Chapter Title: Godhuli
Chapter Author(s): Malcolm Sen
Book Title: An Ecotopian Lexicon
Book Editor(s): Matthew Schneider-Mayerson and Brent Ryan Bellamy
Published by: University of Minnesota Press
Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5749/j.ctvthhdbm.13
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Malcolm Sen
Godhuli
Pronunciation: go- dhu-lee (god̪ʱuli)
Part of Speech: Noun
Provenance: Bengali and Hindi
Example: As the day nears its end, at this godhuli hour
of the planet, our bodies yearn for refuge.
The human body is akin to a heliographic plate, reflecting and absorbing sunlight, which transforms us at a cellular level every day. Nicéphore
Niépce, the French inventor of photography, wrote to Louis Daguerre in
1829, “In the process of composing and decomposing, light acts chemically on our bodies. It is absorbed, it combines with them and communicates new properties to them.”1 In 1945, 116 years later, when the
first nuclear bomb was detonated, humanity added another source of
luminescence that would similarly affect our bodies. It was light like
no one had ever seen before, and onlookers found their vocabularies
severely tested when they attempted to describe it. The deputy commander of the Manhattan Project, Thomas Farrell, notes, “The whole
country was lighted by a searing light with the intensity many times
that of the midday sun. . . . It was golden, purple, violet, gray, and blue.
It lighted every peak, crevasse, and ridge of the nearby mountain range
with a clarity and beauty that cannot be described but must be seen to
be imagined. It was that beauty the great poets dream about but describe
most poorly and inadequately.”2 Seventy- one years after that first nuclear
test, a group of geologists assembled at the International Geological
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GODHULI
Congress in Cape Town, South Africa, and declared that the planet had
entered a new geological epoch, the Anthropocene. Stratigraphers point
to the geological evidence left by nuclear radiation on earth to support
the Anthropocene thesis. The Anthropocene acknowledges these new
stratigraphic signatures—the presence of the indelible textuality of particulate matter, vaporous gases, and radionuclides—that we have etched
onto the planetary body. Increasingly scientists find that such stratigraphic signatures have corresponding somatic inscriptions as well.3
The Anthropocene, according to some suggestions, properly begins in
the 1950s, its genealogy illuminated by the unnatural “golden, purple,
violet, gray, and blue” light of a nuclear detonation. The nuclearization of
the planet is a good reason to expand our understanding of the human
body as a heliographic plate. We are, as Elizabeth DeLoughrey so poignantly writes, “creatures constituted by radiation, solar and otherwise.”4
The same is true of the planet.
Sunlight takes only about eight minutes to reach the earth; its gifts
of light and life are bestowed to us from the past. As we teeter on the
precipice ushered in by global climate change, when our changing ecologies violently shape us from without, and as we hesitate at this juncture of the Anthropocene, where microparticles and subatomic detritus
shape us from within, how might we imagine a future which simultaneously acknowledges its indebtedness to such past luminescence as
well as its debris-saturated present? Godhuli ( ), a Bengali word, is a
remarkable portmanteau. It refers to the time of day we might otherwise call twilight in English. However, it resonates with an ethics of
place and a metaphysics of possibility in a way that the English word
does not. Like twilight, when the sun is below the horizon and sunlight
is refracted through the atmosphere, godhuli also refers to the fleeting
moments that immediately follow sunset. But unlike twilight, godhuli’s
refracted light is located terrestrially, on an earthly plane rather than
in the atmosphere. This is because, in Bengali, go refers to cows, dhuli
to dust. Godhuli is thus the time of day when cows, with their hooves
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GODHULI
kicking up dust, return from pasture to their nightly refuge. The time
of the day is so named because of the unique color caused by the conditions of light and dust. This word commingles light and dust, but also,
importantly, color and texture. It is a word pigmented by the iron particulates and the burnt sienna of sunbaked Indian soil. Godhuli speaks
of the rusty orange dust emanating from the earth as it responds to the
hooves of cows seeking shelter. In sum, godhuli is more than its parts.
In it, space and time, light and dust converge.
