideals

of
 the
 East
 of
 the
 moral
 and
 spiritual
 disintegration
 of
 Europe
 brought
 about
 by

western
modernity.43
He
argued
that
in
contrast
to
the
spiritual
vacuousness
of
the

west,
Asia
still
possessed
a
vast
civilizational
and
cultural
inheritance
that
ought
to

be
 united
 for
 the
 purposes
 of
 spiritual
 rejuvenation
 of
 the
 world.
 Tenshin
 also

believed
that
the
cultural
history
of
Asia
was
a
common
one:




Asia
is
one.
The
Himalayas
divide,
only
to
accentuate,
two
mighty
civilizations,

the


Chinese
with
its
communism
of
Confucius,
and
the
Indian
with
its
individualism

of
the
Vedas.
But
not
even
the
snowy
barriers
can
interrupt
for
one
moment
that

broad
 expanse
 of
 love
 for
 the
 ultimate
 and
 universal,
 which
 is
 the
 common

thought
 of
 inheritance
 of
 every
 Asiatic
 Race,
 enabling
 them
 to
 produce
 all
 the

great
 religions
 of
 the
 world,
 and
 distinguishing
 them
 from
 those
 maritime

people
of
the
Mediterranean
and
the
Baltic,
who
love
to
dwell
on
the
Particular,

and
to
search
out
the
means,
not
the
end,
of
life.44



41
 
Fukuzawa,
Yukichi
(1995)
An
Outline
of
a
Theory
of
Civlization,
cited
in
Ibid.

42
 
The
'waiting
room'
of
history
is
a
metaphor
used
by
Dipesh
Chakrabarty,
in
"Provinicializing

Europe"
discussing
the

importance
for
people
outside
Europe,
and
the
metropolitan
West,
of

stepping
outside
the
trap

of
considering
themselves
forever
to
be
'waiting'

for
the
arrival
of
the

contemporary
moment,
even

of
modernity
itself.

43
 
See,
Rustom
Bharucha,
Another
Asia:
Rabindranath
Tagore
and
Okakura
Tenshin.
Oxford

University
Press,
USA,
2006.

44
 
Okakura
Tenshin,
The
ideals
of
the
East
with
special
reference
to
the
art
of
Japan,
Modern

Japanese
Thought
Series,
1976,
quoted
in
Sun
Ge
at
Ibid.


2
7

 
 
 
 
 
 
 




Of
course
it
must
be
noted
that
for
all
his
sensibilities
about
Asia,
Tenshin
was
clear

that
within
Asia,
Japan
was
the
only
country
that
was
capable
of
rejuvenating
Asia

since
all
the
other
mighty
countries
(
China,
India)
were
struggling
under
the
might

of
western
domination.
He
saw
them
in
a
scene
of
decay,
and
believed
that
it
was

the
duty
of
Japan,
being
the
museum
of
Asia,
to
ignite
the
spark
of
Asian
revival.




The
themes
that
run
through
Fukuzawa’
and
Tenshins;
work
are
themes
that
find

themselves
 resurrected
 in
 various
 ways
 through
 the
 history
 of
 Asia.
 And
 while
 it

seems
that
Fukuzawa
and
Tenshin
were
arguing
two
completely
different
positions,

the
similarities
that
underlie
their
work
and
motivations
are
roughly
the
same.
The

crisis
 animating
 both
 their
 work
 was
 the
 question
 of
 western
 civilization
 and

western
modernity
and,
in
particular,
how
to
respond
to
the
west
from
within
Asia.




Both
Fukuzawa
and
Tenshin
rely
on
a
symbolization
of
Asia
(in
one,
it
emerges
as
a

sign
of
decay
and
in
the
other,
of
cultural
rejuvenation).
But
for
both,
the
realms
of

Asia
exceed
the
physical
space,
and
occupies
instead
a
mind
space
or
a
social
and

cultural
 imaginary
 from
 which
 they
 are
 able
 to
 make
 claims
 or
 Asianness.

Interestingly,
 Tenshin
 spent
 a
 few
 months
 at
 the
 school
 set
 up
 by
 Rabindranath

Tagore
 in
 Shanitiniketan.
 Tagore
 was
 a
 staunch
 critic
 of
 nationalism,
 and
 his
 own

theorization
 of
 Asia
 emerged
 from
 his
 loathing
 of
 nationalism.
 While
 he
 finally

emerges
 as
 a
 curious
 representative
 or
 national
 icon
 by
 becoming
 the
 ‘national

poet’
 of
 India,
 his
 self
 perception
 was
 always
 that
 of
 a
 cosmopolitan
 intellectual

(Vishwa
kobi
or
world
poet).
45









Contrasting
the
Asia
of
Tagore
and
the
Asia
of
Tenshin,
Bharucha
says
that




“Here
we
run
up
against
familiar
tropes
by
which
`Asia’
is
being
constructed,

and
in
the
process,
separated
from
the
`rest
of
the
world’
more
specially,
`the

West’
 .
 In
 Okakura’s
 
 emphases,
 placed
 on
 the
 `Ultimate’
 and
 the
 `Universal’
 ,

the
`great
religions’
and
the
`end’
of
life,
we
encounter
more
or
less
the
same

values
 and
 vocabulary
 as
 in
 Tagore’
 s
 affirmation
 of
 an
 essentially
 spiritual

ideal
 that
 provides
 the
 foundations
 for
 `the
 common
 thought­inheritance
 of

every
Asiatic
race’
.
The
spiritual
is
not
religious
it
is
linked
to
an
independent

and
essentially
imaginative
quest
for
the
eternal
sources
of
life
through
which

one
 can
 posit
 a
 `creative
 unity’
 in
 the
 world.
 This
 `unity’
 can
 be
 achieved,
 in

Tagore’s
words,
by
`realising
our
own
selves’
in
the
world
through
`expansion

of
 sympathy;
 not
 alienating
 ourselves
 from
 it
 and
 dominating
 it,
 but

comprehending
 and
 uniting
 it
 with
 ourselves
 in
 perfect
 union.
 Sustaining
 the

visions
 of
 Okakura
 and
 Tagore
 is
 a
 profound
 faith
 in
 an
 essentially
 imagined

`Asia’
 ,
 in
 which
 (as
 Tagore
 fantasized
 its
 utopian
 pre­history),
 `the
 whole
 of

eastern
 Asia
 from
 Burma
 to
 Japan
 was
 united
 with
 India
 in
 the
 closest
 tie
 of


45
 
Rustom
Bharucha
writes
of
the
friendship
between
Tenshina
and
Tagore
as
a
way
of

reflecting
on
another
Asia.
See,
Rustom
Bharucha,
Another
Asia:
Rabindranath
Tagore
and
Okakura

Tenshin.
Oxford
University
Press,
USA,
2006.


2
8
 friendship’
a
friendship
marked
by
a
`living
communication
of
hearts’
,
in
which

`no
 difference
 of
 languages
 and
 customs
 hindered
 us
 in
 approaching
 each

other
heart
to
heart”46






The
 question
 of
 Asia
 has
 also
 been
 invoked
 by
 a
 range
 of
 other
 thinkers
 and

political
leaders
including
Sun
Yat
Sen,
Watsuji
Tetsuro
and
more
recently
Chinese

scholar
Wang
Hui.
In
the
South
Asian
context,
Kanak
Mani
Dixit
has
posed
the
idea

of
using
the
phrase
south
Asia
as
a
single
word
–southasia‐
to
gesture
to
the
shared

physical
 and
 cultural
 geographies
 of
 the
 region.
 He
 also
 proposes
 in
 a
 playful

manner
a
rethinking
of
the
cartography
of
southasia,
proposing
that
we
see
the
map

of
southasia
backwards
instead
of
the
usual
manner
which
we
are
accustomed
to,
in

which
India
emerges
as
the
overwhelming
giant
of
southasia.








 
 
 
 
 
 
 (Himal,
SouthAsia)



It
should
be
clear
from
our
brief
description
of
the
various
attempts
at
locating

Asia
as
an
intellectual
and
cultural
idea,
that
the
idea
of
Asia
does
not
connote
a

single
referent.
The
question
that
arises
is
which
Asia
are
we
referring
to
when

we
speak
of
an
Asian
commons?
There
are
various
ways
in
which
Asia
emerges,

including
the
following



o As
an
abstract
entity
countering
the
west

o As
a
concrete
geographical
zone

o As
a
mind
set
to
a
mood

46
 
Rustom
Bharucha,
Under
the
sign
of
`Asia’
:
rethinking
`creative
unity’
beyond
the
`rebirth
of

traditional
arts’,
Inter‐Asia
Cultural
Studies,
Volume
2,
Number
1,
2001


2
9
 o As
a
unified
civilization

o As
a
cultural
identity




It
seems
clear
to
us
that
given
the
diverse
histories
of
the
commons
in
Asia,
there

exists
 the
 possibility
 of
 conceptual
 confusions
 when
 we
 attempt
 to
 use
 a
 singular

idea
of
Asia
as
our
point
of
reference.




The
 possibility
 of
 conceptual
 confusions
 caused
 by
 the
 diversity
 of
 an
 Asian

commons
can
however
also

be
seen
as
an
opportunity
rather
than
a
hindrance
in

thinking
 about
 the
 commons
 in
 Asia.
 While
 it
 is
 tempting
 to
 resolve
 these

diversities
 and
 diverse
 histories,
 and
 draw
 them
 as
 a
 single
 thread
 which
 glosses

over
 their
 differences,
 we
 believe
 that
 it
 is
 precisely
 the
 diversity
 and
 fluidity
 of

practices
 in
 Asia
 that
 form
 the
 crux
 of
 an
 intellectual
 contribution
 of
 an
 Asian

commons.




The
diversity
and
fluidity
of
practices
in
Asia
that
form
the
crux
of
an
intellectual

contribution
of
an
Asian
commons

Thus,
rather
than
looking
at
either
Asia
or
the
commons
as
a
pre‐given
category,
if

we
 were
 to
 see
 them
 as
 categories
 in
 the
 making,
 then
 the
 “Asian
 commons”

emerges
as
an
opportunity
to
revisit
the
question
of
Asia
via
the
commons,
and
vice

versa.

To
 be
 able
 to
 successfully
 sustain
 the
 intellectual
 diversity
 necessary
 for
 an
 Asian

commons
 also
 demands
 that
 we
 abandon
 the
 project
 of
 commonality,
 which
 we

often
 use
 when
 we
 speak
 of
 Asianness.
 Asia
 then
 becomes
 a
 simultaneous
 of

similarities
 and
 differences.
 In
 such
 a
 revised
 formulation,
 the
 history
 of
 the

commons
also
gets
reconfigured.
In
its
present
avatar,
the
question
of
land,
forests,

natural
 resources
 is
 regarded
 as
 a
 part
 of
 the
 history
 of
 the
 commons,
 while
 the

question
 of
 our
 digital
 futures
 is
 seen
 as
 a
 question
 of
 contemporary
 significance

and
of
future
importance.




Our
digital
futures
is
seen
as
a
question
of
contemporary
significance
and
of
future

importance



The
complex
temporalities
of
countries
in
the
Asia
region
defy
the
easy
bifurcation

of
 the
 past
 and
 the
 present,
 as
 the
 continuance
 of
 forms
 of
 common
 property

resources
reveals
the
existence
of
practices
not
only
within
collective
memory
but

as
living
practices.
In
a
sense
it
could
be
argued
that
the
idea
of
an
Asian
commons

exists
as
a
limited
concept;
a
concept
that
does
not
fully
reveal
its
own
contours
but

works
as
a
limit
of
western
thought
and
experience
as
well.




Keeping
 this
 background
 in
 mind,
 we
 can
 now
 move
 towards
 mapping
 out
 a

genealogy
of
the
commons
in
Asia.




We
 propose
 the
 following
 directions
 not
 as
 exhaustive
 ways
 of
 imagining
 the

project
of
an
Asian
commons
but
illustrative
ideas
of
future
research
agendas
and

questions,
which
are
worth
pursuing.







3
0
 1. Genealogies
of
the
Commons
in
Land
in
Asia

2. Accounting
for
the
Cultural
Commons
of
Asia


3. Informal
Cultural
Flows
and
the
making
of
Asia



Before
 we
 proceed
 to
 the
 next
 segment,
 we
 would
 like
 to
 leave
 you
 with
 two

evocative
accounts
which
questions
our
cartographic
and
cultural
assumptions,
and

helps
 us
 through
 more
 literary
 forms,
 to
 imagine
 the
 possibilities
 of
 an
 Asian

commons.






Kanak
Mani
Dixit,
Porous
societies,
sealed
frontiers:
What


would
Lalon
Fakir
have
said?
Southasia
Beat:
Nepali
Times,
No.
230,
(14–20


January
2005)




But
several
seemingly
contradictory
forces
have
transformed
the
demographic


makeup
 here:
 open
 migration,
 forced
 migration
 and
 prevented
 migration
 due
 to

closure


of
frontiers.
In
southeast
Nepal,
the
roadside
cemeteries
are
primarily
of
the
Tibeto‐
Burman
Kirant
hill
migrants,
with
many
of
the
graves
ornately
designed
replicas
of

mountain
dwellings.
More
than
120,000
Nepali‐
speaking
Lhotshampa
refugees
are

huddled
here
in
refugee
camps.
It
has
been
12
years
since
they
were
ousted
from

their
 native
 Bhutan,
 and
 regional
 geopolitics
 blocks
 their
 return.
 
 The
 syncretistic

mix
 of
 cultures
 in
 Nepal’s
 Jhapa
 is
 nowhere
 in
 evidence
 40
 km
 away
 as
 the
 crow

flies
 in
 Bangladesh.
 The
 cemeteries
 here
 are
 all
 Muslim:
 many
 of
 the
 Hindus
 have

left
since
Partition
and
creeping
Islamisation
makes
them
more
vulnerable.
Only
the

place
 names
 remind
 of
 the
 once‐
 upon‐a‐time
 demography:
 Rangpur,
 a
 dynamic

marketplace
before
the
borders
were
drawn
in
1947
is
now
a
backwater.




The
Nepal–India
border
is
open,
a
kind
of
frontier
that
does
most
justice
to
the


shared
history
of
all
Southasia.
The
Bangladesh–India
frontier
has
been
closed
since


the
 rise
 of
 East
 Pakistan,
 but
 remained
 porous
 for
 decades.
 Today,
 it
 is
 in
 the

process


of
being
sealed.
India’s
fence‐building
frenzy
to
keep
out
Bangladeshi
migrants
has


reached
Changrabanda.
To
the
south
stretches
an
impregnable
line
of
barbed
wire,


steel
pillars,
concrete
and
a
service
road.
Some
contractors
have
made
good
profit.


This
is
one
alternative
for
a
Southasian
future,
where
weak
governments
dependent


on
 vote
 bank
 politics
 will
 take
 the
 course
 of
 least
 resistance.
 But
 building
 a
 fence

will


only
make
societies
more
rigid
in
their
own
identities
and
certitudes.
One
wonders


whether
 sharply
 defined
 frontiers
 will
 ever
 work
 in
 Southasia.
 Instead,
 is
 there
 a

lesson


to
be
taken
from
the
open
Nepal–India
frontier
just
a
few
miles
away?













From
Amitav
Ghosh,
Shadowlines


3
1


A
few
months
after
I
had
made
my
discovery
in
the
Teen
Murti
Library,
I
found,
at

the
 bottom
of
 my
 bookshelf,
the
 tattered
old
Bartholomew’s
Atlas
 in
which
 Tridib

used
to
point
out
places
to
me
when
he
told
me
stories
in
his
room.
Mayadebi
had

given
it
to
me
many
years
before.

One
day,
when
it
was
lying
open
on
my
desk
in
my
hostel
room,
quite
by
chance
I

happened
 to
 find
 a
 rusty
 old
 compass
 at
 the
 back
 of
 my
 drawer.
 It
 had
 probably

been
forgotten
there
by
the
person
who
had
lived
in
the
room
before
me.

I
 picked
 it
 up
 and,
 toying
 with
 it,
 I
 placed
 its
 point
 on
 Khulna
 and
 the
 tip
 of
 the

pencil
on
Srinagar.

Khulna
is
not
quite
one
hundred
miles
from
Calcutta
as
the
crow
flies:
the
two
cities

face
each
other
at
a
watchful
equidistance
across
the
border.
The
distance
between

Khulna
 and
 Srinagar,
 or
 so
 I
 discovered
 when
 I
 measured
 the
 space
 between
 the

points
of
my
compass,
was
1200
miles,
nearly
2000
kilometres.
It
didn’t
seem
like

much.
But
when
I
took
my
compass
through
the
pages
of
that
atlas,
on
which
I
could

still
see
the
smudges
left
by
Tridib’s
fingers,
I
discovered
that
Khulna
is
about
as
far

from
 Srinagar
 as
 Tokyo
 is
 from
 Beijing,
 or
 Moscow
 from
 Venice,
 or
 Washington

from
Havana,
or
Cairo
from
Naples.

Then
 I
 tried
 to
 draw
 a
 circle
 with
 Khulna
 at
 the
 centre
 and
 Srinagar
 on
 the

circumference.
 I
 discovered
 immediately
 that
 themap
 of
 South
 Asia
 would
 not
 be

big
enough.
I
had
to
turn
back
to
a
map
of
Asia
before
I
found
one
large
enough
for

my
 circle.
 
 It
 was
 an
 amazing
 circle.
 Beginning
 in
 Srinagar
 and
 travelling
 anti‐
clockwise,
it
cut
through
the
Pakistani
half
of
Punjab,
through
the
tip
of
Rajasthan

and
 the
 edge
 of
 Sind,
 through
 the
 Rann
 of
 Kutch,
 and
 across
 the
 Arabian
 Sea,

through
the
southernmost
toe
of
the
Indian
Peninsula,
through
Kandy,
in
Sri
Lanka,

and
 out
 into
 the
 Indian
 Ocean
 until
 it
 emerged
 to
 touch
 upon
 the
 northernmost

finger
of
Sumatra,
then
straight
through
the
tail
of
Thailand
into
the
Gulf,
to
come

out
 again
 in
 Thailand,
 running
 a
 little
 north
 of
 Phnom
 Penh,
 into
 the
 hills
 of
 Laos,

past
 Hue
 in
 Vietnam,
 dipping
 into
 the
 Gulf
 of
 Tonking,
 then
 swinging
 up
 again

through
the
Chinese
province
of
Yunnan,
past
Chungking,
across
the
Yangtze
Kiang,

passing
 within
 sight
 of
 the
 Great
 Wall
 of
 China,
 through
 Inner
 Mongolia
 and

Sinkiang,
 until
 with
 a
 final
 leap
 over
 the
 Karakoram
 Mountains
 it
 dropped
 again

into
the
valley
of
Kashmir.

