Month: April 2026

The session began informally – checking slides, confirming visibility – but soon unfolded into a deeply layered conversation with Madan Meena. What seemed like a presentation on textiles gradually revealed itself as an exploration of identity, ecology, history, and the philosophy of design embedded within traditional practices.

Meena opened by reflecting on his recent trip, which he described as a long-planned, purposeful journey rather than a casual visit. He gave two lectures – one at Joshibi University – Tokyo on March 27 and at Calico Bhavan in Nara on April 4, this year.

For over a year, he had intended to meet scholars who had come to India during the 1970s and 80s and had worked extensively on textile traditions at a time when many practices were still alive. Some of these scholars had been professors at universities, and their work included publications and field documentation of now-defunct printing centers.

“If you are working on a revival project,” he explained, “you need data – real data that goes back 80 to 100 years.” What he found was invaluable: these scholars shared their research material openly, gifted books, photographs, textile pieces and even agreed to digitize archives that had never been digitized before, promising to send them in batches. This access to primary material, he emphasized, was crucial to his work. Alongside this academic exchange, Meena encountered an unexpected historical continuity. In Japan, Indian textiles – referred to as Sarasa – have been in use since at least the 8th or 9th century. They are used in kimonos and tea ceremonies, carrying a completely different cultural significance than in India. While examining collections from the Tokyo National Museum, he noted that records explicitly mention the import of these textiles from India centuries ago. Yet, despite this long history of exchange, Japanese scholars largely focused on design, dyeing techniques, and recipes, missing what Meena considered the most critical dimension: the relationship between textiles and community identity. At the request of his colleague Fumi Kobayashi, he focused his talks on precisely this aspect – how textiles are identified by communities and, in turn, how communities are identified through textiles.

To illustrate this, he presented images from the Raika community of Rajasthan, a pastoral group known for camel herding. Two women from this community, both widows, wore entirely different prints. One wore kappa print, from Godwar region paired with a plain deep red odhni – maroon or rusty red, as widows in Rajasthan traditionally do not wear white. The other, from a location just 150 kilometers away in Marwar region, wore rabari-ro-phetiyo. Though both women shared the same community and marital status, their prints differed due to regional variation. This demonstrated a crucial point: textile identity is not only community-specific but also geographically specific.

In another image, three women from the same household were shown together. One was a widow, one a married woman (referred to as suhaagan), and one newly married (beendani). Each wore a distinct print: the married woman wore makoda print, inspired by an insect; the newly married woman wore qatar print, a dagger-shaped motif also used by unmarried women; and the widow wore her designated print. In this context, clothing functions as a visual language – one that communicates status, age, and social position without words.

Moving deeper into the subject, Meena emphasized the role of botany in shaping these designs. Approximately 70–80% of the motifs are derived from flora. He listed numerous examples: gunda, a desert fruit used as a dried vegetable; dhaniya (coriander), also known as makhi in some regions; chameli (jasmine); gulbuta, possibly of Sindhi linguistic origin; nadana, associated with Banjara communities; boria, representing berries from desert shrubs and worn by the Kumhar (potter) community; nimboli, derived from the neem fruit; methi, associated with the Mali (gardener) community; and jardi, inspired by tobacco and worn by Muslim women in desert regions. Not all motifs are botanical – bhalka is inspired by a spear, and qatar by a dagger – but the overwhelming majority originate from plant life.

This diversity, he argued, reflects the ecological richness of Rajasthan’s desert landscape. While often perceived as barren, the desert hosts a wide range of plant species that have inspired artisans across generations. These motifs are not merely decorative; they are tied to specific communities, practices, and even regional dialects, as seen in the variation of names across Marwar, Hadoti, Bagru, and other regions.