Dust may not initially seem like an obvious subject for philosophy
or poetry. Its matter- of-factness and its ubiquitous presence in our lives
seemingly robs it of any special notice. But the banal is often worthy
of further deliberation. When dust appears as a motif in literature, it
does so predominantly in negative terms: as matter that hinders and
disorients. In Heat and Dust, Ruth Pawar Jhabvala’s 1975 novel, dust
obscures not only sight but also one’s ability to think: “Dust storms
have started blowing all day, all night. Hot winds whistle columns of
dust out of the desert into the town; the air is choked with dust and so
are all one’s senses.”5 In James Joyce’s “Eveline,” dust is a metonymic
signifier of the repetitive meaningless acts which add to the ennui that
pervades Dublin, a colonized city: “Home! She looked round the room,
reviewing all its familiar objects which she had dusted once a week for
so many years, wondering where on earth all the dust came from.”6
Yet for all the reasons that make dust signify boredom and obscurity, without it, life as we have all come to understand it would cease to
exist. This fact is not lost on Alfred Russel Wallace, the nineteenthcentury naturalist and anthropologist who wrote poetically about dust.
In 1898, Wallace noted that, like dirt, dust is seen as “matter in the
wrong place.”7 But he argues that it is dust that makes the sky appear
blue and avoids a “perpetual glare” of sunshine that might otherwise
erode earthly life. “Without dust the sky would appear absolutely black,
and the stars would be visible even at noonday. The sky itself would
therefore give us no light. We should have bright glaring sunlight or
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GODHULI
intensely dark shadows, with hardly any half-tones.”8 Nephology, the
branch of meteorology that studies clouds, confirms that we would also
not have clouds without dust; water droplets need particulate matter to
cling on to as they condense to form clouds. It naturally follows that
there would be no rain without dust. In this manner, the universal logic
of harmonious coexistence of antonymic entities is brought to fruition:
rain could not occur without that which it washes away.
Beyond its paean to dust, to “half-tones” of light and its acknowledgment of the passing of time, godhuli conjures up a number of expansive
associations in its original language. In the literary and musical works
of Rabindranath Tagore, it is often a metonym for a romantic or pensive mood. In Tagore’s song “Aji Godhuli Lagone” (Today at the godhuli
hour), the speaker awaits the arrival of his beloved, but he feels as if the
forests and the earth itself know much more about his beloved and her
thoughts than he does.9 The natural world conspires and rejoices in its
secret knowledge; it seems that all the speaker can do is repeat his faith
in the beloved’s imminent arrival, which forms the refrain of the song’s
lyric. Godhuli, in Tagore’s writing, is as much a temporal setting as it
is a cultural indicator of the romanticism and nostalgia begotten of the
captivating iridescence of a tropical twilight. But it is also more than
that. Tagore’s lyric articulates through the registers of dust and light an
understanding of temporality that doubles as potentiality. Marking time
using the word godhuli underlines a notion of futurity as embedded
potential in the present. The contemporary is energized as a moment of
capacious possibilities in which Tagore’s speaker’s beloved may arrive.
In Hindu scriptures, godhuli also opens up a portal of potential
and demands human participation and action. In this way, reframing
twilight through this word recognizes the capacity of words from cultures we do not call our own to readjust our place in the world. In the
broader scheme of things, loanwords are remarkable tools to rethink
our present. What better time to multiply our vocabularies than in this
godhuli hour of the planet, at this very moment when we have just
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GODHULI
recognized that we reside within a geological column (correctly, but
also ominously) named after our species?10
That language shapes our perceptive capacities has been a matter of deliberation for some time. It seems that language determines
something as basic as our conceptualization of physical phenomena,
like light. German writer Johann Wolfgang von Goethe challenged
Isaac Newton’s understanding of the color spectrum (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet) on the basis of Greek perception of
color. It would seem that to see the shade of blue that the Greeks saw,
we also need to understand their aesthetics of color. Historian Maria
Michela Sassi notes that Goethe claimed “that light is the most simple
and homogeneous substance, and the variety of colors arise at the edges
where dark and light meet. Goethe set the Greeks’ approach to color
against Newton’s for their having caught the subjective side of color
perception.”11 Sassi concludes that Goethe was right in challenging
the “mathematical abstractions of Newton’s optics.” To see the world
through Greek eyes, it is imperative to understand the Greek theory of
color, without which we fail to recognize the importance of light and
brightness in their “chromatic vision,” and we cannot understand the
“mobility and fluidity of their chromatic vocabulary.”12
Sassi’s work is a timely reminder to revise our understanding and
perception of the world, which is increasingly mediated by the monochromatic world of a “universal” language such as English. It reminds
us what Frantz Fanon wrote in 1952: “To speak a language is to take
on a world, a culture.”13 While learning languages such as English or
French offered colonized peoples of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries a passport into the imperial cultures of the West, such learning
also increasingly distanced them from the vocabularies that allowed
subjective and culturally relevant interpretations of their environments.