It
was
a
remarkable
circle:
more
than
half
of
mankind

must
have
fallen
within
it.

And
so,
fifteen
years
after
his
death,
Tridib
watched
over
me
as
I
tried
to
learn
the

meaning
of
distance.
His
atlas
showed
me,
for
example,
that
within
the
tidy
ordering

of
Euclidean
space,
Chiang
Mai
in
Thailand
was
much
nearer
Calcutta
than
Delhi
is;

that
 Chengdu
 in
 China
 is
 nearer
 than
 Srinagar
 is.
 Yet
 I
 had
 never
 heard
 of
 those

places
 until
 I
 drew
 my
 circle,
 and
 I
 cannot
 remember
 a
 time
 when!
 was
 so
 young

that
I
had
not
heard
of
Delhi
or
Srinagar.

It
showed
me
that
Hanoi
and
Chungking

are
nearer
Khulna
than
Srinagar,
and
yet
did
the
people
of
Khulna
care
at
all
about

the
fate
of
the
mosques
in
Vietnam
and
South
China
(a
mere
stone’s
throw
away)?
I

doubted
it.
But
in
this
other
direction,
it
took
no
more
than
a
week
In
perplexity
I

turned
 back
 through
 the
 pages
 of
 the
 atlas
 at
 random,
 shut
 my
 eyes,
 and
 let
 the

point
of
my
compass
fall
on
the
page.
It
fell
on
Milan,
in
northern
Italy.
Adjusting
my

compass
 to
 the
 right
 scale
 I
 drew
 a
 circle
 which
 had
 Milan
 as
 its
 centre
 and
 1200

miles
as
its
radius.

This
was
another
amazing
circle.
It
passed
through
Helsinki
in
Finland,
Sundsvall
in

Sweden,
 Mold
 in
 Norway,
 above
 the
 Shetland
 Islands,
 and
 then
 through
 a
 great


3
2
empty
 stretch
 of
 the
 Atlantic
 Ocean
 until
 it
 came
 to
 Casablanca.
 Then
 it
 travelled

into

the
 Algerian
 Sahara,
 through
 Libya,
 into
 Egypt,
 up
 through
 the
 Mediterranean,

where
 it
 touched
 on
 Crete
 and
 Rhodes
 before
 going
 into
 Turkey,
 then
 on
 through

the
Black
Sea,
into
the
USSR,
through
Crimea,
the
Ukraine,
Byelorussia
and
Estonia,

back
to
Helsinki.

Puzzling
 over
 this
 circle,
 I
 tried
 a
 little
 experiment.
 With
 my
 limited
 knowledge,
 I

tried
to
imagine
an
event,
any
event,
that
might
occur
in
a
city
near
the
periphery
of

that
 circle
 (or,
 indeed,
 much
 nearer)
 ‐
 Stockholm,
 Dublin,
 Casablanca,
 Alexandria,

Istanbul,
Kiev,
any
city
in
any
direction
at
all‐
I
tried
to
imagine
an
event
that
might

happen
in
 any
 of
 those
places
which
would
bring
the
people
 of
 Milan
pouring
 out

into
the
streets.
I
tried
hard
but
I
could
think
of
none.

None,
that
is,
other
than
war.

It
 seemed
 to
 me,
 then,
 that
 within
 this
 circle
 there
 were
 only
 states
 and
 citizens;

there
were
no
people
at
all.

When
I
turned
back
to
my
first
circle
I
was
struck
with

wonder
 that
 there
 had
 really
 been
 a
 time,
 not
 so
 long
 ago,
 when
 people,
 sensible

people,
of
good
intention,
had
thought
that
all
maps
were
the
same,
that
there
was
a

special
 enchantment
 in
 lines;
 I
 had
 to
 remind
 myself
 that
 they
 were
 not
 to
 be

blamed
for
believing
that
there
was
something
admirable
in
moving
violence
to
the

borders
and
dealing
with
it
through
science
and
factories,
for
that
was
the
pattern

of
 the
 world.
 They
 had
 drawn
 their
 borders,
 believing
 in
 that
 pattern,
 in
 the

enchantment
of
lines,
hoping
perhaps
that
once
Ifley
had
etched
their
borders
upon

the
 map,
 the
 two
 bits
 of
 land
 would
 sail
 away
 from
 each
 other
 like
 the
 shifting

tectonic
 plates
 of
 the
 prehistoric
 Gondwanaland.
 What
 had
 they
 felt,
 I
 wondered,

‘chen
 they
 discovered
 that
 they
 had
 created
 not
 a
 separation,
 but
 a
 vet‐
undiscovered
 irony
 ‐
 the
 irony
 that
 killed
 Tridib:
 the
 simple
 fact
 that
 there
 had

never
been
a
moment
in
the
4000‐year‐old
history
of
that
map
when
the
places
we

know
as
Dhaka
and
Calcutta
were
more
closely
bound
to
each
other
than
after
they

had
drawn
their
lines
‐
so
closely
that
I,
in
Calcutta,
had
only
to
look
into
the
mirror

to
 be
 in
 Dhaka;
 a
 moment
 when
 each
 city
 was
 the
 inverted
 image
 of
 the
 other,

locked
 into
 an
 irreversible
 symmetry
 by
 the
 line
 that
 was
 to
 set
 us
 free
 ‐
 our

looking‐glass
border.










3
3
 MAPPING
THE
ENCLOSURES
MOVEMENT
IN
ASIA



In
previous
chapters,
we
have
dwelt
on
how
property
was
the
instrument
by
which

the
commons
–
both
in
land
and
in
information
‐
came
to
be
enclosed
and
parceled

into
discrete
holdings.
While
the
analysis
and
examples
in
preceding
chapters
have

drawn
 on
 an
 extensive
 catalog
 of
 European
 literature,
 we
 would
 like,
 in
 this

chapter,
 to
 readjust
 our
 lens
 to
 focus
 on
 Asia.
 This
 chapter
 seeks
 address
 the

following
questions:



1) Studies
 on
 pre‐enclosure
 European
 traditions
 with
 respect
 to
 common

management
 of
 physical
 property
 emphasize
 both
 the
 efficacy
 of
 non‐
proprietary/commons‐based
ownership
practices
as
well
as
the
experience

of
violence
that
accompanied
these
enclosures.
Little
attention
has,
however,

been
paid
to
traditional
common
property
regimes
in
Asia.
If
expropriation

in
 Asia
 was
 a
 result
 of
 imposition
 of
 European
 colonial
 property
 regimes,

what
did
this
terrain
look
like
prior
to
that?




2) Likewise,
 what
 are
 the
 traditions
 that
 were
 practiced
 with
 respect
 to

intellectual
 and
 cultural
 ‘production’
 in
 Asia.
 In
 what
 way
 were
 they

disrupted
by
the
imposition
of
‘Intellectual
Property’
regimes?





3) Recently,
 attempts
 have
 been
 made
 to
 carve
 up
 a
 commons
 through
 deft

manipulations
of
the
very
rights
granted
by
the
Intellectual
Property
system.

Through
 such
 instruments
 as
 ‘open’
 and
 ‘creative
 commons’
 licenses,
 the

direction
of
appropriation
is
sought
to
be
reversed.
If
property
can
enclose

the
 commons,
 the
 logic
 seems
 to
 be
 to
 use
 property
 to
 create
 one.
 The

problem
 with
 these
 licenses
 is
 that
 they
 end
 up
 creating
 Franken‐
commonses
 ‐
 resurrections
 of
 the
 original,
 but
 uncannily
 devoid
 of
 their

original
vitality.
This
chapter
will
try
to
hark
back
to
the
real
commons
–
a

realm
 of
 communal
 caretaking
 as
 opposed
 to
 one
 of
 communal

abandonment.
 A
 commons
 that
 is
 ritually
 and
 spiritually
 significant
 as

opposed
to
a
legally
signified
one.



Each
of
these
questions
is
discussed
in
sequence
in
the
following
sections.


Common
Property
Resources
in
South
Asia:
Whither
Tragedy?

This
 section
 tries
 to
 identify
 and
 describe
 “common
 property
 traditions”
 in
 South

Asia
 with
 the
 objective
 of
 sampling
 different
 practices
 of
 owning,
 possession
 and

management
 that
 may
 provide
 alternatives
 to
 conventional
 exclusionary

proprietary
 modes
 of
 thinking.
 This
 is
 not
 an
 exhaustive
 compilation
 since
 the

territory
 under
 consideration
 is
 vast
 and
 there
 are
 enormous
 variations
 therein.

However,
in
keeping
with
our
overriding
object
‐
shunning
historiography
in
favour

of
 genealogy‐
 
 we
 hope
 to
 unearth,
 in
 the
 few
 examples
 below,
 enough
 raw‐
materials
for
allegories.


What
we
are
attempting
in
the
sections
that
follow
is
to
look
for
Asian
equivalents

(or
variants)
of
the
English
“open
field
systems”
and
of
analogous
(or
heterologous)

“enclosure”
movements
described
in
so
much
detail
in
previous
chapters.
The
idea

is
to
 write
into
the
history
of
 the
commons
 “the
 ambivalences,
contradictions
 and


3
4
the
use
of
force,
and
the
trajectories
and
ironies
that
attend
it”.



Accounts
 from
 two
 regions
 –
 the
 Indian
 sub‐continent
 
 and
 
 Philippines
 
 ‐
 are

offered
in
the
sections
that
follow.





India
/
Pakistan
/
Bangladesh




With
 regard
 to
 the
 Indian
 context
 it
 would
 be
 instructive
 to
 heed
 Utsa
 Patnaik’s

reminder
 at
 the
 outset,
 that
 while
 in
 Europe,
 “the
 disintegration
 of
 the
 serf

peasantry,
 resulting
 in
 the
 creation
 of
 a
 class
 of
 wage
 labourers,
 was
 hastened
 by

wholesale
evictions
and
enclosures”47,
in
India,
by
contrast


“a
 class
 of
 propertyless
 labourers
 existed
 as
 an
 integral
 part
 of
 the
 pre­
capitalist
economy
and
society:
they
were
in
hereditary
servitude
to
the
landed

families,
 were
 forbidden
 to
 hold
 land,
 and
 were
 employed
 in
 agricultural

production
 and
 certain
 specific
 tasks
 considered
 to
 be
 particularly
 menial
 in

return
for
their
mere
subsistence.”
48



Thus
 our
 inquiry
 into
 common
 property
 in
 India,
 at
 least,
 must
 proceed
 with
 the

acknowledgment
of
a
threshold
traditional
exclusion
of
certain
categories
of
people

from
 most
 basic
 entitlements
 including
 access
 to
 land.
 To
 an
 extent
 this
 would

appear
 to
 be
 derailing
 our
 ambitious
 allegorical
 endeavor
 at
 the
 outset.
 If
 one
 is

trying
to
mount
a
challenge
to
the
Intellectual
Property
system
by
gesturing
to
the

practices
it
suppresses,
it
certainly
seems
like
rotten
form
to
be
holding
up
a
caste

sequestered
commons
as
a
shining
beacon
of
inclusiveness.




However,
even
here
one
may
witness
parallels
to
the
knowledge/cultural
domain
in

the
 way
 in
 which,
 for
 instance,
 levels
 of
 literacy
 while
 it
 may
 escape
 attention
 in

discussions
of
Intellectual
Property
rights
assignments,
in
fact
play
a
determinative

role
 in
 defining
 the
 boundaries
 of
 the
 market
 for
 that
 particular
 Intellectual

Property
good.
This
caveat
is
therefore
in
the
nature
of
a
placeholder
–
to
remind
us

that
 both
 the
 commons
 as
 well
 as
 private
 property
 function
 within
 a
 constant

framework
of
exogenous
structural
constraints
on
freedoms.
We
embark
now
on
an

analysis
 of
 common
 property
 regimes
 in
 Punjab
 ,
 Bangal
 (including
 Bangladesh),

and
Kumaon.


Common
Lands
in
Punjab

In
her
dense
analytical
account
of
common
lands
in
Punjab49,
Minoti
Chakravarty‐
Kaul
provides
a
detailed
description
of
the
regimes
of
shared
land‐use
prevalent
in

the
region.
According
to
her
:

“Punjab
had
the
largest
acreage
of
uncultivated
but
cultivable
land
in
British

India
 in
 1860­1:
 much
 of
 this
 land
 was
 communally
 held
 and
 managed.

Subsequently,
 the
 Punjab
 experienced
 the
 second
 highest
 increase
 in
 area

cultivated
 –
 a
 trend
 which
 continued
 till
 1947.
 Such
 a
 change
 was


47
Patnaik,
Utsa,
“Social
Scientist,
issues
122,
July
1983,
page
3.
‐‐
The
Social
Scientist
‐‐
Digital
South


Asia
Library.”
Social
Scientist
11,
no.
122
(July
1983):
3.


48
Ibid
at
p.4

49
Chakravarty‐Kaul,
Minoti.
Common
Lands
and
Customary
Law.
Oxford
Oxfordshire:
Oxford


University
Press,
1996.


3
5
 accomplished
at
the
expense
of
the
areas
held
and
used
in
common
both
within

the
villages
and
outside
them…
Thus,
while
at
the
outset
of
the
British
period

there
appeared
large
areas
of
what
the
British
called
‘primeval
waste’,
by
the

end
of
the
colonial
period
much
of
this
had
been
apportioned
by
communities

and
later
privatized
by
partition.”50



The
 current
 section
 draws
 on
 her
 work
 extensively
 to
 present
 the
 key
 features
 of

common
land
management
in
Punjab
and
the
administrative
and
legal
mechanisms

through
which
these
practices
were
stymied.



According
to
Kaul,
prior
to
British
entry,
the
settled
villages
in
Punjab
alternatively

practiced
 cultivation
 and
 pastoral
 activities.
 These
 villages
 possessed
 extensive

common
 lands
 or
 banjar
 khadim,
 which
 were
 held
 collectively
 by
 a
 village

proprietary
 body
 known
 as
 the
 maliken­deh.51
 Other
 categories
 of
 uncultivated

lands
 were
 also
 held
 in
 common,
 including
 the
 abade­deh
 or
 the
 residential
 area,

the
catchment
areas
or
johads,
and
gora
deh
‐
the
area
around
the
village
site.52



In
 addition,
 in
 some
 regions,
 no
 sharp
 distinction
 was
 made
 between
 the
 “waste”

which
 was
 near
 a
 settlement
 and
 the
 “waste”
 further
 away.
 Both
 were
 equally

regarded
 by
 the
 community
 to
 be
 resources
 which
 could
 be
 drawn
 upon
 without

restriction.
 It
 appears
 that
 the
 
 long‐distance
 ‘waste’
 was
 being
 used
 by
 the

pastoralists
during
times
of
distress
just
as
they
were
periodically
occupying
them

during
seasonal
cycles.




Under
 this
 regime,
 since
 no
 tract
 was
 inhabited
 for
 long
 and
 no
 one
 could
 call
 a

particular
area
his
own,
definite
rights
in
the
long
fallow
or
banjar
kadim
within
the

villages
did
not
arise.



Three
 official
 measures
 led
 to
 the
 evolution
 of
 definite
 property
 in
 the
 open

uncultivated
‘waste’:


Firstly,
 colonization
 of
 the
 waste
 from
 the
 1820s
 brought
 settlers
 from
 other

districts
 restricting
 the
 nomadic
 movements
 of
 pastoralists
 who
 had,
 perforce,
 to

become
 sedentary
 farmers.
 Kaul
 suggests
 that
 settlement
 was
 done
 according
 to

principles
that
“maximized
aggregate
annual
cultivation”,
rather
than
it
being
based

on
the
pattern
of
fallows.

“The
initial
policy
was..
to
search
for
greater
revenue
from
more
inhabited
and

cultivated
 land;
 and
 such
 action
 was
 really
 no
 different
 from
 that
 of
 the

preceding
Sikh
and
Mughal
rulers.”53;



We
may
infer
from
this
shift
from
pastoral
to
sedentary,
a
change
in
personhood
as

well
brought
about
by
the
different
circumstances
that
villagers
had
to
adapt
to.
To

that
 extent,
 Pockock’s
 observation,
 discussed
 earlier,
 that
 “different
 modes
 of


50
Ibid
p.

51
 
The
maliken
deh
administered
a
bundle
of
rights
over
these
categories
of
land
including

“the
right
to
hold
and
to
partition,
the
right
to
manage
and
the
right
to
use.”
Ibid

52
 
It
is
important
to
bear
in
mind
that
this
was
not
uniformly
the
case
in
all
of
Punjab.
As
Kaul

herself
points
out,
there
were
vast
areas
in
Punjab
where
village
common
lands
did
not
exist
prior
to

the
arrival
of
the
British.
Ibid

53
 
Ibid


3
6
property
..
encourage
different
modes
of
personality”
gets
borne
out54.



On
 an
 allegorical
 note,
 it
 is
 interesting
 to
 think
 of
 whether
 the
 introduction
 of
 an

intellectual
property
rights
regime
heralds
a
similar
sedentarisation
of
culture
and

knowledge
production.
If
so,
what
did
the
“pastoral”
mode
entail?
What
was
lost
to

cultural
production
in
the
course
of
this
shift?



Secondly,
villages
were
prevented
from
keeping
unlimited
grazing
grounds
as
part

of
 the
 settlements.
 The
 reduced
 areas
 of
 open
 waste
 outside
 the
 villages
 were

increasingly
reserved
by
the
government
after
the
enactment
of
the
Indian
Forest

Act
of
1878,
so
less
was
available
to
supplement
grazing
on
village
commons;


Thirdly,
the
‘savannah
like’
plains
were
dividend
into
grass
preserves
with
definite

rights.