A central focus of Meena’s research is understanding how realistic plant forms are transformed into minimal, repeatable motifs. This process involves significant abstraction. For instance, the akara plant is simplified into a geometric motif suitable for block printing. Similarly, the tobacco plant is reduced to essential elements – leaf, flower, outline, and fill – while maintaining its identity. In another example, a marigold (genda) is first depicted in detail by a miniature artist from Kota, then gradually simplified into a block-print design. These exercises, conducted with students and artists, aim to reconstruct the cognitive process of the block carver.

He stressed that the true designers of these motifs are the block carvers themselves, not external artists or painters. These artisans observe plants, imagine their transformation, and adapt them within the technical constraints of woodblock carving, which requires simplification due to limitations in detail. They also determine pattern repetition, spacing, and color application. This integrated process reflects a sophisticated design sensibility rooted in craft practice.

This approach aligns with a broader characteristic of Indian art: its emphasis on stylization over realism. Meena noted that Indian artistic traditions – from ancient murals like those of Ajanta to miniature paintings of Rajasthan and Pahari schools such as Kangra, Chamba, and Basohli – have rarely pursued photorealistic representation. Instead, they prioritize symbolic and expressive forms. He contrasted this with Western traditions shaped by the Renaissance, where realism became central. In Indian contexts, even detailed miniature paintings retain a degree of flatness and stylization, a principle that extends to block printing.

The concept of repetition is fundamental to design. Meena explained categories such as booti (small repeated motifs), jaal (net-like patterns), and buta (larger motifs). Repetition is not a consequence of environmental scarcity but an intrinsic design principle. However, regional stylistic differences exist: prints from Jaipur and Sanganer tend to be finer and more intricate, while those from Marwar and Kutch are bolder, larger, and more simplified.

To support his research, Meena collaborates with botanical illustrator Malini Saigal, who produces scientifically accurate plant illustrations. However, the high cost per illustration limits the scale of this approach. To address this, he reached out to Henry Noltie, associated with the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew Gardens (UK), whose recent publication Flora Indica includes historical botanical illustrations created in India during the 19th and 20th century. These illustrations were commissioned during the colonial period, when institutions like the Botanical Survey of India in Calcutta documented plants for their commercial and medicinal value, often employing Indian miniature artists. Through this connection, Meena secured permission to use selected archival illustrations – such as nargis, mirchi (chili), akara, and babool (acacia), singara (water chestnut), darudi (argemone) – in his work, in exchange for providing a copy of his book to the archive.

As the discussion turned to contemporary design practices, Meena raised concerns about the misuse of traditional motifs. He cited instances where designers, including students from institutions in Bangalore, used ritual motifs such as Pithora paintings – associated with Rathwa Adivasi communities – inappropriately in fashion or public spaces, leading to objections and removal. In another case in Japan, a designer repurposed traditional jajam textiles (block-printed floor spreads) into garments, prompting questions about the ethical implications of such transformations. These examples highlight the need for cultural sensitivity and contextual understanding when working with traditional designs.

Finally, Meena addressed the ecological dimension of these textiles. While modern discourse often frames design in terms of environmental statements, he argued that traditional practices already embody ecological consciousness. The diversity of motifs reflects a deep engagement with nature, reinforced by associated songs, folklore, and cultural practices. Historically, textiles were used for extended periods and repurposed when worn out, reflecting sustainable consumption patterns. In contrast, contemporary fast fashion prioritizes novelty and disposability, leading to a loss of both ecological awareness and cultural meaning.

In essence, Meena’s work bridges multiple domains – botany, design, anthropology, and history – to reconstruct a knowledge system embedded in traditional textiles. As he described it, this effort represents “botany through the eyes of artisans,” revealing how communities once observed, interpreted, and lived in harmony with their environment, translating that understanding into patterns that were not only worn but deeply understood.

Dr. Rammanohar Puthiyedath is a Professor and Research Director at the Amrita School of Ayurveda, recognized for his work in advancing Ayurveda through a rigorous integration of classical knowledge and contemporary research frameworks. His academic contributions focus on restoring the epistemological and pedagogical foundations of Ayurveda, particularly through re-centering classical teaching methods, fostering hermeneutic competence, and promoting competence-based education.