Loanwords like godhuli offer a perceptive vantage point in the Anthropocene by allowing us to reconceptualize our planetary refuge and to
rethink our contemporary moment as a time that demands such imag86
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GODHULI
inative acts. If our aesthetic experience and chromatic perception of
color may be culturally modulated, then our understanding of our place
and time in the world may similarly depend on the languages we use—
thus godhuli and its unique prism of light and dust.
Granular and particulate matter, like dust, have a special bearing on
the Anthropocene. This is not simply because microscopic structures
like atomic subparticles and microplastics haunt our everyday lives and
bodies but also because the particulate allows us to understand the origins of human dominance over the planet. The beginning of the Holocene, approximately twelve thousand years ago, closely corresponds to
what paleontologists call the Neolithic demographic transition (NDT).
This was a time when our Neolithic ancestors moved from foraging
and hunting to agriculture. By doing so, they unwittingly initiated a
process that resulted in the first sharp increase in the world’s population, which in turn began to alter existing planetary systems. The NDT
marks the originating moment of a trajectory that ultimately leads us to
the Anthropocene, to a time when humans recognize themselves as, to
use historian Dipesh Chakrabarty’s phrase, not simply actors of history
but agents of geology, transforming and altering (this time knowingly)
fundamental planetary processes.14 The NDT does not “cause” the
Anthropocene, to be sure; however, it speaks to us through a vocabulary
of the granular and the particulate—that is, through seeds, kernels of
concentrated potential, which made possible the unfolding of our history. Interestingly, through its visual economy of domesticated cattle,
the human history of settled agriculture is encoded in the word godhuli.
Godhuli’s charisma relies on the dust (particulate matter) kicked up by
the hooves of domesticated cattle, drivers of preindustrial agriculture.
The word echoes a civilizational shift of which we are all inheritors.
The Anthropocene is a site of inherent contradictions. For example, the Age of Human names a species and its time on earth, but it also
implicitly denotes that this epoch will come to a close at a future stage.
It thus evokes the possible extinction of the human species and encodes
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GODHULI
a critique of human overreach even as it names an entire geological
epoch after the human species. This contradiction should steer us to
acknowledge the contemplative, imaginative, and empathetic paucities
of our species. Some of these limitations may be the product of our
neurological makeup but are definitively a result of the great inequalities built into the late modern, late capitalist systems that define our
lived reality.15 The seemingly impossible task of living a life outside of
the capitalist system of interminable economic growth and production, consumption, and refuse radically skews our perception of the
present, foreclosing a meaningful relationship with the deep past and
the near future. In this temporal scheme, the past is something to be
surmounted rather than negotiated, and the habitability of the future is
never in question. Indeed, capitalist worldviews often project the future
as already within reach. Consider, for example, the language that car
manufacturers use to peddle their products. The tagline for the Audi
RSQ will suffice here: “Tomorrow has arrived today.”16 Such temporalities are at odds with the kind of planetary future that is being shaped by
anthropogenic climate change.
A new lexicon for the Anthropocene calls for a worldview that
corrects our skewed perception of time. For this we need an alternative history to locate ourselves in the present, and we similarly need
an alternative vocabulary to imagine the present as embedded futurity.
“Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the
past,” thinks Stephen Dedalus in James Joyce’s Ulysses.17 This conception of time imagines the present as being imbued with the weight of
the past and envisions it as an architect of the future. In this regard, the
kind of secular and aesthetic interpretations of godhuli that I have been
charting above finds meaningful resonances in the term’s religious
heritage. It should not be surprising that the allure of godhuli’s optics,
the slant of light rays traveling through dust that it translates into language, makes it a particularly auspicious time in Hinduism. Between
the glare of the midday sun and the darkness of a rural night, godhuli,
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GODHULI
for Hindus, presents a window of opportunity for karya (work, action,
or ceremonies, such as weddings). It offers a moment of opportunity to be made use of in the face of astrological hurdles and planetary
maleficence. In Hinduism, godhuli thus offers a moment of hope, a
way out when no other paths seem passable. At a time when we name
the Anthropocene and recognize the potentiality of our threshold, our
civilizational godhuli hour, a time for action and illumination, not least
of which should be the recognition, as Nietzsche would have it, of our
false idols. Godhuli enlivens the threshold on which life depends. Its
call for a temporality that is determined by the “half-tones” conjured up
by dust acknowledges at once the “sweet spot,” the “Goldilocks zone”
(terms used by scientists to denote the unique position of our planet in
the solar system), in which the orbital path of earth is mapped. In the
Anthropocene, godhuli energizes the recognition of the telluric origins
of human history. The identification of the harmony between the particulate and the planetary is a necessary condition for meaningful life
in the Anthropocene
Robert MacFarlane describes his book Landmarks as “a word hoard
of the astonishing lexis for landscape.” McFarlane’s book is a stupendous meditation on the power of language to reassert our relationship
with our environment. He writes, “We need now, urgently, a Counter
Desecration Phrasebook that would comprehend the world—a glossary
of enchantment for the whole earth, which would allow nature to talk
back, and helped us to listen.”18 If the first nuclear detonation immediately called to mind the paucity of language to represent a reality as
awe-inspiring as the mushroom cloud, then the Anthropocene similarly asks us to fashion a new language and expand our vocabulary to
bear the weight of our contemporary moment. Often that might mean
traveling beyond the monochromatic worlds of our mother tongues and
in turn enriching our conceptual capacities to imagine, comprehend,
and empathize not only with distant spaces but also with distant times.