Summing
up
these
developments,
Kaul
says:

“[W]ith
 the
 revenue
 settlement
 operations,
 the
 open
 range
 lands
 ..
 were

internalized
 in
 demarcated
 villages
 and
 became
 village
 common
 lands,

‘shamilat­deh’.
 Here
 was
 the
 first
 stage
 of
 the
 transformation
 of
 open­access

land
into
enclosed
village
commons,
where
only
the‘malikan
deh’
had
rights
in

common…
Demarcation
of
village
boundaries
established
new
villages
on
the

surplus
 waste
 of
 he
 old
 settled
 villages,
 or
 created
 them
 in
 the
 unoccupied

territories
of
the
Cis­Sutlej”55



These
changes
impacted
traditional
land‐use
patterns
significantly.
By
enclosing
the

open‐range
 grazing
 fallow
 that
 had
 hitherto
 been
 used
 by
 pastoralists,
 the
 area

available
 for
 grazing
 outside
 the
 villages
 was
 reduced
 thereby
 disturbing
 the

migration
routes
of
nomadic
pastoralists.
There
was
also
a
reduction
in
such
areas

of
cultivable
waste
outside
the
village
as
the
open
‘primeval’
wastelands
of
the
dry

tracts,
riverine
grazing
areas,
scrub
forests,
and
hill
grazing
runs.
There
was
a
shift

away
from
mainly
pastoral
to
arable
in
certain
districts
and
as
this
coincided
with

the
 increase
 in
 population
 after
 1868
 there
 was
 a
 consequent
 shrinkage
 in
 area

available
per
head
of
cattle
and
a
change
in
the
composition
of
the
herds
of
cattle

reared.



Lastly,
there
was
a
decline
in
institutions
of
communal
ownership
and
management

of
 common
 lands
 which
 followed
 a
 process
 of
 privatization
 initiated
 by
 the

transference
 of
 common
 lands
 from
 communal
 control
 and
 joint
 use
 to
 individual

property
 and
 limited
 access.
 This
 process
 of
 partitioning
 the
 common
 lands
 or

cultivable
 waste
 within
 villages
 eroded
 the
 adhesive
 element
 in
 communities
 of

cultivating
owners.
That
this
led
to
greater
friction
is
evident
when
one
considers

that
disputes
tended
to
be
greater
in
districts
where
communal
ties
had
eroded
due

to
land
alienation;
where
common
lands
were
partitioned
and/or
enclosed;
where

canal
 irrigation
 had
 extended
 cultivation
 in
 the
 waste
 thus
 reducing
 the
 grazing

wastes
 both
 outside
 and
 within
 villages;
 where
 cattle
 pressure
 was
 high
 and

increasing
 because
 of
 inter‐zonal
 movements
 of
 cattle
 during
 certain
 seasons,

droughts
and
shrinkage
of
grazing
all
round;
and
where
legislation
like
the
Punjab


54
 
Ibid

55
Ibid


3
7
Tenancy
 Act
 of
 1868
 and
 its
 amendment
 in
 1887
 had
 supported
 the
 rights
 of
 a

particular
category
of
cultivators.



A
 pattern
 of
 reciprocal
 interdependence
 emerges
 from
 Kaul’s
 account
 wherein

cultivators
 and
 nomadic
 pastoralists
 cohabited
 in
 relative
 harmony
 despite
 the

absence
of
clear
titles
to
the
land
that
they
used.
It
is
evident
that
the
introduction

of
 private
 property
 here
 was
 owing
 more
 to
 the
 administration’s
 desire
 to

rationalize
 revenue
 collection
 rather
 than
 to
 avoid
 any
 imminent
 “tragedy”
 that

would
befall
the
common
property.




Introduction
 of
 private
 property
 here
 was
 owing
 more
 to
 the
 administration’s

desire
 to
 rationalize
 revenue
 collection
 rather
 than
 to
 avoid
 any
 imminent

“tragedy”
that
would
befall
the
common
property.


Forest
management
in
Kumaon

This
section
draws
on
the
work
of
Ramachandra
Guha
in
his
writings
on
Forestry

and
Social
Protest
in
Kumaon56.
Three
elements
of
Guha’s
account
will
be
focused

upon
 here
 viz:
 the
 economic
 reliance
 of
 inhabitants
 on
 common
 access
 to
 forests,

the
religious/cultural
significance
that
the
inhabitants
of
the
region
attached
to
the

forests
and
the
mechanisms
and
consequences
of
enclosures
which
excluded
them

from
the
forests.




I
–
Forests
as
common
property

Guha’s
 account
 highlights
 the
 intricate
 webs
 of
 independence
 that
 linked
 forest‐
dweller
 to
 forest.
 The
 forests
 supplied
 inhabitants
 with
 pastures
 for
 their
 cattle,

supporting
 animal
 husbandry,
 which
 complemented
 the
 agrarian
 economy
 and

provided
 a
 resource
 that
 could
 be
 drawn
 upon
 during
 distress.
 In
 addition,
 the

forests
provided
them
with
raw
materials
which
they
used
to
fashion
implements

as
well
as
ingredients
for
direct
consumption.



“In
 the
 permanent
 hamlets,
 oak
 forests
 provided
 both
 fodder
 and
 fertilizer.

Green
 and
 dry
 leaves,..
 were
 mixed
 with
 the
 excreta
 of
 the
 animals
 and

fermented
to
give
manure
to
the
fields.
Thus
the
forest
augmented
the
nutritive

value
of
the
fields
directly
though
its
foliage
and
indirectly
through
the
excreta

of
 the
 cattle
 fed
 with
 fodder
 leaves
 and
 forest
 grass.
 Broad
 leafed
 trees
 also

provided
the
villagers
with
fuel
and
agricultural
implements.”57



A
high
degree
of
co‐operation
and
communal
action
directed
the
behaviour
of
the

villagers
towards
the
forests
upon
which
they
were
jointly
reliant.
This
is
evident
in

the
manner
in
which
customarily
fixed
boundaries
‐
existing
from
the
time
of
Indian

rulers
–
were
adhered
to
by
each
village,
as
also
in
the
manner
in
which
groups
of

villages
in
some
areas
exercised
joint
rights
of
grazing
and
fuel
that
were
secured

by
 long
 usage
 and
 customs.
 Guha
 provides
 an
 example
 of
 Chaundhkot
 pargana
 in

Garhwal
 which
 contained
 forests
 within
 village
 boundaries,
 called
 ‘banis’
 where

“branches
and
trees
were
only
cut
at
specified
times
and
with
the
permission
of
the


56
Guha,
Ramachandra.
"Forestry
and
Social
Protest
in
British
Kumaun,
c.
1893‐1921,"
SS4,
pp.
54‐

100.

57
Ibid


3
8
entire
village
community”.




That
 the
 villagers
 considered
 themselves
 collectively
 entitled
 to
 these
 forests
 is

revealed
 through
 accounts
 of
 their
 reactions
 after
 the
 forests
 started
 to
 be
 closed

off
 from
 them.
 For
 instance,
 Guha
 quotes
 the
 following
 passage
 from
 the

correspondence
of
a
forest
settlement
officer
of
British
Garhwal,
written
at
the
time

of
the
constitution
of
reserved
forests
:


“The
 notion
 obstinately
 persists
 in
 the
 minds
 of
 all
 from
 the
 highest
 to
 the

lowest,
 that
 the
 Government
 is
 taking
 away
 their
 forests
 from
 them
 and
 is

robbing
them
of
their
own
property.
The
notion
seems
to
have
grown
up
from

the
complete
lack
of
restriction
or
control
over
the
use
by
the
people
of
waste

land
 and
 forest
 during
 the
 first
 80
 years
 after
 the
 British
 occupation.
 The

oldest
 inhabitants
 therefore,
 and
 he
 naturally
 is
 regarded
 as
 the
 greatest

authority,
 is
 the
 most
 assured
 of
 the
 antiquity
 of
 the
 people’s
 right

touncontrolled
 use
 of
 the
 forestl
 and
 to
 a
 rural
 community
 there
 appears
 no

difference
 between
 uncontrolled
 use
 and
 proprietary
 right.
 Subsequent

regulations
only
appear
to
them
as
a
gradual
encroachment
on
their
rights.”58



Guha’s
 conclusion
 from
 this
 account
 that
 the
 state
 and
 hill
 villagers
 harboured

“alternative
 conceptions
 of
 property
 and
 ownership”
 and
 this
 difference
 underlay

their
conflict
is
instructive.
He
observes:


“There
 did
 not
 exist
 a
 developed
 notion
 of
 private
 property
 among
 these

peasant
communities,
a
notion
particularly
inapplicable
to
communally­owned

and
 managed
 woods
 and
 pasture
 land.
 In
 contrast,
 the
 state’s
 assertion
 of

monopoly
over
forests
was
undertaken
at
the
expense
of
what
British
officials

insisted
 were
 individually
 claimed
 rights
 of
 users.
 With
 the
 ‘waste
 and
 forest

lands
 never
 having
 attracted
 the
 attention
 of
 former
 governments’
 there

existed
 strong
 historical
 justification
 for
 the
 popular
 belief
 that
 all
 forests

within
village
boundaries
were
‘the
property
of
the
villagers’.
59



Thus,
 while
 it
 appears
 that
 the
 villagers
 did
 not
 have
 a
 refined
 understanding
 of

‘property’
they
did
regard
the
forests
as
belonging
to
them
in
a
different,
extra‐legal

sense.
 It
 is
 not
 possible
 to
 map
 this
 “belonging”
 onto
 property’s
 intellectual

universe
 dominated
 as
 it
 is
 by
 the
 Lockean
 conception.
 As
 we
 have
 seen
 in
 the

introduction
 to
 this
 monograph,
 Locke’s
 conception
 of
 property
 was
 an
 invention

born
 of
 the
 necessity
 to
 justify
 European
 expansionism,
 and
 it
 is
 precisely
 such
 a

nebulous
 relationship
 as
 “belonging”
 that
 threatens
 to
 collapse
 the
 whole

enterprise.



Even
 though
 this
 “belonging”
 does
 not
 figure
 a
 place
 on
 any
 register
 of
 approved

property
 theories,
 it
 rebuts
 some
 of
 property‐dogma’s
 central
 assumptions

including
the
belief
that
without
property
there
is
no
incentive
to
care
for
property,

and
 its
 corollary
 –
no
other
forms
of
 caring
 exists
 other
 than
 individual
 property‐
caring.
As
we
shall
see,
unowned
is
seldom
the
same
as
uncared
for.


58
Ibid

59
Ibid


3
9
II
–
Forest
dwellers
and
conservancy

Guha’s
 account
 does
 not
 delve
 very
 extensively
 into
 the
 specifics
 of
 the

conservation
 methods
 practiced
 by
 the
 villagers.
 However,
 central
 as
 the
 forests

were
to
hill
life,
we
are
able
to
discern
patterns
of
a
distinctively
communal
system

of
conservancy,
backed
by
“religion,
folklore
and
tradition”
from
his
account.
Thus,

Guha
notes
that
hill
tops
were
often
“dedicated
to
local
deities,
and
the
trees
around

the
summit
and
on
the
slopes
were
preserved”.




Further,
the
religious
significance
of
the
forests
prompted
the
villagers
to
actively

afforest
the
surroundings
of
temples.
Guha
notes:

“Particularly
 in
 easter
 Kumaun
 and
 around
 temples,
 deodar
 plantations
 had

become
naturalized.
Temple
groves
of
deodar
varied
in
extent
from
a
few
trees

to
woods
of
several
hundred
acres.
As
late
as
1953
it
was
reported
that
the
fine

strands
 of
 deodar
 found
 near
 temples
 were
 venerated
 and
 protected
 from

injury.”60




III
Enclosure

The
 colonial
 administration
 began
 enclosing
 the
 forests
 in
 order
 to
 meet
 the

growing
demand,
worldwide,
for
timber,
as
well
as
to
service
the
expansion
of
the

Indian
 railways.
 
 The
 working
 of
 the
 forest
 for
 commercial
 purposes
 necessitated

its
 closure
 to
 men
 and
 cattle
 in
 order
 for
 successful
 reproduction
 to
 take
 place.

Grazing
and
lopping,
if
allowed
had
to
be
regulated
to
promote
the
reproduction
of

favoured
species.


The
practice
of
firing
the
forests,
which
had
hitherto
been
customarily
undertaken

in
 order
 to
 prepare
 new
 fields
 for
 planting
 had
 to
 be
 regulated
 or
 stopped
 in
 the

interests
of
sustained
production
of
chir
pine.




Regarding
 the
 specific
 administrative
 devices
 employed
 to
 effect
 this
 enclosure,

Guha
 indicates
 that
 “A
 prolonged
 debate
 within
 the
 colonial
 bureaucracy
 on

whether
to
treat
the
customary
use
of
forest
as
based
on
‘right’
or
on
‘privilege’
was

settled
by
the
selective
use
of
precedent
and
the
principle
that
‘the
right
of
conquest

is
the
strongest
of
all
rights
–
it
is

a
right
against
which
there
is
no
appeal’.”



In
1887,
a
comprehensive
all‐India
Forest
Act
was
drafted
which
provided
for
the

constitution
 of
 ‘reserved’
 (closed)
 forest
 divested
 of
 existing
 rights
 of
 users.
 This

Act
“provided
for
an
elaborate
procedure
of
forest
settlement
to
deal
with
all
claims

of
user,
which,
if
upheld
could
be
transferred
to
a
second
class
of
forest
designated

as
‘protected’”.61
While
the
Burden
of
Proof
to
establish
‘legally
established
rights’

was
 on
 the
 people,
 the
 state
 could
 grant
 both
 ‘non
 established
 rights’
 and

‘terminable
 concessions
 at
 its
 discretion.”
 While
 the
 exercise
 of
 rights,
 where

allowed,
 was
 specified
 in
 elaborate
 detail,
 rightholders
 had
 the
 onerous

responsibility
 of
 furnishing
 knowledge
 of
 forest
 offences
 to
 the
 nearest
 authority

and
of
extinguishing
fires
however
caused
in
the
state
forests.



It
 is
 interesting
 to
 observe
 how
 frequently,
 in
 its
 most
 egregious
 acts
 of


60
Ibid

61
 
Ibid


4
0
expropriation,
the
colonial
state
constantly
evokes
metaphors
of
conservation.
Thus

forests
 are
 ‘reserved’
 and
 ‘protected’
 connoting
 an
 unprotected,
 wanton
 past
 that

has
 now
 mercifully
 come
 to
 an
 end.
 In
 a
 similar
 vein,
 copyright
 owners
 are

‘protected’
 from
 their
 works
 being
 spread
 without
 their
 explicit
 authorization.
 In

this
way,
more
culture
will
be
circulate.



Subsequent
 to
 the
 enactment
 of
 this
 statute,
 in
 1893
 all
 unmeasured
 land
 in
 the

Kumaun
division
was
declared
‘District
Protected
Forest’
(DPF)
which
included
in

its
 fold,
 “tree‐covered
 lands,
 snow‐clad
 peaks,
 ridges
 and
 cliffs,
 river
 beds,
 lakes,

buildings,
temple
lands,
camping
and
pasture
grounds
and
roads
and
shops”.
62



A
series
of
subsequent
developments
further
curtailed
the
access
of
the
villagers
to

their
forests:

1) In
 1894,
 eight
 types
 of
 trees
 including
 deodar,
 chir
 and
 sal
 were
 reserved.

Rules
were
framed
for
regulating
the
lopping
of
trees
for
fuel
and
fodder
and

claims
 for
 timber
 and
 trade
 by
 villagers
 in
 any
 form
 of
 forest
 produce
 was

prohibited.

2) Forest
settlements
set
up
in
three
districts
between
1911
and
1917
resulted

in
the
constitution
of
almost
3000
sq
miles
of
reserved
forest
in
the
Kumaun

division.
 Elaborate
 rules
 were
 framed
 for
 the
 exercise
 of
 rights,
 specifying

the
number
of
cattle
to
be
grazed
and
the
amount
of
timber
and
fuel
wood

allotted
 to
 each
 right‐holder.
 Villagers
 had
 to
 indent
 in
 advance
 for
 timber

for
 construction
 of
 houses
 and
 agricultural
 implements
 which
 would
 be

supplied
by
the
Divisional
Forest
officer
from
a
notified
list
of
species.

3) The
 annual
 practice
 of
 buring
 the
 forest
 floor
 for
 a
 fresh
 crop
 of
 grass
 was

banned
 within
 one
 mile
 of
 reserved
 forests;
 but
 as
 this
 excluded
 few

habitations
in
these
heavily
forested
hills,
the
prohibition
virtually
made
the

practice
illegal.