His work emphasizes the importance of depth in learning, the integration of ethical sensitivity with clinical training, and the cultivation of internal cognitive faculties essential for responsible practice. He advocates for dialogic and inquiry-driven knowledge systems, where scholarly debate strengthens understanding, and for an educational model that culminates in practice-oriented mastery.

Dr. Rammanohar also highlights the need for context-sensitive reasoning, lifelong learning, and the development of an evolving, self-correcting academic ecosystem in Ayurveda, aligning traditional principles with global academic standards.

Addressing the Gap in Faculty Development: Your research mentions an asymmetry in faculty development where modern educational theories are prioritized over indigenous pedagogical principles. How can Ayurvedic institutions begin to reclaim this "pedagogical self-knowledge" to ensure educators teach with greater epistemic clarity?

Rejection of modern pedagogy is not the appropriate pathway to reclaim pedagogical self-knowledge. Instead, Ayurveda’s classical pedagogical philosophy must be re-centred as the foundational framework upon which modern educational tools can be judiciously applied. A necessary first step is the systematic inclusion of classical pedagogical frameworks within faculty development programmes. At present, Ayurveda is often presented as a body of knowledge requiring external validation and transmission tools; this perception must be corrected. Re-establishing internal grounding in classical approaches will cultivate hermeneutic competence - the capacity to interpret śāstra with depth and restore the role of the teacher as an ācārya: one grounded in lived experience who transforms the student, rather than merely transmitting information.

Classical Ayurvedic education began with a disciplined process of critical examination (parīkṣā) where the student, the teacher, and the science itself were all scrutinized. In what ways could this reciprocal evaluation model be adapted to improve modern student intake and teacher selection?

The classical model of parīkṣā distributes responsibility across all participants in the educational process, ensuring mutual accountability within a competence-oriented ecosystem. Translating this into the modern context requires moving beyond purely score-based student assessment toward a more holistic evaluation of intellectual disposition, ethical grounding, and motivation. Students should be enabled to assess teachers not only by academic qualifications but also by demonstrable academic performance and clinical competence. Current ranking systems rely on manipulable metrics; therefore, transparent indicators of institutional robustness are needed. Reciprocal evaluation should be instituted as a continuous, formative process guided by clearly defined, non-manipulable indicators rooted in Ayurvedic pedagogical principles, thereby shifting from procedural gateways to competence-based development.

Reflecting on the story of Nāgārjuna and his two disciples, where compassion was valued over procedural accuracy, how should modern Ayurvedic curricula balance technical mastery with ethical sensitivity?

The narrative of Nāgārjuna underscores that ethics cannot be isolated as a discrete subject but must be integrated into the entire training process. While replicating classical entry-level assessments may be difficult, students can be systematically exposed to situations requiring ethical judgment, empathy, and prioritisation of patient welfare. Instances of ethical resistance—such as a young physician refusing to participate in unethical clinical practices and resigning on first day of reporting for work—demonstrate that such dispositions can be cultivated through training. Therefore, ethical sensitivity and clinical decision-making must be embedded as core, inseparable components of medical education.

 The Caraka Saṃhitā defines the means of knowledge cultivation as Adhyayana (learning), Adhyāpana (teaching), and Tadvidyasaṃbhāṣā (scholarly dialogue). How does the addition of "scholarly dialogue" specifically transform knowledge into "firmness and certainty"?

Scholarly dialogue (tadvidyasaṃbhāṣā) functions as a critical mechanism for transforming knowledge into firmness and certainty. While learning (adhyayana) and teaching (adhyāpana) generate understanding, it is rigorous intellectual exchange through structured debate that refines, tests, and stabilises knowledge. Such dialogue ensures that Ayurveda remains a self-correcting epistemic system and fosters independent thinking. In its absence, knowledge risks stagnation and degeneration into dogma.