We inhabit an unprecedented threshold moment in the history of our
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species, and we need words that reveal that sense of in-betweenness.
Godhuli illuminates that fact.
In the end, what is most enticing about this word, godhuli, is that
it captures the luminescence that underwrites our physical existence
on this planet. Like the cattle traversing an Indian field, it reasserts
our relationship with and need for a place of refuge. Donna Haraway
notes that “our job is to make the Anthropocene as short/thin as possible and to cultivate with each other in every way imaginable epochs to
come that can replenish refuge. Right now, the earth is full of refugees,
human and not, without refuge.”19 It is little wonder that at the heart of
Haraway’s observation is a call for an act of imagination. A loanword
such as godhuli allows us an opportunity to make conceptual leaps,
to take long views of history, and to better orient ourselves in this new
geological epoch. Godhuli is not simply a paean to dust or a romantic fetishization of a chromatic wonder. It also reminds us of the
planetary nature of our place of refuge and underlines the fact that
we inhabit a time that demands imaginative labor to sustain that
sense of homeliness.
ANOTHER PATH
Nakaiy
GODHULI
NOTES
1. Paul Virilio, The Vision Machine (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994),
19.
2. Cited in Alex Wellerstein, “The First Light of Trinity,” New Yorker, July 16, 2015,
http://www.newyorker.com/.
3. Ever since the first nuclear tests carried out in the United States, medical practitioners have studied resulting changes in the human body—for example, in
the chemical composition of bone structures. One of the earliest of such studies
was on concentrations of strontium-90 in baby teeth. It was carried out in
St. Louis in 1959. See “Teeth to Measure Fall-Out,” New York Times, March 19,
1959, https://timesmachine.nytimes.com/timesmachine/1959/03/19/89163843
.html?zoom=14.85&pageNumber=67.
4. Elizabeth DeLoughrey, “Radiation Ecologies and the Wars of Light,” Modern
Fiction Studies 55, no. 3 (2009): 468.
5. Ruth Pawar Jhabvala, Heat and Dust (London: Hachette, 2011).
6. James Joyce, “Eveline,” in Dubliners (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 25.
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7. Alfred Russel Wallace, The Wonderful Century: Its Successes and Its Failures
(Toronto: George Morang, 1898), 69.
8. Wallace, Wonderful Century, 81.
9. Rabindranath Tagore, “Aji Godhuli Lagone,” Swarabitan 58: n.p. The song was
originally written in 1937.
10. A geological column is a system of classification for the layers of rocks and fossils
that form the earth’s crust.
11. Maria Michela Sassi, “The Sea Was Never Blue,” Aeon, July 31, 2017, https://
aeon.co/.
12. Sassi, “Sea Was Never Blue.”
13. Cited by Bill Ashcroft, Postcolonial Transformation (London: Routledge, 2013), 57.
14. Dipesh Chakrabarty, “The Climate of History: Four Theses,” Critical Inquiry 35,
no. 2 (2009): 206.
15. See, for example, Daniel Kahneman, Thinking Fast and Slow (New York: Farrar,
Straus & Giroux, 2011); Jason Moore, “Ecology, Capital, and the Nature of Our
Times: Accumulation and Crisis in the Capitalist World-Ecology,” Journal of WorldSystems Analysis 17, no. 1 (2011): 108–47.
16. AdForum, Audi, “I, Robot 2,” https://www.adforum.com/creative-work/ad/player
/52190/i-robot-2/audi.
17. James Joyce, Ulysses, Gabler edition (1922; reprint, London: Random House,
1986), 153.
18. Robert MacFarlane, “Desecration Phrasebook: A Litany for the Anthropocene,”
New Scientist, December 15, 2015, https://www.newscientist.com/.
19. Donna Haraway, “Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Plantationocene, Chthulucene:
Making Kin,” Environmental Humanities 6 (2015): 160.
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