The
 burden
 of
 these
 new
 regulations
 on
 the
 villagers
 is
 movingly
 captured
 in
 the

following
 extract,
 a
 letter,
 quoted
 in
 Guha,
 from
 a
 Government
 clerk
 applying
 for

exemption
from
begar:

“In
 days
 gone
 by
 every
 necessities
 of
 life
 were
 in
 abundance
 to
 the
 villagers

than
 tot
 others
 and
 there
 were
 no
 such
 Government
 laws
 and
 regulations

prohibiting
 the
 free
 use
 of
 unsurveyed
 land
 and
 forest
 by
 them
 as
 they
 have

now.
 ..
 Now
 the
 village
 life
 has
 been
 shadowed
 by
 all
 the
 miseries
 and

inconveniences
of
the
present
day
laws
and
regulations.
They
are
not
allowed

to
fell
down
a
tree
to
get
fuels
from
it
for
their
daily
use
and
they
cannot
cut

leaves
of
trees
beyond
certain
portion
of
them
for
fodder
to
their
animals.”63



The
 erosion
 of
 customary
 rights
 resulted
 in
 a
 growing
 alienation
 of
 man
 from

forest.
Afraid
that
the
state
would
take
away
other
wooded
areas
from
their
control,

villagers
 in
 certain
 cases
 began
 deforesting
 woodland.64
 Further,
 there
 were


62
 
Ibid

63
Ibid

64
 Ibid,
Guha
points
out
that
this
trend
was
absent
in
villages
where
ownership
was
still
vested

in
the
community,
where
the
forests
continued
to
be
well
looked
after.
He
provides
the
example
of

“the
twenty‐mile
stretch
between
Rudraprayag
and
Karanprayag
in
the
Alakananda
Valley
where

the
government
had
explicitly
made
over
these
forests
to
the
neighbouring
villages”.
In
addition,
he


4
1
mounting
 incidents
 of
 arson
 and
 incendiarism
 through
 which
 the
 villagers

registered
 their
 discontent
 with
 the
 new
 order.
 Guha’s
 account
 of
 the
 fires
 that

routinely
broke
out
in
the
region
in
the
period
beginning
from
1916
is
revealing
:

“Numerous
 fires
 broke
 out
 simultaneously
 over
 large
 areas,
 and
 often
 the

occurrence
 of
 a
 fire
 was
 the
 signal
 of
 general
 ‘firing’
 in
 the
 whole

neighbourhood.
Forty­four
fires
occurred
in
North
Garhwal
division,
almost
all

in
order
to
obtain
fresh
crop
of
grass.
..

the
areas
chosen
for
attach
had
been

under
both
felling
and
resin­tapping
operations.
In
Airadeo,
the
fire
continued

for
 three
 
 days
 and
 two
 nights
 with
 ‘new
 fires
 being
 started
 time
 after
 time

directly
a
counterfiring
line
was
successfully
completed’
”65



There
are
tempting
parallels
that
one
can
draw
between
the
patterns
of
resistance

of
the
forest
dwellers
described
above
and
the
widespread
IP‐indisciplines
that
are

commonplace
 in
 Asia.
 Directly
 a
 new
 counter‐piracy
 measure
 is
 installed
 (for

instance
Digital
Rights
Management
locks)
when
a
new
cluster
of
piracy
is
spawned

or
a
new
software
crack
invented.
Numerous
files
are
shared
over
large
areas
and

often
 a
 file
 is
 seeded
 and
 downloaded
 simultaneously.
 
 However,
 in
 the
 realm
 of

knowledge
 production
 ‘incendiarism’
 is
 in
 fact
 quite
 the
 opposite
 and
 involves
 an

explosion
 in
 the
 circulation
 of
 copies.
 Counter‐firing
 on
 the
 other
 hand
 often

involves
acts
of
wholesale
destruction
–
for
instance
mass
crushing
of
pirated
CDs

and
DVDs.


Conclusions
from
the
Indian­subcontinent


Although
the
traditional
property
practices
outlined
above
stand
at
stark
odds
with

conventional
property
regimes,
there
is
reason
to
believe
that
this
change
was
not

necessarily
the
result
of
the
imposition
of
British
(read
Western)
property
regimes

in
 an
 Asian
 receptacle,
 but
 could
 quite
 possibly
 have
 been
 the
 outcome
 of

indigenous
churnings
in
property
structures
due
to
political
instability.




Bernard
Cohn,
for
instance,
in
his
work
on
Structural
change
in
Indian
Rural
Society

1596­188566
 points
 out
 that
 the
 efforts
 of
 the
 British
 were
 directed
 towards

restoring
existing
practices
rather
than
supplanting
them
with
their
own.


“From
the
beginning
of
their
large
scale
acquisition
of
territorial
control
and

sovereignty,
 the
 British
 conceived
 of
 governing
 India
 by
 codifying
 and

reinstituting
 the
 ruling
 practices
 that
 had
 been
 developed
 by
 previous
 states

and
rulers.
They
sought
to
incorporate,
as
much
as
possible,
the
administrative

personnel
 employed
 by
 previous
 regimes.
 Thus
 knowledge
 of
 the
 history
 and

practices
of
Indian
states
was
seen
as
the
most
valuable
form
of
knowledge
on

which
to
build
the
colonial
state.
”




indicates
that
“vast
extents
of
broad‐leaved
forests”
which
were
of
use
to
the
villagers
and
also

under
state‐control
remained
largely
unharmed.
Explaining
this
selective
conservativeness,
Guha

notes
“As
in
other
societies
in
other
historical
epochs,
the
destruction
by
arson
was
not
simply
a

nihilistic
release
but
carefully
selective
in
the
targets
attacked.
As
Hobsbawm
has
argued,
such

destruction
is
never
indiscriminate,
for
‘what
is
useful
to
poor
men’
–
in
this
instance
broad‐leaved

species,
far
more
than
chir
is
spared.”

65
Ibid

66
Bernard
S.
Cohn,
An
Anthropologist
Among
the
Historians
and
Other
Essays,
New
Ed
(OUP
India,


1991)


4
2
Phillipines
–
the
Zanjeras



In
her
survey
of
the
evolution
of
institutions
for
collective
action,
Elinor
Ostrom67

details
the
practice
of
the
zanjera
system
–
a
system
of
common
irrigation
and
land

holding
–prevalent
in
the
Phillipines.




A
 Zanjera
 is
 established
 by
 landowning
 farmers
 wanting
 to
 construct
 common

irrigation
 works,
 as
 well
 as
 individuals
 organizing
 themselves
 in
 order
 to
 acquire

land.
 It
 enables
 the
 acquisition
 of
 long‐term
 use
 rights
 to
 land,
 and
 the
 water
 to

irrigate
 it
 “without
 prior
 accumulation
 of
 monetary
 assets”.
 The
 following

paragraphs
 briefly
 outline
 its
 working
 and
 the
 benefits
 that
 accrue
 from
 this

system.



A
 type
 of
 contract
 –
 called
 a
 biang
 ti
 daga
 or
 a
 ‘sharing
 of
 land’
 –
 underlies
 the

zanjera
 and
 allows
 the
 landowner
 to
 retain
 ownership
 while
 use
 rights
 are

extended
to
the
various
members
of
the
zanjera
for
as
long
as
the
irrigation
system

continues
to
be
maintained.

In
its
operation,
the
zanjera
works
somewhat
along
the

lines
 of
 a
 company
 limited
 by
 shares.
 At
 the
 time
 of
 formation,
 each
 original

member
of
the
zanjera
is
issued
one
membership
share
or
atar
which
entitles
each

member
to
one
vote,
and
a
proportionate
share
of
the
land
acquired
by
the
zanjera.

In
addition,
the
atar
defines
the
obligation
of
the
members
for
material
and
labour

inputs
that
they
must
each
contribute.
Each
atar‐holder
is
obliged
to
contribute
one

day’s
labour
during
each
work
season
declared
by
the
zanjera,
plus
a
share
of
the

material
 required
 at
 the
 time
 of
 construction.
 The
 maximum
 number
 of
 atars
 is

settled
at
inception
itself.
68



The
 manner
 of
 division
 of
 land
 acquired
 by
 the
 zanjera
 reveals
 a
 high
 degree
 of

communal
management
and
consensual
action.

Typically.
the
land
acquired
is
divided
into
three
or
more
large
sections
with
each

farmer
being
assigned
a
plot
in
each
section.
This
not
only
gives
them
rights
to
farm

equal
 amounts
 of
 land,
 but
 also
 provides
 them
 with
 both
 advantageous
 locations

near
the
head
of
the
system
(where
the
water
is
abundant),
and
some
near
the
tail.

When
 rain
 is
 insufficient
 to
 irrigate
 all
 the
 fields,
 “a
 decision
 about
 sharing
 the

burdens
 of
 scarcity
 can
 be
 made
 rapidly
 and
 equitably
 by
 simply
 deciding
 not
 to

irrigate
 the
 bottom
 section
 of
 land.”69
 In
 this
 manner,
 all
 members
 are
 placed
 in

“fundamentally
symmetric
positions”
in
relation
to
one
another.



The
 work
 assignment
 pattern
 allows
 each
 group
 to
 monitor
 the
 progress
 of
 other

groups
and
engenders
competition
among
them.





67
Elinor
Ostrom,
Governing
the
Commons:
The
Evolution
of
Institutions
for
Collective
Action


(Cambridge
University
Press,
1990)

68
Ibid

69
Ibid


4
3
 

Fig
1.
Diagram
describing
a
Zangera
(Ostrom)



Not
 all
 of
 the
 land
 is
 discretely
 parceled
 out.
 Some
 units
 are
 earmarked
 for

communal
purposes.
For
instance,
a
few
parcels
located
at
the
tail
of
the
system
are

assigned
to
officials
of
the
association
as
payment
for
their
services.
This
provides
a

positive
reward
to
the
officials
for
services
rendered,
and
also
provides
incentives

for
those
in
leadership
positions
to
try
to
get
water
to
the
tail
of
the
system.
Other

lands
 are
 retained
 to
 secure
 income
 for
 the
 zanjera
 itself,
 for
 instance,
 by
 renting

them
out.




The
 fact
 that
 the
 technologies
 used
 in
 zanjera
 systems
 are
 relatively
 crude
 and

labour‐intensive
 has
 resulted
 in
 the
 technology
 of
 dam‐construction
 becoming

widely
 distributed
 among
 farmers
 in
 the
 area.
 Empowered
 by
 this
 knowledge,

enterprising
 tenant
 farmers
 have
 been
 enabled
 to
 band
 together
 and
 construct

irrigation
 systems
 on
 previously
 nonirrigated
 land
 in
 exchange
 for
 rights
 to
 the

produce
from
a
specified
portion
of
the
newly
irrigated
land.




Ostrom’s
 account
 (relying
 on
 Robert
 Siy’s
 (1982)
 analysis
 )
 of
 the
 success
 of
 the

Bacarra‐Vintar
 federation
 of
 nine
 zanjeras
 provides
 some
 insights
 into
 the

affordances
 of
 this
 common
 property
 system.
 The
 Federation
 constructs
 a
 dam

“built
of
bamboo
poles,
banana
leaves,
sand
and
rock”,
which
is
demolished
three
to

four
times
a
year
due
to
the
unpredictable
and
destructive
nature
of
the
river.

The

federation
 is
 organized
 along
 the
 pattern
 described
 above.
 According
 to
 this

account,
 the
 members
 of
 this
 federation
 supply
 16000
 man‐days
 to
 their
 zanjera

annually
in
order
to
perform
this
Sisyphean
task.
As
Siy
reflects
‘there
are
definitely

few
rural
organizations
in
the
developing
world
which
have
been
able
to
regularly

mobilize
voluntary
labour
to
such
extent”.
70


70
Ibid


4
4


Over
 time
 zanjeras
 have
 had
 to
 devise
 strategies
 to
 face
 the
 problem
 of
 increased

fragmentation
of
the
original
shares.



“A
founding
member
with
three
sons,
for
example,
may
bequeath
his
plots
to
be

distributed
evenly
among
his
sons,
each
of
whom
them
assumes
a
third
of
the

obligations
that
the
father
had
to
fulfill
(and
having
access
to
only
one
third
of

the
land).”71



Coping
 strategies
 have
 differed
 between
 zanjeras.
 While
 some
 some
 appoint
 a

single
person
to
be
responsible
for
the
fulfillment
of
each
atar’s
responsibilities,
so

that
the
association
does
not
have
to
monitor
intra‐atar
work,
other
require
prior

approval
 before
 an
 atar
 is
 sold
 or
 transferred.
 In
 the
 later
 system
 prospective

members
 are
 made
 to
 understand
 the
 full
 extent
 of
 their
 obligations
 before
 the

transaction
 is
 approved.
 In
 this
 manner,
 emphasis
 is
 placed
 on
 protecting
 the

zanjera
from
disintegration.




The
 Zanjera
 system
 is
 an
 interesting
 example
 of
 how
 property
 rights
 are

collectively,
 rather
 than
 individually
 managed.
 Incentives
 in
 this
 system
 are

arranged
 so
 as
 to
 accrue
 to
 those
 whose
 efforts
 lead
 to
 greater
 benefits
 for
 the

entire
group
rather
than
only
the
individuals
themselves.




Nepal
–
Forest
Management

This
section
relies
on
Stanley
Stevens’72
analytically
rich
account

of
the
history
and

practices
of
the
Khumbu
Sherpas
of
Nepal.

The
Kumbhu
Sherpas
inhabit
the
higher

reaches
of
the
Himalaya
‐
one
of
the
more
challenging
environments
on
earth.




As
 in
 previous
 sections,
 we
 are
 concerned
 here
 with
 describing
 a

traditional/indigenous
 common‐property
 regime,
 how
 this
 regime
 was
 displaced

by
modern
enclosures,
and
the
changes
attendant
on
this
displacement.73


Communal
organization
of
property
in
Kumbhu

Stevens
 describes
 life
 in
 Khumbu
 as
 being
 “a
 complex
 integration
 of
 the

requirements
 of
 conducting
 crop
 production
 and
 pastoralism
 at
 the
 altitudinal

limits
of
both”.
Adaptive
land‐use
tactics
employed
by
the
inhabitants
of
this
region

include
 systems
 of
 land
 tenure
 and
 resource‐use
 decision
 making
 that
 “combine

communal
 management
 of
 common‐property
 pasture
 and
 forest
 resources
 (and

sometimes
 also
 community
 influence
 in
 crop‐production
 decisions)
 with
 private

family
 land
 and
 livestock
 ownership”.
 The
 use
 of
 forest
 resources
 is
 interwoven


71
Ibid

72
Stevens,
Stanley
F.
Claiming
the
High
Ground:
Sherpas,
Subsistence,
and
Environmental
Change
in


the
Highest
Himalaya.
Berkeley:

University
of
California
Press,

c1993.

http://ark.cdlib.org/ark:/13030/ft8b69p1t6/

73
 Ibid,

A
prefatory
mention
needs
to
be
made
about
the
harsh
ecological
conditions
prevalent

in
the
terrain
under
consideration
that
make
it
a
difficult
environment
to
live
in.

The
climatic

hazards
that
come
with
the
terrain
and
the
altitude,
make
high
mountains
unpredictable
places
with

“low
primary
productivity,
and
high
environmental
fragility”..
Agriculture
is
a
chancy
enterprise
in

such
regions,
and
high
pastures
are
often
not
suitable
for
winter
grazing
due
to
snow
cover.
Further,

the
slow
rates
of
tree
growth
make
forests
and
woodlands
vulnerable
to
disturbances
and
recovery

from
them
is
more
difficult
and
uncertain.


4
5
with
 agropastoralism
 and
 provides
 essential
 contributions
 to
 fuel
 and
 shelter
 as

well.




Crop
production,
pastoralism
and
forest
use,
each
entail
a
high
degree
of
communal

organization
and
management
of
resources.
Even
those
families
who
own
little
or

no
livestock
draw
upon
the
commons
of
the
forests
to
supplement
their
needs.
For

instance
 annual
 fertilization
 of
 potato
 fields
 is
 a
 fundamental
 principle
 of
 Sherpa

agriculture
 the
 most
 important
 soil
 additive
 is
 undoubtedly
 manure.
 This
 is
 so

important
 that
 the
 route
 and
 timing
 of
 herd
 movements
 is
 decided
 in
 part
 on
 the

basis
 of
 where
 household
 fields
 are
 located
 and
 when
 the
 optimal
 times
 are
 to

supply
them
with
manure.

This
runs
counter
to
most
notions
of
private
property

where
decisions
are
premised
on
the
existence
of
an
absolute
and
unfettered
right

to
control
land.




Further,
the
communal
use
by
Sherpas
of
their
limited
forest
areas
to
extract
timber

and
 fuel
 wood
 and
 their
 reliance
 on
 them
 for
 grazing
 and
 for
 soluk
 ‐
 dried
 leaves

and
needles
scoured
from
the
forest
floor
–
seems
to
openly
defy
dark
predictions

of
 “the
 tragedy
 of
 the
 commons”.74
 Forests
 are
 especially
 important
 to
 poorer

families,
 during
 times
 of
 food
 shortage.
 Open
 woodland
 in
 the
 vicinity
 of
 villages

provides
 much‐used
 grazing
 and
 browsing,
 especially
 in
 winter
 and
 are
 managed

by
intricate
conservation
schemes
which
ensure
the
sustenance
of
these
resources.



The
 following
 sections
 attempt
 to
 provide
 some
 details
 of
 how
 the
 Kumbhus
 own

and
manage
their
agriculture,
pasturage
and
their
forest‐use
along
communal
lines.




Agriculture

Khumbu
agriculture
is
based
on
private
land
ownership
and
subsistence
farming
by

nuclear
 households.
 Although
 land
 can
 be
 freely
 bought
 and
 sold
 both
 to
 fellow

villagers
 or
 to
 Sherpas
 from
 other
 settlements,
 it
 appears
 uncommon
 for
 land
 to

change
hands
other
than
through
inheritance.




At
one
time,
it
appears,
it
had
been
relatively
easy
for
recent
immigrants
from
Tibet

to
 establish
 new
 fields
 on
 uncultivated
 village
 lands.
 subject
 to
 their
 gaining
 the

permission
of
a
local
Sherpa
pembu
.
In
the
early
1940s,
however,
the
Kathmandu

government
 began
 to
 implement
 a
 national
 land‐registration
 system
 and
 a
 set
 of

accompanying
 policies
 that
 had
 the
 effect
 of
 curtailing
 any
 further
 expansion
 of

Khumbu
crop
areas
in
subsequent
decades.
Land
that
had
not
been
registered
could

henceforth
not
be
claimed
and
cultivated
without
making
the
proper
arrangements

with
 the
 government
 office
 at
 the
 district
 center,
 and
 for
 many
 years
 there
 was
 a

moratorium
 on
 new
 land
 claims.
 This
 prevented
 a
 number
 of
 immigrant
 families

from
obtaining
land
by
carving
new
terraces
near
the
villages
or
even
from
claiming

any
of
the
long‐abandoned
terraces
that
are
plentiful
in
some
parts
of
Khumbu.


74
 
Only
about
2
percent
of
Khumbu,
approximately
2,200
hectares,
is
forested,
but
for
Sherpas

this
small
area
is
a
critical
component
of
their
homeland
and
way
of
life.
The
temperate
and

subalpine
forests
are
a
fundamental
subsistence
resource
providing
fuel
wood,
food,
timber,
fodder,

grazing,
fertilizer,
and
materials
for
many
of
the
articles
of
daily
life.
Beyond
that
they
are
also
a

significant
component
of
the
spirit‐filled
cosmos
within
which
Sherpas
build
their
houses
and
gather

their
fuel
wood.