 Classical pedagogy often privileged depth in a foundational text before expanding to other domains, whereas modern curricula often prioritize early multidisciplinary exposure. What are the risks of "exposure without depth" for an aspiring Ayurvedic physician?

Prioritising breadth over depth leads to fragmented understanding and impairs the student’s capacity for autonomous knowledge advancement. As indicated in classical sources, deep engagement with a foundational discipline cultivates the ability for self-directed learning. This approach does not restrict the learner but defers broader exposure until sufficient cognitive maturity is attained. Premature multidisciplinary exposure compromises the development of depth, ultimately limiting intellectual competence across domains.

 Can you explain the significance of the Pāṭha–Avabodha–Anuṣṭhāna (study-understanding-practice) sequence and why the sources argue that learning is incomplete if it does not culminate in Anuṣṭhāna (enactment)?

The Pāṭha–Avabodha–Anuṣṭhāna sequence reflects the essential progression from study to understanding to application. Ayurveda, being inherently practical, requires that knowledge culminates in effective action. Mere memorisation or theoretical comprehension is insufficient. As stated, actions must be undertaken with proper knowledge (jñānapūrvakaṁ hi karmaṇāṁsamārambhaṁpraśaṁsantikuśalāḥ), and knowledge devoid of application remains incomplete. Mastery arises through repeated practice (abhyāsa), which refines perception and enables successful execution. Thus, anuṣṭhāna represents the indispensable culmination of training, involving observation, assisted practice, and independent performance with proficiency.

 Classical texts use a "hermeneutic ladder" (Vākya, Vākyārtha, Arthāvayava) to move from literal sentences to deep analytical reasoning. Why is this structured interpretation vital for a system whose foundational knowledge is preserved in dense Sanskrit?

The hermeneutic ladder—Vākya, Vākyārtha, Arthāvayava—is essential for interpreting the dense, codified knowledge embedded in Sanskrit texts. Literal reading yields only superficial comprehension, whereas structured interpretation enables progression toward deeper meaning and analytical reasoning. This process activates the cognitive faculties necessary for application, transforming textual knowledge into functional clinical insight.

 The sources link the impairment of Dhī (intellect), Dhṛti (self-control), and Smṛti (memory) to prajñāparādha (transgression of wisdom), which is seen as a root cause of disease. How should Ayurvedic pedagogy train these internal cognitive faculties to ensure responsible clinical practice?

Training in Ayurveda must consciously cultivate the internal faculties of dhī, dhṛti, and smṛti, as their impairment leads to prajñāparādha, a fundamental cause of disease. Education must therefore shape both intellectual capacity and ethical conduct. By strengthening these faculties, the physician becomes an embodiment of awakened prajñā, reducing the likelihood of both technical and ethical errors in clinical practice, which may otherwise have serious consequences for patient care.

Using the example of Jīvaka’s exit test, where he found no plant without medicinal value, how does this illustrate a "mature Ayurvedic worldview" regarding context-dependent reasoning (yukti)?

Jīvaka’s exit test illustrates the maturation of yukti-based reasoning and the development of an integrated Ayurvedic worldview. His recognition that no plant is devoid of medicinal value reflects a context-sensitive, non-reductive mode of understanding. This signifies the culmination of training, wherein the physician develops prajñā—the capacity for independent reasoning—enabling the generation of new knowledge (anukta), innovation, and contextually appropriate application beyond textual limitations.

Since Ayurveda is described as having "no complete or final end," the sources argue that the world itself is a teacher to the intelligent. How can modern institutions foster this habit of continuous engagement (śaśvadabhiyoga) in practitioners after they graduate?

The assertion that Ayurveda has no final end positions the world itself as a continuous source of learning for the discerning practitioner. Modern institutions can foster this orientation by presenting Ayurveda not as a closed system but as an evolving body of knowledge. Educational processes should cultivate enquiry, reflection, and intellectual openness as intrinsic dispositions. Lifelong learning must emerge as an internalised habit, rather than being externally imposed through formal mechanisms such as CMEs or FDPs.