4
6


Thus,
this
new
registration
system
introduced
an
element
of
semi‐permanence
into

land
relations
which
the
villages
in
the
region
were
unaccustomed
to.
As
with
the

Punjab
example,
this
shift
in
property
relations
can
also
be
viewed
in
terms
of
the

changes
in
personality
it
occasioned.
The
move
from
fluidity
to
fixity
from
multiple

tenures
 to
 singular
 and
 from
 trust
 to
 registration
 presumably
 had
 a
 profound

impact
on
personhood
as
Pockock
suggests.
In
the
realm
of
knowledge
production,

this
 provides
 us
 a
 useful
 analogue
 in
 the
 manner
 in
 which
 the
 introduction
 of

Intellectual
Property
privileged
a
fixed
rather
than
fluid
relation
to
knowledge
and

culture.



The
move
from
fluidity
to
fixity
from
multiple
tenures
to
singular
and
from
trust
to

registration
 presumably
 had
 a
 profound
 impact
 on
 personhood‐
 
 introduction
 of

Intellectual
Property
privileged
a
fixed
rather
than
fluid
relation
to
knowledge
and

culture


Khumbu
Pastoralism


It
 is
 in
 Kumbhu
 pastoralism
 that
 common
 property
 management
 is
 most
 directly

visible.


Stevens
 finds
 that
 since
 the
 middle
 of
 the
 nineteenth
 century,
 Khumbu
 Sherpas

have
maintained
agropastoral
management
systems
aimed
at
protecting
crops
and

pastoral
resources
through
controlling
grazing
and
the
cutting
of
wild
grass
for
hay.

Herding
 emphasized
 the
 use
 of
 the
 extensive
 rangelands
 that
 were
 regarded
 as

common
 property
 resources
 freely
 available
 to
 all
 Khumbu
 Sherpas.
 The
 use
 of

some
 of
 these
 areas
 was
 regulated
 during
 summer
 by
 local
 pastoral
 management

regulations.



Stevens
reports
that
since
the
nineteenth
century
all
Khumbu
has
been
open
range

for
Khumbu
Sherpa
livestock
(except
where
seasonal
prohibitions
on
grazing
are
in

effect).
 Thus,
 theoretically,
 any
 family
 could
 herd
 in
 any
 part
 of
 Khumbu
 that
 it

wished
to.
Writing
about
the
mechanics
of
this
system,
Stevens
records75:

“Community
nawa
officials
enforce
a
form
of
rotational
grazing
that
protects

growing
crops
from
livestock
depredation,
limits
the
use
of
some
high­altitude

pastures,
 and
 protects
 crucial
 winter
 grazing
 and
 fodder
 resources…
 In
 each

valley
a
set
of
zones
is
sequentially
opened
and
closed
to
specific
activities.
.
A

particular
 zone
 can
 be
 closed
 or
 opened
 to
 different
 activities
 at
 different

times.
 It
 is
 common,
 for
 example,
 to
 close
 the
 village
 area
 to
 livestock
 before

closing
it
to
all
work
in
the
fields
and
to
open
it
in
the
early
autumn
for
crop

harvesting
and
hay
cutting
several
days
or
weeks
before
allowing
the
return
of

the
 herds…
 .
 These
 decisions
 (when
 to
 open
 and
 close
 zones)
 are
 generally

linked
 to
 the
 Sherpa
 lunar
 calendar
 and
 the
 regional
 festival
 cycle.
 The

regulations
 that
 nawa
 enforce
 are
 also
 determined
 not
 personally
 but
 by

custom
and
community
decisions.
”76



It
 is
 usual
 for
 nawa
 to
 be
 selected
 by
 village
 assemblies,
 although
 other
 systems


75
 
Zonal
systems
such
as
this
are
not
common
in
Nepal
and
are
very
rare
even
among
other

Sherpa
groups.

76
 
Ibid


4
7
may
exist
including,
for
instance,
rotation
systems
amongst
different
households.




Stevens
 gives
 the
 example
 of
 the
 village
 of
 Nauje
 to
 illustrate
 this
 system
 in

operation.,


“before
the
system

was
abandoned
in
1979,
the
village
was
always
closed
to

stock
 during
 the
 week
 after
 Dumje.
 ...
 Any
 stock
 still
 in
 the
 area
 after
 the

deadline
are
subject
to
fines.
..
Nawa
seek
out
offending
Sherpas
or
the
owners

of
ban­violating
livestock
and
demand
compliance
with
the
regulation
and
the

payment
 of
 a
 fine.
 Livestock
 owners
 are
 required
 to
 offer
 the
 officials
 chang

(the
local
beer),
and
sometimes
also
pay
a
small
fine
that
is
usually
put
toward

village
projects
such
as
maintaining
temples,
bridges,
and
trails.
Fines
escalate

in
size
with
continued
refusal
to
comply.
Nawa
can
do
no
more,
however,
than

issue
further
fines.
They
are
not
authorized
to
confiscate
livestock.
If
someone

refuses
to
comply
with
repeated
warnings
a
nawa
can
inform
other
community

members
of
this.
Community
social
pressure
generally
ensures
compliance
with

the
regulations.”



Of
central
importance
to
this
system
is
the
fact
that
all
Sherpas
are
required
to
obey

the
nawa's
injunctions
regardless
of
whether
they
are
residents
of
a
particular
valley

or
not.
This
responsibility
balances
the
right
given
to
all
Khumbu
Sherpas
to
make

use
 of
 all
 pasture
 lands
 in
 the
 region
 regardless
 of
 their
 village
 affiliation
 and
 the

boundaries
of
particular
villages.
All
owners
of
livestock
who
are
found
violating
a

local
zone
closure
are
subject
to
the
same
fine
regardless
of
whether
or
not
they
are

"outsiders."
 The
 same
 regulations
 have
 also
 been
 applied
 to
 non‐Sherpas
 making

use
of
Khumbu
for
summer
‘transhumance’77.





Forests


The
economic
and
religious
importance
of
forests
in
Khumbu's
tree‐line
terrain
led

the
Sherpas
to
devise
a
range
of
local
institutions
to
protect
forests.




Particular
forest
areas
belonged
to
or
were
administered
by
villages,
monasteries,

temples,
 and
 pembu.
 There
 eventually
 came
 to
 be
 at
 least
 seven
 types
 of

communally
 protected
 forests,
 encompassing
 nearly
 half
 of
 Khumbu's
 twentieth‐
century
 forest
 cover.
 These
 forests
 were
 set
 aside
 at
 different
 times
 for
 different

purposes
 and
 administered
 according
 to
 different
 rules.
 These
 included
 “Sacred

Groves”
 (protected
 because
 of
 the
 villagers’
 belief
 that
 trees
 were
 home
 to
 lu
 ­

spirits
 worshiped
 by
 particular
 families
 who
 were
 charged
 with
 its
 caretaking

through
 generations),
 Lami
 Nating:
 "Lama's
 Forests"
 established
 by
 the
 personal

intervention
 of
 revered
 local
 religious
 leaders.78,
 Temple
 and
 Monastery
 Groves

(felling
trees
in
temple
groves
is
regarded
as
an
inauspicious
act),
Secular
Preserves

(administered
 by
 local
 officials
 or
 community
 assemblies,
 allowed
 limited
 logging

for
special
purposes
such
as
housebuilding)
and
Rani
Bans..



Some
protected
forests
were
administered
so
as
to
keep
villagers
safe
from
divine


77
 
Seasonal
movement
of
sheep
and
goats
to
higher
or
lower
pasture

78
 
Stevens
cites
the
example
of
Phurtse
lama's
forest
which
“has
been
very
stringently

protected,
and
here
at
3,800
meters
there
are
more
than
ten
hectares
of
birch,
some
probably
a

century‐and‐a‐half
old,
whose
gnarled
and
mossy
limbs
show
no
sign
of
ever
having
been
lopped.”


4
8
wrath
or
evil
fortune,
others
simply
ensured
that
families
would
continue
to
have
a

source
of
certain
forest
resources
conveniently
close
by.
They
had
in
common
the

fact
 that
 in
 all
 of
 them
 there
 were
 at
 least
 some
 restrictions
 on
 the
 purposes
 for

which
trees
could
be
felled.




This
 religious/spiritual
 relationship
 of
 the
 Khumbhu
 villagers
 with
 their
 forests

could
offer
us
a
useful
way
to
rethink
our
ideas
of
ownership
and
property.





Disintegration
of
Nepal’s
Forest
Management
Systems


Varying
accounts
and
explanations
exist
for
the
decay
of
these
forest
management

systems.
Many
of
these
blame
the
nationalization
of
forests
in
1957
which
wrested

control
over
forests
from
villagers,
as
the
primary
reason.
These
accounts
suggest

that
villagers
reacted
negatively
to
nationalization.
Because
their
traditional
rights

of
 access
 and
 use
 had
 been
 curtailed,
 local
 responsibility
 for
 forest
 protection

disappeared.
 
 Whereas
 previously
 there
 had
 been
 communal
 responsibility
 for

managing
the
forest,
after
nationalization
no
one
took
responsibility
for
managing

this
resource



Michael
Bruce
Wallace,
for
instance,
attributes
soil
erosion
and
the
disappearance

of
 forests
 between
 1964
 and
 1975
 to
 the
 breakdown
 of
 the
 communal
 property

holding.
 He
 alleges
 that
 the
 State
 in
 Nepal
 was
 “unprepared
 to
 assume
 the

responsibility
 of
 forest
 ownership”.
 In
 his
 account,
 since
 there
 were
 no
 land

records,
 villagers
 had
 a
 strong
 incentive
 to
 destroy
 forests
 and
 convert
 them
 into

croplands.
 Therefore,
 he
 suggests,
 “the
 nationalized
 forests
 in
 Nepal
 became

nobody’s
 responsibility
 and
 increased
 demand
 from
 growing
 numbers
 of
 people

and
 cattle
 resulted
 in
 overuse
 and
 under‐investment.”
 The
 situation
 had
 typical

free‐rider
 characteristics.
 Benefits
 were
 obtained
 by
 anyone
 who
 could
 ‘clear
 and

cltivate’,
 while
 the
 costs
 were
 imposed
 on
 the
 forest
 dwellers
 as
 a
 whole,
 besides

the
 creation
 of
 negative
 externalities
 such
 as
 floods
 downstream
 in
 India
 and

Bangladesh.



Stevens
contradicts
these
accounts
by
pointing
out
firstly
that
these
systems
were

not
 as
 ancient
 as
 were
 popularly
 presumed,
 and
 secondly
 that
 certain
 
 forests

ceased
to
be
well
protected
before
the
1950s
‐
before
nationalization.
Thus
Stevens

points
 out
 that
 of
 the
 seven
 types
 of
 protected
 forest
 only
 two,
 the
 lama's
 forests

and
 temple
 forests,
 were
 definitely
 protected
 before
 1900,
 and
 only
 one
 bridge

forest
 may
 date
 to
 that
 period.
 Further,
 he
 states
 that,
 “no
 Khumbu
 forest‐
management
system
administered
any
"village
forest"
in
the
sense
of
a
commons
in

which
residents
obtained
all
of
the
forest
products
necessary
to
their
subsistence
in

a
regulated
way.”





This
 seemingly
 contradictory
 account
 of
 the
 antiquity
 of
 the
 system
 need
 not

detract
us
from
observing
that
a
certain
complex
communitarian
claims
to
property

were
 in
 fact
 practiced
 in
 the
 region.
 The
 fact
 that
 they
 perhaps
 died
 “naturally”

rather
than
as
a
result
of
the
imposition
of
an
external
regime
lends
some
nuance
to

our
 understanding
 of
 the
 workings
 of
 common
 property
 regimes
 and
 the
 ways
 in

which
they
can
end
other
than
enclosures.


4
9
Conclusion

Elinor
Ostrom
outlines
8
‘design
principles’
which
she
determines
to
be
underlying

the
success
of
the
Common
Property
Resource
(CPR)
institutions
that
she
analyses.

These
are
reproduced
in
the
box
inset
just
below:





Source:
Ostrom79



Although
 quite
 nifty
 in
 their
 arrangement,
 the
 conditions
 that
 this
 table
 describes

are
not
quite
as
uniform
in
the
cases
previously
discussed.
For
instance,
monitoring,

graduated
sanctions
and
clearly
defined
boundaries
are
not
as
common
as
flexible

boundaries
 and
 shared
 interestedness.
 However,
 as
 a
 statement
 of
 broad
 ideal

principles,
 they
 provide
 a
 useful
 contrast
 to
 the
 somewhat
 untidy
 practices

prevalent
in
the
parts
of
Asia
discussed
above.



An
 important
 theme
 that
 emerges
 from
 the
 accounts
 in
 this
 section
 is
 that
 of

diversity.
 In
 almost
 each
 instance
 mentioned
 above,
 the
 relation
 between
 humans

and
 their
 environment
 is
 configured
 so
 as
 to
 be
 accustomed
 to
 a
 diversity
 (not

necessarily
an
abundance)
of
resources
so
that
a
person
is
at
one
time
cultivating

fields,
 at
 another,
 
 grazing
 cattle
 and
 living
 off
 forest
 produce.
 This
 reduces
 the

pressures
on
any
single
resource
and
simultaneously
provides
alternate
sustenance

options
 during
 times
 of
 distress.
 This
 diversity
 is
 made
 possible
 by
 an
 absence
 of

strict
divisions
or
enclosures
which
wall
people
out
of
resources
driving
them
to
a


79
See
supra
n.
71


5
0
ruinous
overreliance
on
a
single
resource.




Another
equally
important
theme
is
that
of
co‐ordinate
or
co‐operative
communal

conservancy.
The
diversity
just
discussed
above
is
only
operable
when
it
is
open
to

be
drawn
upon
anyone.
This,
by
itself,
does
not
mean
that
it
is
prone
to
abuse
–
an

openly
 accessible
 diversity
 is
 not
 a
 diversity
 in
 neglect.
 In
 most
 instances

conservation
 of
 a
 resource
 is
 coupled
 with
 its
 use
 so
 that,
 for
 instance,
 lands
 are

cultivated
in
shifts
or
grazing
only
undertaken
during
certain
periods
of
the
year.
In

these
cases
even
when
conservation
is
not
a
communal
or
co‐operative
enterprise,

the
co‐ordinate
conservative
uses
by
people
ensure
the
sustenance
of
that
resource.




A
 third
 theme,
 not
 easily
 identifiable
 in
 the
 above
 accounts
 but
 with
 perceptible

undercurrents,
 is
 the
 enfolding
 of
 resources
 with
 culture.
 Open
 communal
 spaces

are
 not
 merely
 “unowned
 spaces”
 but
 are
 possessed
 by
 forest
 spirits,
 celestial

beings
 and
 other
 folkloric
 figures
 with
 whom
 the
 people
 identify
 intimately.
 Thus

forests
 surrounding
 temples
 are
 conserved,
 certain
 tress
 revered
 because
 of
 the

spirits
 they
 house,
 and
 the
 dates
 of
 opening
 and
 closing
 of
 grazing
 periods
 are

determined
 by
 astrological
 significance.
 An
 explanation
 elevates
 each
 mundane

“resource”
into
an
object
with
folk
significance
so
that
in
acting
out
one’s
economic

activities
 one
 is
 also
 simultaneously
 enacting
 and
 irrigating
 a
 shared
 cultural

heritage.
 This
 intricate
 relationship
 is,
 as
 we
 have
 seen
 almost
 in
 every
 case

fractured
by
an
economic‐legal
enclosure
of
land
into
holdings.



5
1


The
Uncanny
Lightness
of
Being
An
Asian
Cultural
Commons



In
the
Yogavasistha,
it
is
said
that
the
world
often
appears
to
us,
as
the
fragment
of
a

story
 just
 heard.
 In
 thinking
 about
 the
 world
 of
 the
 Asian
 commons,
 we
 find
 it

useful
to
begin
with
a
story.
A
story
about
culture
and
the
ways
in
which
it
refuses

to
be
bogged
down
by
the
stubborn
logic
of
time
and
the
cruel
demands
of
space.







Of
Jealous
Demons
and
Scattered
Objects



Once,
not
so
long
ago,
on
a
damp,
rainy
afternoon
in
Paris,
a
stroll
took
us
across
the

Avenue
d’Iéna,
from
contemporary
art
to
ancient
and
medieval
Asian
art,
from
the

Palais
de
Tokyo
to
the
Musée
Guimet.
There,
standing
at
the
far
end
of
the
ground‐
floor
 section
 of
 the
 Guimet’s
 permanent
 collection
 in
 front
 of
 a
 frieze
 from
 the

Banteay
 Srei
 temple
 in
 Cambodia’s
 Siem
 Reap
 province,
 we
 felt
 the
 sharp
 edge
 of

estrangement
in
something
that
also
felt
downright
familiar.



The
Banteay
Srei
frieze
narrates
a
story
from
the
Mahabharata,
a
Sanskrit
epic.
The

story
 is
 of
 two
 brothers,
 the
 demons
 Sunda
 and
 Upasunda,
 whose
 tussle
 over
 the

attentions
 of
 Tilottama,
 an
 Apsara—a
 heavenly
 courtesan
 sent
 by
 the
 gods
 to

destroy
them
with
jealousy—was
the
cause
of
their
downfall.
Like
most
others
who

grew
up
listening
to
stories
in
India,
we
knew
it
well,
even
if
only
as
an
annotation

to
the
main
body
of
the
epic.
But
it
wasn’t
the
details
of
the
story
that
intrigued
us

that
afternoon,
nor
the
carved
contours
of
Sunda
and
Upasunda’s
rage,
not
even
the

delicacy
of
the
depiction
of
Tilottama’s
divisive
seduction.
Instead,
standing
before

these
stone
images,
made
in
a
region
roughly
3,500
miles
to
the
east
of
where
we

live,
 in
 Delhi,
 and
 exhibited
 in
 a
 museum
 roughly
 6,500
 miles
 to
 the
 west,
 we
 felt

compelled
 to
 think
 again
 about
 distance
 and
 proximity,
 and
 about
 how
 stories,

images,
and
ideas
travel.



The
 story
 of
 Sunda,
 Upasunda,
 and
 Tilottama
 was
 probably
 first
 told
 around
 200

B.C.
 in
 the
 northwestern
 part
 of
 the
 South
 Asian
 subcontinent.
 Between
 the
 first

telling
of
the
story
and
the
carving
of
the
frieze
in
a
clearing
in
the
forests
of
Seam

Riep
in
circa
967
lay
a
little
more
than
a
thousand
years
and
an
eastward
journey
of

a
 few
 thousand
 miles.
 Between
 its
 carving
 and
 our
 sudden
 encounter
 with
 it
 in

Paris,
 there
 lay
 a
 little
 more
 than
 another
 millennium
 and
 a
 westward
 journey

halfway
 across
 the
 world.
 These
 intervals
 in
 time
 and
 space
 were
 overlaid
 by
 an

elaborate
circuit
that
encompassed
travel,
conquest,
migration
and
settlement,
wars

and
violence,
the
clearing
of
forests,
the
quarrying
of
stone,
slavery
and
indenture,

skilled
 artisans,
 the
 faces
 and
 indiscretions
 of
 the
 men
 and
 women
 who
 would

become
 the
 inspiration
 for
 jealous
 demons
 and
 divine
 courtesans,
 a
 few
 thousand

years
of
history,
the
crossing
of
oceans,
the
rise
and
fall
of
several
empires
across

different
continents,
and
the
repeated
telling
and
forgetting
of
a
minor
story.



Contemporaneity,
the
sensation
of
being
in
a
time
together
is
an
ancient,
enigma
of

a
feeling.
It
is
the
tug
we
feel
when
our
times
pull
at
us.
But
sometimes
one
has
the

sense
 of
 a
 paradoxically
 asynchronous
 contemporaneity—the
 strange
 tug
 of
 more


5
2
than
one
time
and
place.
As
if
an
accumulation
or
thickening
of
our
attachments
to

different
 times
 and
 spaces
 was
 manifesting
 itself
 in
 the
 form
 of
 some
 unique

geological
 oddity,
 a
 richly
 striated
 cross
 section
 of
 a
 rock,
 sometimes
 sharp,

sometimes
blurred,
marked
by
the
passage
of
many
epochs.



Standing
before
Sunda,
Upasunda,
and
Tillottama
in
the
Musée
Guimet,
we
were
in

Siem
 Reap,
 in
 Indraprastha
 (an
 ancient
 name
 for
 Delhi,
 in
 whose
 vicinity
 much
 of

the
Mahabharata
story
is
located),
in
New
Delhi,
in
nineteenth‐century
Paris,
and
in

the
Paris
of
today.
We
were
in
many
places
and
in
many
times.
Sometimes
art,
the

presence
of
an
image,
moves
you.
And
you
find
yourself
scattered
all
over
the
place,

as
a
consequence.



How
can
we
begin
to
think
about
being
scattered?



Collections
 of
 objects
 from
 different
 parts
 of
 the
 world
 are
 indices
 of
 different

instances
 of
 scattering.
 The
 minor
 encounter
 that
 we
 experienced
 in
 the
 Musée

Guimet
 is
 one
 kind
 of
 scattering.
 It
 taught
 us
 that
 sometimes
 we
 encounter

familiarity
in
the
guise
of
strangeness
and
then
suggested
that
we
learn
to
question

the
easy
binary
shorthand
of
the
familiar
and
the
strange,
as
ways
of
thinking
about

ourselves,
others,
and
the
world.
It
suggested
the
possibility
of
other
less
polarized

and
more
layered
relationships
between
cultural
processes.
But
this
is
not
the
only

possible
 kind
 of
 scattering
 that
 the
 presence
 of
 images
 and
 stories
 echoing
 the

familiar
in
uncanny
ways
provoke.



Raqs
Media
Collective







The
 word
 uncanny
 comes
 from
 German
 (Unheimliche),
 and
 was
 used
 by
 Freud
 to

refer
to
the
strange
feeling
of
something
which
is
familiar,
and
yet
completely
alien.

When
 the
 Raqs
 Media
 Collective
 write
 of
 their
 experience
 of
 an
 ‘estrangement
 in

something
 that
 also
 felt
 downright
 familiar’,
 they
 capture
 for
 us
 the
 sense
 of
 the

uncanny,
 a
 feeling
 of
 being
 surprised,
 not
 by
 something
 new
 but
 by
 something

familiar,
 when
 they
 encounter
 the
 life
 of
 culture
 in
 circulation.
 It
 is
 similar
 to
 the

uncanny
 discovery
 by
 the
 protagonist
 of
 Amitav
 Ghosh’s
 novel,
 The
 Shadowlines

(which
we
have
extracted
before).
In
it,
the
sudden
discovery
of
the
arbitrariness
of

the
shadowlines
that
divide
nations
and
create
borders
reveals
the
sheer
fiction
and

fragility
 of
 markers
 of
 cultural
 boundaries.
 Unlike
 goods
 and
 people,
 cultural

practices
 have
 far
 scantier
 respect
 for
 checkposts
 and
 national
 boundaries,
 and

actively
destroy
national
boundaries
even
as
they
cross
it.




Unlike
 goods
 and
 people,
 cultural
 practices
 have
 far
 scantier
 respect
 for

checkposts
 and
 national
 boundaries,
 and
 actively
 destroy
 national
 boundaries

even
as
they
cross
it.




And
 it
 is
 perhaps
 the
 uncanny
 which
 allows
 us
 to
 sense
 an
 Asian
 commons.
 A

sensibility
that
is
not
easy
to
pin
down
or
define
in
any
formal
terms,
but
one
that

constantly
surprises
us
with
its
distant
familiarity.
If
Euclidian
space
sees
Asia
as
a

large
 geographical
 space
 made
 up
 of
 different
 countries,
 and
 populated
 by
 more


5
3
than
 half
 the
 world,
 cultural
 spaces
 provide
 us
 with
 an
 archeology
 of
 the
 ways
 in

which
 people
 moved
 through
 this
 region,
 now
 known
 as
 Asia,
 and
 carried
 with

them
stories,
songs
and
memories
that
claimed
a
bit
of
the
ground
that
they
crossed

by
attaching
themselves
to
the
soil,
but
without
ever
claiming
roots.




Drawing
upon
this,
we
can
begin
to
think
of
Asia
not
as
a
signifier
of
something
that

we
 already
 know,
 but
 as
 a
 scattered
 form
 of
 meaning
 that
 surprises
 us,
 and
 as
 a

form
waiting
to
be
understood.
We
have
also
been
forewarned
in
the
story
of
Sunda

and
Upasunda,
that
any
attempt
to
define
an
Asian
cultural
commons
as
though
it

were
devoid
of
influences
of
the
west
are
equally
futile,
and
for
evidence
of
this,
we

only
 need
 to
 remember
 that
 the
 Banteay
 Srei
 frieze
 is
 displayed
 in
 the
 Musée

Guimet,
 and
 not
 at
 any
 museum
 in
 Asia.
 An
 invocation
 of
 Asia
 then
 serves
 to

provide
 those
 of
 us
 who
 live
 within
 the
 confines
 nation
 states
 in
 Asia,
 an

opportunity
to
temporarily
claim
a
wider
berth
of
cultural
citizenship.
In
seeking
an

archeology
 of
 the
 Asian
 commons,
 we
 will
 need
 to
 follow
 the
 routes
 traversed
 by

travelers
and
gather
the
stories
that
they
have
so
carelessly
scattered
around.
For
it

is
in
the
scattering
of
people
and
stories
that
the
outlines
of
a
commons
can
slowly

emerge.




Just
 as
 the
 story
 of
 the
 commons
 allows
 us
 a
 glimpse
 into
 the
 possible
 worlds
 of

dealing
with
resources
outside
the
sign
of
property,
the
world
of
informal
cultural

flows
 and
 practices
 enables
 us
 to
 expand
 our
 sense
 of
 the
 commons
 in
 the

contemporary.



Iterant
People/
Iterant
Cultures



The
 restless
 manner
 in
 which
 people
 and
 cultures
 have
 moved
 points
 us
 towards

the
 itinerant
 as
 the
 point
 which
 can
 possibly
 connect
 the
 historical
 to
 the

contemporary,
 the
 cultural
 commons
 to
 the
 digital
 commons
 and
 the
 static
 to
 the

itinerant.
While
the
idea
of
the
itinerant
often
refers
to
a
sense
of
the
movement
of

people,
our
claim
is
that
the
movement
of
people
and
the
movement
of
culture
can

never
be
distinguished,
and
the
itinerant
and
the
iteration
begin
to
merge.



Markovits
et
al.,
in
their
introduction
to
Society
and
Circulation
draw
our
attention

to
importance
of
networks
rather
than
nodes
in
the
creation
of
culture
in
India.
80



“If
Indian
civilization
must
be
defined
in
terms
of
its
greatest
epics,
as
classical

Indologists
have
so
often
insisted,
we
must
surely
make
something
of
the
fact

that
both
the
Ramayana
and
the
Mahabharata
centre
in
large
measure
on
the

relationship
 between
 fixity
 and
 circulation,
 between
 the
 life
 of
 the
 wanderer

and
that
of
the
sedentary
prince.”



Culture
is
produced
not
only
in
centres
of
power
–
whether
the
princely
courts

of
yesteryear,
or
the
television
studios
of
today
–
but
also
on
the
move.
“81



This
mode
of
thinking
about
cultural
production
as
peregrine
rather
than
sedentary


80
 

Claude
Markovits
et
al.,
Society
and
circulation
:
mobile
people
and
itinerant
cultures
in

South
Asia,
1750‐1950,
(New
Delhi:
Permanent
Black,
2003)

81
 
Ibid.


5
4
provides
 us
 with
 a
 useful
 frame
 within
 which
 to
 locate
 our
 enquiry
 into
 cultural

production
in
Asia.
Taking
a
cue
from
the
Raqs
Media
Collective,
we
will
experiment

with
 ‘Contemporaneity’,
 moving
 from
 an
 account
 of
 informal
 cultural
 flows
 of
 the

Jatakas
 and
 the
 Ramayana
 into
 the
 informal
 cultural
 flows
 of
 our
 digital
 present,

allowing
the
past
to
inform
the
present
and
vice
versa.




We
 begin
 with
 the
 trajectories
 of
 two
 iconic
 sets
 of
 oral
 and
 literary
 texts
 –
 the

Jataka
collection
of
takes

–
deeply
rooted
in
Buddhist
tradition
widely
prevalent
in

Asia,
and
the
Ramayana(s)
with
its
strong
cultural
influence
across
South
Asia.



The
Jatakas

The
 Jatakas
 are
 a
 collection
 of
 550
 stories
 concerning
 the
 previous
 births
 (jāti)
 of

the
Buddha.and
constitute
a
significant
part
of
the
Buddhist
tradition.
82



Uma
Chakravarty
draws
our
attention
to
the
Jatakas
as
a
collection
of
stories
that
is

“intrinsically
 open‐ended,
 and
 can
 grow
 (as
 the
 Jatakas
 clearly
 did)
 over
 many

hundreds
of
years
till
it
is
finally
compiled
in
the
form
in
which
it
comes
down
to

us”83.
 In
 the
 period
 before
 they
 were
 compiled,
 however,
 she
 argues
 that
 they

became
imbued
with
a
subversive
anti­orthodox
flavour
that
was
arrived
at
in
the

course
of
their
retellings
by
bhikkhus
‐
wandering
monks
who
traveled
the
country

and
narrated
these
tales
to
the
common
folk.
Thus
not
only
do
they
stand
in
stark

opposition
to
the
contemporaneous
Brahminical
texts,
but
they
also
appear
to
be
at

odds
with
the
rigid
tenets
prescribed
in
the
canonical
Buddhist
texts
–
tenets
which

the
Jatakas
were
meant
to
exemplify
in
the
first
place.




For
our
purposes
it
would
be
adequate
to
examine
the
Jatakas’
use
of
folklore
and

also
 the
 influence
 of
 the
 audience
 on
 the
 content
 of
 the
 Jatakas,
 which
 appear
 to

contradict
our
modern
popular
preconceptions
of
authorship
and
creativity.





The
Jatakas
and
Folklore

According
 to
 Chakravarty,
 the
 Jatakas
 “appropriated”
 a
 considerable
 amount
 of

folklore
“which
had
floated
about
for
ages
as
waifs
and
strays
of
literature”
through

the
 mediation
 of
 the
 bhikkhu.84
 Particular
 features
 of
 folklore,
 Chakravarthy
 says,

lent
themselves
to
easy
appropriation
within
the
Jataka
fold.




“The
 dual
 characteristic
 of
 folklore
 –
 having
 both
 fixity
 of
 form
 and
 capacity

for
 variations
 in
 content,
 to
 insert
 their
 own
 messages.
 The
 traditional

narratives
thus
became
vehicles
for
new
cultural
meanings
that
were
intended

to
 reach
 the
 largest
 audience
 possible,
 in
 contrast
 to
 the
 texsts
 of
 the
 high

tradition
 in
 Buddhism,
 which
 would
 have
 had
 a
 much
 more
 restricted

clientele.”85


82
 
This
section,
drawn
from
Uma
Chakravarty’s
analysis
in
‘Everyday
Lives
Everyday

Histories’
which
examines
the
sources
of
the
Jatakas
in
folklore
and
their
relation
to
the
society
in

which
they
were
born
and
retold.
Everyday
lives,
everyday
histories,
beyond
the
kings
and
Brahmanas

of
'ancient'
India
/
Uma
Chakravarti.
‐
New
Delhi,
India
:
Tulika
Books,
2006.
‐
xxx,
328

83
 Ibid


84
 
Ibid

85
 
Ibid


5
5


Positioned
as
they
were
at
“the
divide
between
the
common
folk
and
the
learned”

the
Bhikkhus
negotiated
the
folk
tale
and
the
canonical
Buddhist
text
to
construct
“a

unique
 set
 of
 narratives”.86
 Comparing
 the
 bhikkhus
 to
 medieval
 friars,

Chakravarthy
states



“Like
 the
 medieval
 friars
 whom
 Burke
 describes
 as
 ambhibians­
 men
 of
 the

marketplace
 as
 well
 as
 the
 university,
 the
 bhikkhu..
 function[ed]
 as
 an
 active

bearer
of
the
little
tradition
upwards.”87




This
 description
 draws
 attention
 to
 the
 extent
 to
 which
 the
 Jatakas
 relied
 on
 the

already‐familiar
folklore
to
build
their
own
popularity.



The
Jatakas
and
the
Audience

How
 much
 does
 any
 text
 owe
 itself
 to
 the
 audience?
 This
 might
 sound
 like
 a
 silly

question
 since
 the
 audience
 normally
 presumes
 the
 existence
 of
 a
 text.
 However,

Chakravarthy
 reminds
 us
 that
 “people..,
 are
 not
 passive
 consumers;
 they
 are
 not

like
 wax
 to
 be
 inscribed
 over
 in
 whichever
 way
 the
 author
 likes.
 The
 text
 (in
 our

case
Jatakas)
may
be
‘appropriated’
differently.”88



She
 conjectures
 that
 the
 audience
 would
 have
 played
 an
 important
 role
 in

reconfiguring
the
messages
originally
sought
to
be
broadcast
through
the
medium

of
 the
 Jatakas.
 Variations
 in
 narrative
 style
 would
 have
 had
 to
 be
 invented
 in

response
 to
 the
 nature
 of
 the
 audience.
 Through
 these
 variations,
 the
 response
 of

the
audience
“would
have
been
recycled
as
an
input
into
the
original
story,
leading

to
 considerable
 interpenetrations
 in
 the
 agendas
 of
 the
 narrator
 and
 the

audience.”89



Chakravarthy
find
evidence
of
this
“recycling”
in
the
representation
of
everyday
life

in
these
tales.
Even
while
it
is
not
possible
to
identify
a
particular
set
of
people
as

the
 producers
 of
 the
 Jatakas,
 she
 says,
 “it
 is
 possible
 to
 see
 in
 this
 common

authorship
marked
participation
by
sections
who
are
normally
outside
the
arena
of

intellectual
production”.90



Thus,
 it
 appears
 that
 that
 the
 content
 of
 the
 Jatakas
 was
 arrived
 at
 through
 a

process
 that
 is
 more
 akin
 to
 negotiation
 than
 ‘authorship’
 in
 its
 classical
 ivory‐
towered
sense.

This
negotiation
–
intellectual
consumption
as
production
‐
occurs
at

the
margins
of
visibility.
Chakravarthy
recalls
Michel
De
certeau’s
words:




‘To
 a
 rationalized
 production
 corresponds
 another
 production,
 qualified
 as

consumption.
 The
 latter
 is
 sly,
 it
 is
 dispersed,
 but
 it
 insinuates
 itself

everywhere,
it
is
quasi
invisible
since
it
is
not
recognizable
by
its
products
per

se,
but
by
ways
of
using
the
products
imposed
by
a
dominant
order.’
91


86
 
Ibid

87
 
Ibid

88
 
Ibid

89
 
Ibid

90
 
Ibid

91
 
Ibid



5
6


The
Jatakas
then,
can
be
seen
not
just
as
a
collection
of
products
per
se,
but
as
the

way
in
which
they
evolved
in
conversational
opposition
to
prevailing
dogmas.


{The
 section
 of
 Jatakas
 is
 interesting,
 but
 either
 it
 is
 over
 length
 or
 missing
 from

delivering
concrete
message,
Uncanny
situation
for
me
;)

}


The
Many
Ramayanas

Throughout
Indian
history
many
authors
and
performers
have
produced,
and
many

patrons
have
supported,
diverse
tellings
of
the
Ramayana
in
numerous
media.92
In

the
 paragraphs
 below,
 we
 will
 examine
 the
 range
 and
 the
 variations
 within
 the

Ramayana
 tradition
 with
 a
 view
 to
 broaden
 our
 understanding
 of
 the
 manner
 in

which
culture
is
created,
conveyed
and
consumed.


The
Reach
of
the
Ramayanas

In
this
sub‐section
we
try
to
first
outline
how
far
and
wide
the
Ramayanas
traveled

in
order
to
form
a
mental
image
of
the
territory
that
the
epic
influenced.




A.K.
Ramanujan
cites
Santosh
Desai
in
“Three
Hundred
Ramayanas:
Five
Examples

and
Three
Thoughts
on
Translation”93
on
the
routes
traveled
by
the
Rama
story:




"By
land,
the
northern
route
took
the
story
from
the
Punjab
and
Kashmir
into

China,
Tibet,
and
East
Turkestan;
by
sea,
the
southern
route
carried
the
story

from
 Gujarat
 and
 South
 India
 into
 Java,
 Sumatra,
 and
 Malaya;
 and
 again
 by

land,
the
eastern
route
delivered
the
story
from
Bengal
into
Burma,
Thailand,

and
Laos.
Vietnam
and
Cambodia
obtained
their
stories
partly
from
Java
and

partly
from
India
via
the
eastern
route."94



Ramanujan
encapsulates
the
extent
of
the
Ramayana
tradition’s
influence
in
South

Asia
 by
 listing
 the
 languages
 in
 which
 it
 has
 been
 found
 including
 Assamese,

Balinese,
 Bengali,
 Cambodian,
 Chinese,
 Gujarati,
 Javanese,
 Kannada,
 Kashmiri,

Khotanese,
 Laotian,
 Malaysian,
 Marathi,
 Oriya,
 Prakrit,
 Sanskrit,
 Santali,
 Sinhalese,

Tamil,
 Telugu,
 Thai,
 Tibetan
 as
 well
 as
 some
 Western
 languages.
 Further,
 he
 says,

some
languages
have
more
than
one
version
of
the
story
and
the
story
itself
may
be

presented
 in
 different
 literary
 and
 artistic
 styles
 so
 as
 to
 be
 capable
 of
 being

regarded
as
independent
tellings
on
their
own


“Sanskrit
 alone
 contains
 some
 twenty­five
 or
 more
 tellings
 belonging
 to

various
narrative
genres
(epics,
kavyas
or
ornate
poetic
compositions,
puranas

or
old
mythological
stories,
and
so
forth).
If
we
add
plays,
dance­dramas,
and

other
 performances,
 in
 both
 the
 classical
 and
 folk
 traditions,
 the
 number
 of

Ramayanas
 grows
 even
 larger.
 To
 these
 must
 be
 added
 sculpture
 and
 bas­
reliefs,
mask
plays,
puppet
plays
and
shadow
plays,
in
all
the
many
South
and

Southeast
Asian
cultures
Camille
Bulcke,
a
student
of
the
Ramayana
,
counted

three
hundred
tellings
It's
no
wonder
that
even
as
long
ago
as
the
fourteenth


92
 
Richman,
Paula,
editor.
Many
Ramayanas:
The
Diversity
of
a
Narrative
Tradition
in
South

Asia.
Berkeley:

University
of
California
Press,

c1991
1991.

http://ark.cdlib.org/ark:/13030/ft3j49n8h7/

93
A.K.
Ramanujan
“Three
Hundred
Ramayanas:
Five
Examples
and
Three
Thoughts
on
Translation”


in
Paula
Richman
ed.
Many
Ramayanas:
The
Diversity
of
a
Narrative
Tradition
in
South
Asia


94
Ibid
 



5
7
 century,
 Kumaravyasa,
 a
 Kannada
 poet,
 chose
 to
 write
 a
 Mahabharata
 ,

because
he
heard
the
cosmic
serpent
which
upholds
the
earth
groaning
under

the
 burden
 of
 Ramayana
 poets
 (
 tinikidanu
 phaniraya
 ramayanada
 kavigala

bharadali
).”95



The
diversity
of
forms
described
above
prompts
us
to
wonder
whether
they
may
be

regarded
as
variations
of
the
same
theme
or
as
independent
productions.
Is
there
a

“True”
Ramayana
of
which
the
remainder
are
merely
copies?


A
True
Ramayana?

As
 witnessed
 above,
 there
 are
 hundreds
 of
 tellings
 of
 Rama’s
 story
 which
 range

over
time
(from
Valmiki’s
Ramayana
‐
the
oldest
full
literary
telling
of
the
story,
to

the
relatively
recent
Indian
national
television
production
by
Ramanand
Sagar)
and

space
(India
to
Thailand
and
Cambodia).
Is
it
possible
to
designate
any
of
these
as

the
“original”
Ramayana.
Is
there
a
common
core
to
all
of
these
stories?




While
 it
 is
 perhaps
 possible
 to
 regard
 Valmiki’s
 telling
 in
 elite
 Sanskrit
 as
 the

“authentic”
version,
Ramanujan
argues
that
this
would
“perpetuate
a
narrow
view

incommensurate
 with
 the
 amazing
 popularity
 of
 Rama’s
 story”.96
 This
 is
 because

most
Hindus
today
cannot
read
Sanskrit,
nor
could
they
in
the
past.


“knowledge
 of
 Sanskrit
 remained
 primarily
 the
 intellectual
 property
 of
 the

upper
three
varnas
in
society,
and
of
Brahmin
males
in
particular.
In
contrast,

most
Hindus
learned
the
story
of
Rama
by
hearing
it
in
their
local
or
regional

language.
The
first
model
thus
privileges
a
telling
that
excludes
the
majority
of

Hindus.”
97



Thus
the
antiquity
model,
if
believed,
would
exclude
the
majority
of
Hindus
from
its

fold
since
they
could
only
have
received
the
story
through
other
sources.



In
response
to
his
own
question
about
the
existence
of
a
core
to
the
Rama
stories

(other
than
a
skeletal
set
of
relations)
Ramanujan
recalls
the
anecdote
of
Aristotle's

jack
knife:


“When
the
philosopher
asked
an
old
carpenter
how
long
he
had
his
knife,
the

latter
said,
"Oh,
I've
had
it
for
thirty
years.
I've
changed
the
blade
a
few
times

and
the
handle
a
few
times,
but
it's
the
same
knife."




I've
changed
the
blade
a
few
times
and
the
handle
a
few
times,
but
it's
the
same
knife.



In
a
similar
vein,
Ramanujan
regards
the
Rama
stories
as
all
having
“some
shadow

of
a
relational
structure”,
but
which
on
closer
look
do
not
necessarily
resemble
each

other
 that
 well.
 They
 are
 like
 “a
 collection
 of
 people
 with
 the
 same
 proper
 name,

they
make
a
class
in
name
alone”.98



To
Ramanujan,
the
various
texts
relate
to
each
other
through
a
common
pool
from


95
 Ibid


96
 
Ibid

97
 
Ibid

98
 
Ibid


5
8
which
“every
author
..
dips
into
it
and
brings
out
a
unique
crystallization,
a
new
text

with
a
unique
texture
and
a
fresh
context.”
He
says,

The
great
texts
rework
the
small
ones,
for
"lions
are
made
of
sheep,"
as
Valery

said.
And
sheep
are
made
of
lions,
too:
In
this
sense,
no
text
is
original,
yet
no

telling
 is
 a
 mere
 retelling—and
 the
 story
 has
 no
 closure,
 although
 it
 may
 be

enclosed
 in
 a
 text.
 In
 India
 and
 in
 Southeast
 Asia,
 no
 one
 ever
 reads
 the

Ramayana
 or
 the
 Mahabharata
 for
 the
 first
 time.
 The
 stories
 are
 there,

"always
already."99



Within
 different
 Ramayana
 stories
 themselves,
 Ramanujan
 finds
 self‐referential

allusions
 to
 its
 own
 diversity.
 For
 instance
 he
 cites
 one
 folk
 legend
 according
 to

which
 “Hanuman
 wrote
 the
 original
 Ramayana
 on
 a
 mountain
 top,
 after
 the
 great

war,
 and
 scattered
 the
 manuscript;
 it
 was
 many
 times
 larger
 than
 what
 we
 have

now.
Valmiki
is
said
to
have
captured
only
a
fragment
of
it.”100



He
cites
another
similar
instance,
found
in
many
of
the
later
Ramayanas101
in
which

Rama
is
exiled
and
does
not
want
Sita
to
accompany
him.



“Sita
argues
with
him.
At
first
she
uses
the
usual
arguments:
she
is
his
wife,
she

should
 share
 his
 sufferings,
 exile
 herself
 in
 his
 exile,
 and
 so
 on.
 When
 he
 still

resists
the
idea,
she
is
furious.
She
bursts
out,
"Countless
Ramayanas
have
been

composed
before
this.
Do
you
know
of
one
where
Sita
doesn't
go
with
Rama
to

the
forest?"
That
clinches
the
argument,
and
she
goes
with
him.”102



He
narrates
a
third
episode
where
Hanuman
is
attempting
to
recover
Rama’s
ring

that
has
slipped
“through
a
hole”
into
the
netherworld.

"
When
he
was
finally
taken
to
the
King
of
Spirits,
he
kept
repeating
the
name

of
Rama.
"Rama
Rama
Rama
.
.
."

Then
the
King
of
Spirits
asked,
"Who
are
you?"

"Hanuman."

"Hanuman?
Why
have
you
come
here?"


"Rama's
ring
fell
into
a
hole.
I've
come
to
fetch
it."

The
 king
 looked
 around
 and
 showed
 him
 a
 platter.
 On
 it
 were
 thousands
 of

rings.
They
were
all
Rama's
rings.
The
king
brought
the
platter
to
Hanuman,

set
it
down,
and
said,
"Pick
out
your
Rama's
ring
and
take
it."

They
were
all
exactly
the
same.
"I
don't
know
which
one
it
is,"
said
Hanuman,

shaking
his
head.

The
King
of
Spirits
said,
"There
have
been
as
many
Ramas
as
there
are
rings
on

this
platter.
When
you
return
to
earth,
you
will
not
find
Rama.
This
incarnation

of
Rama
is
now
over.
Whenever
an
incarnation
of
Rama
is
about
to
be
over,
his

ring
falls
down.
I
collect
them
and
keep
them.
Now
you
can
go."

So
Hanuman
left.
103



Ramanujan
 concludes
 from
 these
 curious
 examples
 that
 “To
 some
 extent
 all
 later


99
 
Ibid

100
 
Ibid

101
 
such
as
the
Adhyatma
Ramayana
,
16th
C.
See

Ibid

102
 
Ibid

103
 
Ibid


5
9
Ramayanas
play
on
the
knowledge
of
previous
tellings:
they
are
meta‐Ramayanas”

104




The
idea
of
a
text
that
is
insistent
on
its
own
lack
of
uniqueness
stands
fascinatingly

at
odds
with
most
modern
notions
of
originality
and
authorship.





Diversity
and
Difference
within
the
Ramayanas

In
the
introduction
to
‘Many
Ramayanas’,
Paula
Richman
asserts,
in
a
voice
similar

to
Uma
Chakravarthy’s
discussion
of
the
Jatakas,
that
“each
Ramayana
text
reflects

the
social
location
and
ideology
of
those
who
appropriate
it”.105
In
other
words,
the

audience
played
a
constitutive
role
in
determining
the
content
of
each
text.



She
 quotes
 Romila
 Thapar’s
 account
 of
 the
 plurality
 of
 the
 Ramayana
 tradition
 in

Indian
History.

“The
appropriation
of
the
story
by
a
multiplicity
of
groups
meant
a
multiplicity

of
 versions
 through
 which
 the
 social
 aspirations
 and
 ideological
 concerns
 of

each
 group
 were
 articulated.
 The
 story
 in
 these
 versions
 included
 significant

variations
 which
 changed
 the
 conceptualization
 of
 character,
 event
 and

meaning.”106



This
plurality
of
contexts
is
visible
when
one
compares
the
different
strands
of
the

Ramayana.
 For
 instance,
 
 as
 Ramanujan
 suggests,
 different
 Ramayanas
 focus

differently
on
certain
characters
and
conceive
of
their
roles
differently.




“Valmiki
focuses
on
Rama
and
his
history
in
his
opening
sections;
Vimalasuri's

Jaina
 Ramayana
 and
 the
 Thai
 epic
 focus
 not
 on
 Rama
 but
 on
 the
 genealogy

and
 adventures
 of
 Ravana;
 the
 Kannada
 village
 telling
 focuses
 on
 Sita,
 her

birth,
 her
 wedding,
 her
 trials.
 Some
 later
 extensions
 like
 the
 Adbhuta

Ramayana
 and
 the
 Tamil
 story
 of
 Satakanthavana
 even
 give
 Sita
 a
 heroic

character:
 when
 the
 ten­headed
 Ravana
 is
 killed,
 another
 appears
 with
 a

hundred
heads;
Rama
cannot
handle
this
new
menace,
so
it
is
Sita
who
goes
to

war
 and
 slays
 the
 new
 demon
 The
 Santals,
 a
 tribe
 known
 for
 their
 extensive

oral
traditions,
even
conceive
of
Sita
as
unfaithful—to
the
shock
and
horror
of

any
Hindu
bred
on
Valmiki
or
Kampan,
she
is
seduced
both
by
Ravana
and
by

Laksmana.
 In
 Southeast
 Asian
 texts,
 as
 we
 saw
 earlier,
 Hanuman
 is
 not
 the

celibate
 devotee
 with
 a
 monkey
 face
 but
 a
 ladies'
 man
 who
 figures
 in
 many

love
episodes.
In
Kampan
and
Tulsi,
Rama
is
a
god;
in
the
Jaina
texts,
he
is
only

an
evolved
Jaina
man
who
is
in
his
last
birth
and
so
does
not
even
kill
Ravana.

In
 the
 latter,
 Ravana
 is
 a
 noble
 hero
 fated
 by
 his
 karma
 to
 fall
 for
 Sita
 and

bring
death
upon
himself,
while
he
is
in
other
texts
an
overweening
demon.
”107



From
 the
 above
 account
 it
 appears
 that
 there
 are
 radical
 differences
 in
 even
 the


conception
of
the
major
characters
of
the
Ramayana
–
“so
different
indeed
that
one


104
 
Ibid

105
 
Supra
n.
96

106
 
Ibid

107
 supra
n.
97


6
0
conception
is
quite
abhorrent
to
those
who
hold
another”.108



Ramanujan
 cites
 other
 divergences
 in
 different
 accounts
 such
 as
 varying

elaborations
on
“the
reason
why
Sita
is
banished,
the
miraculous
creation
of
Sita's

second
son,
and
the
final
reunion
of
Rama
and
Sita”.
109



The
examples
provided
by
Ramanujan
make
it
difficult
to
think
of
a
the
Ramayana

in
 any
 unified
 sense.
 He
 ends
 his
 essay
 with
 a
 powerful
 anecdote
 about
 a
 village

dullard
who,
upon
being
forced
to
listen
to
a
narration
of
the
Ramayana
is
moved
to

physically
 enter
 into
 the
 story
 as
 a
 character.
 Explaining
 the
 significance
 of
 the

anecdote,
Ramanujan
says:



“This
 story
 is
 about
 the
 power
 of
 the
 Ramayana
 ,
 about
 what
 happens
 when

you
 really
 listen
 to
 this
 potent
 story.
 Even
 a
 fool
 cannot
 resist
 it;
 he
 is

entranced
and
caught
up
in
the
action.
The
listener
can
no
longer
bear
to
be
a

bystander
but
feels
compelled
to
enter
the
world
of
the
epic:
the
line
between

fiction
and
reality
is
erased.”110



At
 the
 heart
 of
 these
 stories
 behind
 the
 Jatakas
 and
 the
 Ramayanas
 are
 a
 set
 of

narrative
practices
in
which
modes
of
circulation
ensure
that
the
process
of
cultural

production
remains
a
lived
processes.




The
 Raqs
 Media
 Collective
 have
 coined
 a
 fascinating
 word
 ‘Rescension’
 which

captures
 the
 essence
 of
 the
 ways
 in
 which
 epic
 forms
 like
 the
 Jatakas
 and
 the

Ramayana
have
developed
over
the
centuries,
and
a
rescension
is
also
perhaps
one

of
 the
 best
 ways
 of
 capturing
 contemporary
 practices
 in
 the
 digital
 era.
 In
 their

words:



“A
Rescension
is
a
re‐telling,
a
word
taken
to
signify
the
simultaneous
existence
of

different
 versions
 of
 a
 narrative
 within
 oral,
 and
 from
 now
 onwards,
 digital

cultures.
Thus
one
can
speak
of
a
'southern'
or
a
'northern'
rescension
of
a
myth,
or

of
 a
 'female'
 or
 'male'
 rescension
 of
 a
 story,
 or
 the
 possibility
 (to
 begin
 with)
 of

Delhi/Berlin/Tehran
 'rescensions'
 of
 a
 digital
 work.
 The
 concept
 of
 rescension
 is

contraindicative
 of
 the
 notion
 of
 hierarchy.
 A
 rescension
 cannot
 be
 an

improvement,
 nor
 can
 it
 connote
 a
 diminishing
 of
 value.
 
 A
 rescension
 is
 that

version
 which
 does
 not
 act
 as
 a
 replacement
 for
 any
 other
 configuration
 of
 its

constitutive
 materials.
 The
 existence
 of
 multiple
 rescensions
 is
 a
 guarantor
 of
 an

idea
or
a
work's
ubiquity.
This
ensures
that
the
constellation
of
narrative,
signs
and

images
that
a
work
embodies
is
present,
and
waiting
for
iteration
at
more
than
one

site
 at
 any
 given
 time.
 Rescensions
 are
 portable
 and
 are
 carried
 within
 orbiting

kernels
within
a
space.
Rescensions,
taken
together
constitute
ensembles
that
may

form
an
interconnected
web
of
ideas,
images
and
signs”.
111




Scholars
 working
 on
 the
 circulation
 of
 culture
 have
 sought
 to
 harness
 the


108
 
Ibid

109
 
Ibid

110
 
Ibid

111
 



6
1
productive
 powers
 of
 circulation,
 and
 the
 manner
 in
 which
 they
 enable
 modes
 of

adaptation
 and
 creative
 transformations,
 since
 circulation
 relies
 not
 on
 a
 singular

flow,
 but
 on
 a
 constant
 ‘movement
 of
 going
 forth
 and
 coming
 back
 which
 can
 be

repeated
 indefinitely.
 In
 circulating,
 things,
 men
 and
 notions
 often
 transform

themselves.
 Circulation
 is
 therefore
 a
 value
 loaded
 term
 which
 implies
 an

incremental
aspect
and
not
the
simple
reproduction
across
space
of
already
formed

structures
and
notions’.112




A
 focus
 on
 circulation
 may
 be
 a
 way
 of
 moving
 beyond
 the
 ideas
 of
 creation
 and

authorship
 embedded
 within
 heroic
 narratives
 of
 the
 romantic
 genius
 as
 author,

and
a
more
productive
way
of
thinking
about
how
cultures
are
made.
It
is
through

circulation
that
epics
have
emerged.
But
if
the
epics,
and
our
reconstruction
of
the

history
 of
 the
 Jatakas
 and
 the
 Ramayanas
 seem
 distant
 to
 us
 
 ‐creatures
 of
 the

contemporary‐
then
it
is
perhaps
time,
to
leap,
Hanuman
like,
across
many
oceans

of
time
and
technology
to
look
at
circulation,
iterant
cultures
and
the
rescensions
of

our
own
time.




Here
for
instance
is
an
interesting
‘travel
document’,
if
you
like,
a
report
from
the

Motion
 Pictures
 Association
 (MPA)
 documenting
 the
 movement
 of
 a
 film
 across

pirate
networks,
navigating
its
way
through
the
slippery
terrains
of
an
alternative

map
of
the
Asian
commons.











112
 Claude
Markovits
et
al.
Society
and
Circulation:
Mobile
People
and
Itinerant
Cultures
in

South
Asia,
1750‐1950.
Delhi:
Permanent
Black,
2003.




6
2
 .









We
would
like
to
use
this
map
to
help
us
navigate
between
the
itinerant
commons

of
the
Jatakas
and
the
Ramayans,
to
a
way
of
thinking
about
forms
of
cultural
flows

in
the
contemporary.
Outside
of
the
sign
of
legality
which
names
this
flow
as
piracy,

we
 can
 see
 the
 ways
 in
 which
 cultural
 artifacts
 still
 defy
 the
 norms
 of
 ordered

Euclidean
 spaces
 of
 national
 borders,
 as
 well
 as
 of
 the
 boundaries
 established
 by

property.
 The
 dramatic
 growth
 of
 the
 internet,
 the
 emergence
 of
 cheap
 and

ubiquitous
technologies
of
reproduction
enable
the
exchange
of
ideas,
texts,
music

and
images
at
speeds
which
were
difficult
to
imagine
till
now.




If
 the
 earlier
 moment
 of
 iterant
 cultures
 that
 we
 have
 described
 sought
 to
 place

culture
 within
 the
 larger
 account
 of
 how
 people
 traveled
 with
 their
 cultures,
 the

contemporary
moment
is
not
very
different.
In
the
era
of
globalization,
while
capital

has
free
movement
across
the
globe,
the
two
greatest
restrictions
on
movement
are

on
people
(
illegal
immigrants
in
particular)
and
culture
(by
IP
laws).
The
guarding

of
 borders
 against
 illegal
 immigrants
 protects
 the
 fiction
 of
 the
 nation,
 while
 the


6
3
defence
 of
 the
 media
 commodity
 protects
 the
 fiction
 of
 property
 in
 the
 age
 of
 the

digital.
 
 Both
 these
 fictions
 are
 currently
 sustained
 only
 by
 highly
 brutal
 acts
 of

militarized
or
police
violence.

In
the
era
of
globalization,
while
capital
has
free
movement
across
the
globe,
the

two
 greatest
 restrictions
 on
 movement
 are
 on
 people
 (
 illegal
 immigrants
 in

particular)
and
culture
(by
IP
laws)

The
digital
era
has
seen
the
emergence
of
a
range
of
practices,
which
appear
hydra

like
 to
 the
 copyright
 police113.
 From
 file
 sharing
 networks
 that
 enable
 the

downloading
of
films
and
music
to
the
cheap
DVD
version
available
on
most
streets

of
Asia,
from
free
software
practitioners
to
creative
commoners,
there
seems
to
be
a

radical
 outburst
 of
 practices
 of
 communing.
 By
 locating
 their
 practices
 on

alternative
 ethics,
 of
 sharing,
 of
 democracy,
 of
 access
 –
 these
 commoners
 of
 the

contemporary‐
 have
 created
 an
 immense
 turbulence
 in
 the
 domain
 of
 culture
 and

economy.
 This
 domain
 of
 exchange
 has
 scant
 respect
 for
 rules
 of
 property,
 or
 for

rules
 of
 cultural
 boundaries,
 merging
 as
 it
 were
 the
 two
 diverse
 worlds
 that
 we

have
attempted
to
map.




Writing
 about
 the
 changed
 landscape
 of
 the
 contemporary
 south
 Asian
 city,
 Ravi

Sundaram
states
that





‘at
the
level
of
the
everyday,
the
old
prohibition
and
regulation
on
the
social

life
 of
 commodities
 have
 proved
 ineffective,
 urban
 residents
 are
 now

assaulted
with
a
deluge
of
cultural
products,
cassettes,
CDs,
MP3s,
VCDs,
cable

television,
 grey
 market
 computers,
 cheap
 Chinese
 audio
 and
 video
 players,

thousands
of
cheap
print
flyers,
and
signage
everywhere.
What
is
remarkable

here
 is
 that
 the
 preponderance
 of
 these
 products
 comes
 from
 the
 grey
 or

informal
 sector,
 outside
 the
 effective
 regulation
 of
 the
 state
 or
 large
 capital.

India
today
has
the
world’s
second
largest
music
market,
a
large
film
industry

with
global
dreams,
a
majority
grey
computer
market,
hundreds
of
thousands

of
 tiny
 phone
 and
 word
 processing
 shops
 and
cybercafes.
 And
 as
 if
 from
 the

ruins
 of
 urban
 planning
 new
 media
 bazaars,
 which
 supply
 these
 networks,

have
 emerged
 existing
 in
 the
 cusp
 of
 legality
 and
 non‐legality.
 Everyday
 a

guerrilla
war
is
raging,
between
new
intellectual
property
raiders,
the
police

and
 unceasing
 neighbourhood
 demand
 for
 grey
 ware.
 At
 the
 heart
 of
 this

extension
 of
 the
 visible
 has
 been
 the
 production
 of
 media
 commodities

outside
the
legal
property
regimes
of
globalisation.
Copy
culture
and
non‐legal

distribution
networks
have
been
central
to
the
spread
of
the
media,
in
a
way

that
distinctions
between
the
technological
and
cultural
seem
blurred
in
daily

life.
 A
 significant
 section
 of
 the
 urban
 population
 derive
 their
 media
 from

these
networks.
Using
the
tactics
of
the
fragmentary
city,
the
pirate
networks

have
frustrated
every
effort
of
the
proprietary
enforcement
regime
to
control


113
 
But
these
peer‐to‐peer
networks
are
as
hard
to
stamp
out
as
the
Hydra.
Cut
off
one


 head,
and
two
grow
in
its
place,
quoted
in

http://www.usatoday.com/life/music/news/2003‐05‐05‐piracy‐cover_x.htm,
see
also,
Perspective:

P2P
vs
Privacy
in
which
the
author
says
about
P2P
that
“
Enter
the
Hydra
‐
kill
one
head
and
two

more
replace
it”,






6
4
 them114



We
 can
 now
 return
 to
 our
 digital
 commons,
 bringing
 the
 insights
 that
 we
 have

gathered
 from
 our
 encounter
 with
 the
 history
 of
 the
 commoners
 of
 land,
 and
 the

story
 of
 the
 commons
 of
 culture.
 Just
 as
 the
 logic
 of
 property
 sought
 to
 brutally

efface
the
memory
of
the
commons
through
fences,
walls
and
legal
regulations,
the

contemporary
 is
 marked
 by
 dizzying
 attempts
 at
 securing
 intellectual
 property

rights
 for
 intangibles,
 and
 seeking
 criminal
 sanction
 against
 pirates.
 It
 is
 vital
 to

remember
that
the
global
discourse
of

copyright
piracy
particularly
targets
Asia
as

a
pirate
continent.
The
growth
of
the
East
Asian
economies,
fuelled
by
innovation
in

the
 electronic
 sector
 were
 seen
 to
 have
 been
 enabled
 through
 various
 pirate

practices.
Taiwan
for
instance
was
described
as
the
kingdom
of
piracy,
just
as
China

and
 India
 are
 constantly
 being
 threatened
 with
 trade
 sanctions
 under
 Special
 Sec.

301
for
not
curbing
IP
piracy.




How
do
we
understand
the
history
of
piracy
in
Asia
as
a
form
of
commons.
We
have

seen
 that
 the
 commons
 was
 marked
 by
 a
 range
 of
 activities
 and
 practices
 that

existed
 outside
 the
 legal
 system,
 Let
 us
 recall
 Peter
 Linebaugh’s
 history
 of
 piracy

and
the
commons.




The
first
pirates
in
a
sense
were
often
the
‘outcast
of
the
land’
who
would
mutineer

against
the
conditions
of
their
work,
and
create
an
alternative
order
challenging
the

division
of
labour
and
of
capital.
The
early
maritime
pirates
were
commoners
who

had
been
outcast
from
their
lands,
expropriated
from
the
commons
and
converted

to
wage
labour.
In
fashioning
their
hydrachy,
these
buccaneers
often
drew
from
the

memory
of
utopias
created
by
peasants,
in
which,
where
work
had
been
abolished,

property
 redistributed,
 social
 distinctions
 leveled,
 health
 restored
 and
 food
 made

abundant.
 The
 memory
 of
 the
 commons
 in
 other
 words
 arises,
 whenever
 people

stake
their
claim
to
a
utopian
alternative.




If
an
Asian
Commons
is
relevant,
it
is
to
answer
to
the
call
of
a
utopian
alternative
in

a
region
which
has
seen
some
of
the
sharpest
polarities
between
those
legitimately

entitled
 to
 participate
 in
 certain
 forms
 of
 life,
 and
 those
 who
 desire
 it
 from
 a

distance.



Ravi
 Sundaram’s
 work
 is
 also
 central
 to
 our
 understanding
 of
 another
 idea
 of
 the

Asian
 commons.
 If
 Asia
 has
 always
 been
 theorized
 in
 terms
 of
 a
 lack
 vis
 a
 vis

western
modernity,
how
do
we
understand

the
phenomenon
of
piracy
as
the
mode

through
which
a
large
number
of
people
access
the
global
modern
and
participate

in
the
promises
of
the
digital
era.
We
need
to
understand
the
information
era
as
one

which
holds
a
particular
promise
of
an
intellectual
or
cultural
life.




By
making
more
knowledge
and
cultural
artifacts
available
in
easier
forms,
it
offer

the
 possibility
 of
 a
 particular
 form
 of
 reflective
 and
 expressive
 life.
 And
 yet
 when

these
promises
are
not
honoured
on
account
of
the
costs
or
restrictions
imposed
on

information
goods,
they
effectively
preclude
a
large
number
of
people
from
laying

claim
to
a
particular
life
of
thought.
An
engagement
with
the
idea
of
the
commons
in


114
 
Ravi
Sundaram,
Uncanny
Networks,
Economic
and
Political
Weekly,
January
3,
2004.


6
5
Asia
will
have
to
account
for
this
world
of
the
sharp
gap
between
ordinary
dreams

and
aspirations,
and
their
constant
frustration.
Sundaram
has
termed
this
world
of

everyday
 media
 piracy
 as
 the
 world
 of
 the
 recycled
 modern,
 where
 fueled
 by

aspirations
 of
 upward
 mobility,
 people
 engage
 in
 quotidian
 media
 practices
 and

stake
their
claim
to
an
expressive
life
form,
and
their
space
in
modernity.




Interestingly,
 the
 media
 landscape
 that
 dots
 many
 south
 Asian
 countries
 is
 a

landscape
 chiseled
 out
 of
 another
 Asia
 of
 the
 mind.
 This
 is
 an
 imagination
 of
 the

modern,
in
which
the
point
of
reference
is
not
the
enlightenment
or
the
industrial

revolution
of
Europe,
but
the
almost
magical
transformation
of
south
east
Asia.
This

is
an
Asian
modernity,
in
which
the
copying
countries
of
south
east
Asia
serve
as
the

original
role
models
for
countries
in
the
rest
of
Asia.
We
can
illustrate
this
with
one

of
 our
 favourite
 maps
 (and
 here
 we
 use
 the
 idea
 of
 a
 map
 not
 in
 the

'disenchanted'way
 of
 seeing
 national
 territory
 within
 a'techno‐rational
 grid).
 
 Our

map
belongs
to
the
genres
of
enchanted
maps,
in
which
the
imaginary
overwhelms

the
real,
and
opens
out
fantastical
possibilities
of
seeing.
This
is
our
map
of
an
Asian

commons
of
copy
culture.




















As
you
step
out
of
National
Market
‐a
haven
for
pirated
goods‐
in
Bangalore,
you
are


6
6
faced
 with
 a
 cartographic
 puzzle.
 Diagonally
 opposite
 the
 national
 market
 
 is
 the

Bangkok
Plaza,
and
a
few
meters
away
you
have
the
Burma
Bazaar.
Smiling
across

the
Burma
Bazaar
is
the
New
Hong
Kong
Bazaar,
announcing
itself
with
it’s
not
so

new
 signboard
 in
 which
 the
 Kong
 is
 only
 a
 matter
 of
 an
 educated
 guess.
 While

globalization
is
supposed
to
have
redrawn
boundaries
and
shifted
our
ideas
of
time

and
space,
you
are
still
not
quite
prepared
for
this
distorted
sense
of
Asia,
in
which

you
 step
 out
 of
 the
 national
 to
 encounter
 Bangkok,
 Burma,
 Hong
 Kong,
 gesturing

towards
 a
 very
 different
 experience
 of
 the
 global
 and
 of
 modernity.
 All
 these

markets
 which
 specialize
 in
 non
 legal
 media
 commodities
 from
 phones
 to
 DVD’s

and
software,
are
the
nightmare
of
global
policing
institutions
such
as
World
Trade

Organization
and
the
World
Intellectual
Property
Organization.
They
also
serve
as

an
appropriate
metaphors
of
the
contemporary,
in
which
rules
of
property
collides

with
unofficial
cultural
flows.




In
the
early
days
of
globalization,
travel
writer
Pico
Iyer
set
out
in
search
of
what
he

despairingly
called
the
Ramboization
and
Coco
Colonization
of
Asia.
This
is
a
trope

that
has
been
adopted
by
a
number
of

critics
of
globalization,
who
argue
that
what

has
 taken
 place
 is
 merely
 the
 Americanization
 of
 the
 world,
 with
 the
 hegemonic

spread
of
American
businesses
and
culture
across
the
globe.
And
yet
if
one
were
to

careful
 look
 at
 what
 is
 being
 sold
 in
 the
 DVD
 shops
 in
 any
 of
 these
 markets
 and

elsewhere
 in
 the
 country
 too,
 you
 find
 that
 apart
 from
 your
 standard
 Hollywood

and
 Bollywood
 fare,
 you
 also
 increasingly
 find
 a
 range
 of
 films
 from
 countries

whose
films
 do
 not
 have
any
official
 circulation
 in
 India.
 Whether
 it
 is
 the
 Korean

cult
classic
Old
Boy
(Aka
non
incestuous
Zinda
in
India),
or
lesser
known
films
from

all
parts
of
the
world.
If
Iyer
were
to
make
his
trip
again,
this
time
stopping
to
check

out
 the
 movies
 that
 circulates
 through
 what
 Sasken
 calls
 the
 underbelly
 of

globalization,
he
would
find
that
Rambo
has
lost
to
the
scent
of
green
papayas.




















6
7
Conclusion



The
 formal
 academic
 conventions
 of
 a
 paper
 require
 a
 conclusion,
 with
 its
 rather

grandiose
invocation
of
a
fully
worked
out
argument
and
thesis.
This
paper
has

no

conclusions
to
offer,
and
it
would
be
more
accurate
to
see
it
as
an
invitation
rather

than
 a
 conclusion.
 Through
 the
 course
 of
 the
 paper
 we
 have
 been
 identifying

various
 intellectual
 obstacles
 and
 stumbling
 blocks,
 which
 we
 face
 when
 we

attempt
to
speak
about
the
commons
in
Asia.




This
paper
has
been
an
attempt
at
creating
a
skeletal
map
with
which
we
can
begin

to
navigate
the
tricky
terrain
of
the
cultural
commons
in
Asia.
It
is
only
fair
that
we

think
 of
 it
 in
 terms
 of
 a
 map,
 since
 out
 first
 experience
 of
 Asia
 tends
 to
 be
 one

created
 through
 a
 map.
 As
 children
 growing
 up
 and
 learning
 about
 the
 world

through
 our
 geography
 textbooks
 ands
 Bartholomew’s
 Atlas,
 we
 encounter
 Asia

cartographically,
so
Asia
always
remains
an
abstract
landscape.
Similarly
when
we

move
 into
 the
 terrain
 of
 the
 commonality
 of
 Asia,
 we
 find
 ourselves
 in
 a
 similarly

abstract
 space,
 with
 useful
 but
 not
 necessarily
 accurate
 markers
 such
 as
 culture,

civilization
etc.



If
we
are
to
move
form
this
abstract
space
in
which
we
speak
either
about
Asia
or

indeed
the
abstract
‘commons’
in
Asia,
the
task
is
to
build
a
theory
of
the
commons

which
does
not
recycle
the
idea
of
the
Commons
as
a
theory
in
search
of
geographic

examples,
 but
 as
 a
 theory
 that
 is
 built
 from
 the
 memory
 and
 lived
 practices
 of

people
living
in
the
region
called
Asia.




The
debate
on
intellectual
property
can
therefore
be
seen
as
a
mere
pretext,
which

allows
us
to
explore
the
idea
of
the
commons
in
Asia,
and
we
welcome
you
aboard

this
trip.




6
8